Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  As the remains of the powder drifted down onto the thick carpet, the shimmering finally fizzled out to nothing. Manson strode over to the front of Garrett's desk and looked straight into his bloodshot eyes.

  "You see... it's true. He came here to poison you. What else could it be?"

  Again, Peter found himself biting his tongue, desperately resisting the urge to try and tell Garrett everything. For his part, Garrett looked up into Manson's face and gave a small but telling nod. Things, it seemed, were about to get a lot worse.

  Manson twirled round, arms open wide, a deeply disturbing smile etched onto his face.

  "So now it would seem that everybody knows exactly what's been going on, what on earth are we going to do with you?" he chuckled, scratching his chin.

  Peter knew better than to reply to Manson's rhetorical question. Whatever he had in mind, he was sure his fate had already been decided and wasn't about to give the goons an excuse to open fire.

  Walking around Garrett's desk once more, Manson opened up the top drawer, pulling some plastic binders out from inside. Like big white cable ties, he proceeded to wrap them around Peter's wrists, after forcing his hands behind his back. Peter had no choice but to comply, with the machine guns firmly focused in his direction, instead he'd decided to wait for an opportunity, which he desperately hoped would come.

  "There, that's better," bragged Manson, merrily, turning to address the guards with the machine guns. "Escort our ex employee off the premises immediately. Do not stop for anyone and only at the main gate can you cut the binders off him. Do not, and I repeat do not, take him to his office, and do not linger. Take him to the main gate by the most direct route. Get one of the plods from security to fetch his car."

  "Yes sir," the guards said in unison, whilst both nodding at the same time. The meaner of the two grabbed the binders behind Peter's back, thrusting him forward towards the office door. Stumbling and nearly falling, he only just managing to regain his balance at the last moment.

  "Well... it's been fun. Let's do this again sometime," Manson taunted from somewhere behind him as the guard opened the door to the corridor, the lift, and a very startled secretary who was surprised to see him in restraints being frogmarched out by two armed guards. Like him, she had assumed that only Garrett had been in the office.

  Looking straight ahead as he walked past the secretary, he stopped in front of the silver lift doors as one of the guards pressed the button for the ground floor. Despite everything that had gone on in the previous few minutes, despite the dismal failure of what he’d been trying to do and the fact that he'd wasted Gee Tee's precious antidote and discovered that Manson was much more than he seemed, the only thing on Peter's mind right at this very moment was hoping beyond hope that he wasn't frogmarched by these goons past Richie at any point on their journey to the front gate. He didn't think he could face the shame of seeing his friend from this position.

  Sliding silently open, the lift doors reminded him briefly of the monorail, as he stepped in, the guards hot on his heels. Travelling downwards, Peter noticed the guards’ expressions in the mirrored surround... clearly they were enjoying every second.

  Sliding effortlessly open on the ground floor to reveal a large office that was shared by the accounts and marketing departments, Peter stepped out of the lift, wrists bound, followed closely by the two guards, their guns pressed firmly into the small of his back. Looking down at the floor for the first few silent steps, he wondered how long it would take people to realise what was going on. As it happened, not long. Not long at all. About five paces into his walk through the open plan office, he heard the first gasp. It was very quickly followed by more and more, a whole lot of chattering and whispering echoing around in the background.

  "Keep moving," grunted one of the guards, while at the same time slapping Peter in the back with the butt of his gun. Clearly wanting to demonstrate the power he held, the move had the desired effect, as the whole office fell silent.

  'You could hear two brain cells rub together,' Peter thought, continuing on his journey. 'Oh well, that counts out either of the two muppets behind me.’

  Looking straight ahead, he recognised many faces, some that he'd come to think of as friends. Their expressions ripped his heart to shreds, with the looks of disgust and hatred seeming to penetrate his entire being.

  'Please, please, please don't let Richie see me like this,' he thought, reaching the exit on the far side of the office.

