Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  Alan had suggested that as a finale to their holiday break they should dine out at the nearby Buckland Manor. It was a particular favourite of Cindy’s, and they talked and laughed their way through the fine cuisine reminiscing about past holidays. As they relaxed in the sumptuous leather sofas chatting amiably whilst they took coffee with brandy liqueurs, Alan had completely stunned her by suddenly changing the subject.

  “Are you seeing someone else?”

  Blunt. This was unlike Alan who usually avoided direct questions and answers – a character trait she increasingly disliked.

  “Are you having an affair?” he became louder and more insistent.

  “Certainly not, Alan. No. Of course not. Why on earth would you ask that? Especially now when we’ve just had a lovely holiday and such a nice evening” she replied, somewhat taken aback.

  “Because I can tell you haven’t been yourself for quite some time and …” he hesitated and then lowered his voice “… there is nothing physical between us anymore. That is not what we married for and surely not what we want. I need you Cindy. You know I love you dearly, but what else am I to think?”

  Alan was clearly pained and Cindy quickly suggested that they finish their liqueurs and then continue the discussion at home. The hotel lounge was not the place for debating their sex life. The short drive back to Red Gables, a spacious, beautifully appointed Victorian house built of Cotswold stone and set in three acres in the hamlet of Stillwood, gave Cindy time to marshal her response and she hoped she could regain some control of the situation. She wasn’t having an affair, and had never even been close to having one since their marriage – which now seemed a long five years ago – but she could hardly deny that the ‘Millennium Madness’ of their marriage of which they both joked about in happier times was no longer a laughing matter. She knew the marriage was in trouble, it was what kept her awake at night. Those heady days in the year 2000 had started in a crowded London coffee house when a stranger, awkwardly carrying his tray and trying to look for a spare seat, asked if he might sit across the table from her. Two months later, they were married; four years later she knew she had made the wrong decision, but still hoped. Now, five years since her wedding day, Cindy was finding she could no longer pretend nor disguise her feelings. She knew that someday soon she would have to face Alan and explain. But please, not now, not tonight.

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, then?” Alan enquired cautiously as he poured them both a brandy before he sat back in his favourite armchair. She noticed a slight quiver in his voice that revealed he was finding this a lot more difficult than she. He looked so vulnerable now, quite different from the assured and confident city bank executive. His eyes seemed more tired, the handsome facial appearance almost defeated by the anxiety he so clearly felt. He was only five years older than Cindy but his pained expression had caused deep lines to appear on his forehead and he now looked considerably nearer fifty than forty. She could not bring herself to answer his question, not at this moment. Why should I, anyway, she reasoned to herself. She had recently given up her job in the Cabinet Office and was starting out on a new venture in the hope that it might revive her spirits and provide a fresh stimulus to her life. She really didn’t need an in depth discussion of her innermost feelings right now. Tomorrow she was going to London to meet an ex-colleague who had intrigued her by saying that he needed her advice on ‘a delicate international matter’, so answers to Alan’s probing questions on the state of their marriage would have wait.

  “Oh Alan, this is silly. I promise I am not having an affair. As you know I’ve been really busy for several years now and it’s just that I’m a bit tired and jaded. The holiday was marvellous and I am sure that within a few weeks I will be back to my normal self again. I’ll see the doctor if you like, maybe he can give me some magic pills – you never know what they might do!” She gave a fainthearted chuckle hoping it would lighten the mood.

  “I’m also at a funny age, maybe that has something to do with it. Thirty-five isn’t old I know but women can get a bit strange in their thirties, maybe that’s it.”

  The latter seemed plausible to Alan, as virtually every male colleague had passed a comment at some time or other that seemed to confirm that women do, indeed, go ‘funny’. It also crossed his mind that such comments had been made in relation to women of virtually any age, not just in their thirties.

  “Well maybe it is then” said Alan slowly, thinking as he spoke. “But I want you to promise that you would tell me if there was ever anyone else. Will you do that?”

  “Of course, Alan, but I assure you there most definitely isn’t.” Cindy spoke confidently, relieved at not having to lie.

  “I know we have never wanted to start a family but perhaps that’s what we need?” Alan gently posed the question causing Cindy to almost choke as she took too large a gulp of the brandy. A pram, nappies and shopping for baby clothes were definitely not what she needed and whilst she was aware her biological clock was ticking, she was determined it was not going to be stopped prematurely.

  “Me? A mother? I don’t think so Alan. No.” This was very definitely the truth and Cindy delivered it with such firmness that it was designed to put an immediate stop to further discussion of the subject. She went across to his armchair where he was seated and kissed him gently on the forehead.

  “I still love you very much” she lied, “but if you don’t mind I’ve got this meeting tomorrow and I do need to get in some undisturbed sleep. I think I’ll go up to my room now”.

  Alan Crossland sighed, quickly poured himself another stiff brandy and then muttered “goodnight”, but Cindy was already at the top of the stairs and heard nothing as she quickly hastened to the sanctuary of her own bedroom, oblivious at having made her worried husband even more anxious. For several months he had been aware that her feelings towards him had changed. It was obvious. Cindy no longer did those small, meaningful things around the house that partners do for each other in a happy, fulfilled relationship. Her language too had altered. She had started referring to your bedroom and my bedroom.

  “It’s our room” he suddenly yelled out, “not my room. It’s our bedroom, and both of us should be using it.” But his wife had already closed the door.

  The nightly separation particularly angered him. Cindy seemed to be slowly excluding him from major aspects of her life, their life, which together they should share. He tried to analyse why she should be doing this to him. He had done nothing to deserve such unreasonable treatment. He had been good with money even though Cindy herself had received a high salary for many years in a lucrative career. He had never had a casual girlfriend let alone a mistress. He had not visited a lap dancing joint nor the superficially posh London night clubs where you can get anything, and anyone, at a price. He was confused. Cindy had told him that she wasn’t having an affair and he believed her. Or did he? Was it perhaps that he wanted to believe her? He had loved everything about her from the very first time he saw her across the table at La Cramanche having a coffee, and recalled how he nervously asked if he might join her and how delighted he was when she agreed.

  Thoughts turned over in his head, but there was one thing he resolved. Cindy had denied an affair. He had given her every opportunity and even though he would have been terribly upset if she had been seeing someone, he could have accepted it, but not if she had lied to him. He would continue to believe her, continue to try and make her happy, and hope she was right in saying that it was only a short-term blip but he would never forgive her if she was lying. He deserved better than that. He emptied his glass and started turning off the lights.

  3

  Cindy was still thinking about the previous evening when the sudden sound of her favourite radio station, blasting from the digital alarm clock, was a reminder that she could not stay in bed any longer. After a quick shower, she and Alan shared a breakfast of orange juice and croissants. Normally Alan would have his driver collect him from either Red Gables or,
if he was staying in London, the luxury apartment he and Cindy owned in Shoreditch, but Alan had given him leave that extended beyond the duration of their Greek trip and so for today and tomorrow he was commuting. Cindy