  The corridors that led towards the security gate were busy thoroughfares, and this morning was no different. Again Peter saw people that he knew, and again their faces registered much the same expressions. Ushered out into the cold November air, he was just glad not to have bumped into Richie. Crossing the road, he looked all around him. On all floors of the main building that he'd just exited, he could see people crowded at the windows, peeking through blinds, looking to see what was going on. Exactly the same thing seemed to be going on at the security gate, where people he'd been responsible for were scrabbling for a view through the vertically slanted blinds. Looking horrified at Peter being frogmarched towards them, the two guards on duty didn't know what to make of the machine guns pointed directly into his back. Peter shook his head trying to warn the men, who he knew reasonably well, not to make a fuss and just do as the goons asked.

  "YOU," shouted one of the goons behind Peter. "Get his car keys from his pocket and bring his car round... NOW!"

  "What the hell is going on?" demanded the guard on the gate that had just been spoken to.

  Peter took a deep breath, and spoke just before the goons could provoke the guards, his friends, any more.

  "It's okay. Just do as he says. My keys are in my left trouser pocket."

  Reluctantly the guard came over and took Peter's keys.

  "It's parked in car park B," added the young dragon in disguise.

  The guard nodded an acknowledgement and headed slowly off towards the car park, not really knowing what to make of events. Peter could see the other gate guard, a burly man called Owen, who he'd known since he'd started, was starting to get anxious. Mouthing to him to just calm down and not make a fuss, he hoped the goons behind him wouldn't notice.

  "Raise the security barrier," one of the goons said bluntly to Owen, the remaining gate guard.

  "Raise the security barrier... PLEASE," said Owen sarcastically.

  It was all Peter could do not to laugh, despite the seriousness of the situation.

  "Do it now!" demanded the other goon, waving his machine gun from side to side for effect.

  Owen just stood there, arms crossed. In that moment, Peter gained a new found respect for his friend and colleague, vowing to himself that should things ever get back to the way they were meant to be, that is with Garrett back in charge and him returned to his old position, he would definitely make sure Owen got a well deserved promotion. With what felt like the whole world looking on, the tension of the situation was unbelievable, but eventually the goons decided, probably because of everyone watching, to accede to Owen's request.

  "Raise the security barrier... please," mumbled one of the goons, giving Owen the eye.

  After much consideration, Owen looked across to the gatehouse and gave the sign for the barrier to be raised. As the red and white striped barrier began its ascent, Peter was shoved forward so that he was on the other side of the barrier. Just then his car came around the corner, the other gate guard at the wheel. It slowed to a halt right beside Peter, with the guard leaving the engine running. In one swift motion, one of the gun toting lunatics reached down into his boot and pulled out a rather vicious looking knife. Putting his hands on the back of Peter's neck, the guard bent Peter forward and sliced through the binders, letting them drop to the floor in the middle of the road, before shoving Peter forward with his foot in the small of his back, hurling him towards the open car door.

  "Don't come back if you know what's good for you," the goon spat as he and his mate turned and headed b
ack towards the main building.

  Feeling the gaze of hundreds of people on him all at once, he looked up, only one person catching his attention. There, at the top of the building was Manson, gazing down at him, looking oh so pleased with himself. Peter turned away and got in his car, tears by now, streaming down his face. Smashing his hand against the plastic dashboard angrily, he kept that picture of Manson in his mind.

  'It's not over,' he vowed. 'It's soooooooo not over.'

  15 Fawking Hell!!!!!

  It was raining, blowing a gale and even in the cab of his lorry his breath froze as he exhaled. But by goodness it was great to be back in England, even on this bleak November day. His truck trundled over the bumps in the ramp as he departed the ferry at Dover. Up until now, his journey had taken over three weeks, and even though he'd done the same trip at least a dozen times before, this one had been by far the most arduous. The Siberian weather had been unseasonably bad, even by Russian standards, which was really saying something. It was the first time on all his trips that he'd been thankful for the military style escort that he'd been given, as the guards in the convoy accompanying him had had to dig his truck out on more than one occasion during the trek across Russia. Heading out of Dover on the A20, he flicked the radio on to his favourite station, Radio 2, and looked forward to spending some quality time with his wife and two children. All he had to do now was negotiate the M20, M25, M3 and A303 and then he would be back at the Cropptech site in Salisbridge. With any luck he would be back there for six o'clock, an hour or so to unload his valuable cargo, and then he would be home in time to read his children a bedtime story. He couldn't wait.

  * * *

  Turning the key in the front door, Peter walked dejectedly through the hall and into the living room. Slumping down on the sofa, he felt more than a little sorry for himself, not even remembering having driven home. Oh, he knew that he'd done it, he was here of course, but he couldn't remember any of the details. It had all been done on autopilot. Holding his head in his hands, he wondered solemnly just where it had all gone so wrong. He'd lost his job, blown the chance to save Garrett and restore Cropptech to its former glory, and wasted Gee Tee's rare and valuable antidote.

  'At least things can't get any worse,' he thought.

  After a few minutes, it might even have been half an hour, as time seemed to have lost significance, he turned on the television, choosing to watch the sports news, hoping to take his mind off things. It didn't work though. Unhappiness and the lack of a decent night's sleep the previous night seemed to hit, both at the same time, like a giant bulldozer on a building site. Before he knew it, he'd fallen asleep, television still blaring in the background, grey, dreary daylight shining in through the windows.

  Much later, he awoke in a room lit only by images from the animated screen. It took him a few seconds to clear his head.

  'Oh pants,' he thought. 'It wasn't just a dream after all.'

  With the muscles in his neck and back sending waves of pain up and down his spine, he sat up. Falling asleep on the sofa wasn't the best way to catch up on sleep, he reflected, forcing his body to get up and turn the lights on. Pulling the curtains shut, the day's events came flooding back to him in a moment of crystal clear clarity. Shuffling into the kitchen, all the while rubbing his sore back, he closed the blinds and tried hard to ignore the grumbling noises his stomach was making. How could he eat at a time like this? But of course, he was deep down... a dragon. And that is one of their specialities, no matter what the circumstances.

  With the events at Cropptech stuck in his head like pins in a pin cushion, he suddenly wondered why he hadn't heard from Richie. She was, after all, bound to have heard what happened even if she hadn't witnessed it firsthand. Odd! Then it dawned on him.

  'Crap! I've left my jacket there. It's got my phone and the alea in it. Oh this is so bad.' No wonder he hadn't heard from Richie. She almost certainly would have tried to contact him on his mobile.

  Returning to the living room, instead of sitting down he paced around the coffee table wondering what to do. Of course, he could ask Richie to get it for him, but she might get into trouble or worse, with Manson on the loose. Another option would be just to phone up and ask for it to be left at the gatehouse for him to pick up, but that would draw attention to it, something he desperately wanted to try and avoid given that the alea was in the jacket pocket.

  'I could always go back there myself,' he mused. 'Yes, that would be incredibly bright after today's events.'

  Sitting down, he leant forward, theatrically banging his head on the coffee table for effect. After a few seconds of intense pain and nothing becoming clearer, he sat up and thought,

  'I really need to clear my head before I decide what to do next. Hmmm... time for something to eat methinks.'

  With that, he perused his favourite takeaway menu, before phoning up the Indian restaurant and ordering some food. He loved Indian food, something he had developed a taste for long before taking up hockey, with it now having become so much more than that ever since. Nearly every other Saturday, one group or other from the sports club could be found heading for the local Indian restaurant for a curry. Having ended up tagging along on more than one occasion, he'd found the experience... well, memorable for more than a few reasons. The witty banter and drunken antics had opened his eyes quite a lot the first few times. Although he was over fifty years old, most of that time had been spent well below ground, hence in many ways he was still relatively naive when it came to many of the social aspects of human culture, but he did, however, really enjoy the post sport curry. He'd never really gotten into going around all the pubs and clubs just drinking until you passed out. That, to him, seemed a complete waste of time. But there was just something about sitting down and having a meal with your friends, no matter how intoxicated they were, that just really appealed to him. The last time he'd been dragged along for a curry, he'd been surprised to see Tank and Richie there, when entering with his teammates. Tank was there with his rugby team, and Richie, having nothing better to do, had got in on the action, which was something that happened on quite a regular basis, he'd subsequently found out.

  That night had turned out to be one of the most memorable of his relatively (in dragon terms) short life. Hockey and rugby lads, plus Richie, had all joined tables, spending the entire night swapping drunken anecdotes and playing silly drinking games, much to the bemusement of the staff and other clientele. What made it really special though was the fact that he'd shared it with his two best friends.

  Anyway, every couple of months or so he would treat himself to a takeaway, hence the menu. Forty minutes later the steaming hot food arrived, and after having paid, he wandered into the kitchen, inhaling deep breaths of the delicious smelling cuisine that he carried.

  Unlike most, he found that his preferred options from the menu were usually those dishes without very much sauce, in particular, anything with Tandoori in the description. Having ordered chicken tikka, onion bhajis, keema naan with poppadoms and onion salad, he had to use two plates for the enormous feast. The next hour or so was spent chomping away in front of the repetitive sports news.

  Some time much later he sat, bloated, on the sofa, full to the brim with delicious Indian food, contemplating what he should do next. With his mind whirring at full speed, he started to wonder how someone else in his position would handle things. Hindsight made him feel as though he'd been a bit of a pushover, having never really confronted Manson when maybe he should have. Perhaps Manson was just another school bully who needed to be met head-on, or to have his bluff called. Anyway, it was too late for that now. But just maybe it wasn't too late to stop being a pushover. Turning off the lights in the living room, he silently berated himself for not having done the washing up, vowing to himself that he would no longer be that pushover. And with that thought roaming around the empty space between his ears, he went to bed, hoping that a solution would present itself in the clear light of morning.

  Waking up
early, just after six, amazingly he felt bright, awake and full of energy, instead of the normal, sleepy, grumpy and reluctant to get up. Perhaps subconsciously his body knew it was November 5th because for weeks he'd been looking forward to going to the fireworks display at the sports club with Tank and Richie, despite the ongoing worries about Manson. Shooting downstairs, he switched on all the lights, deciding to keep the curtains closed in an attempt to ignore the cold and dark outside. Cleaning up all the mess from the night before, his thoughts turned to the Cropptech situation. He hadn't woken up with a solution buzzing around his brain, but things did seem a little clearer. He no longer felt the pressure and loneliness that had seemed to consume him up to and including yesterday. Up until now, he hadn't even realised that it had been affecting him so much. Only now could he see things for what they really were. He also felt renewed, invigorated and full of self confidence. His decision last night to no longer be pushed round must have had some deep down psychological effect.

  Halfway through cleaning the plates, the weather forecast appeared on the television, so he stopped and watched, wanting to know if the hockey or the fireworks display were going to be affected. After a minute or so it became clear the weather man was stringing it out, with a ground frost the only thing to report, rain sleet or snow nowhere near a possibility for at least the next few days. 'Good news for the fireworks display' he thought, cheerily, continuing to tidy up.

  Focusing his mind on what to do about losing his job and getting his jacket, phone and alea back, he was more than a little aware that he was supposed to be playing hockey and then meeting up with his friends. Buried at the back of his mind was a thought about contacting Councillor Rosebloom, to let him know what had happened, but that was something he wished to avoid like the plague for as long as dragonly possible.

  By the time he'd finished breakfast, he'd decided what to do. He knew that if the right people were manning the security gate this morning, then getting his jacket back from his office, or ex-office now, would be relatively straight forward. Unfortunately it would be very difficult to find out who would be working without actually going there. So, he'd decided that his best course of action would be to drive his car to the nearby housing estate and then, in his running gear, go for a run along the main road that passes Cropptech's main entrance. If he wore a hooded top, nobody would know that it was him, and hopefully he would be able to get a good look at who was on gate duty.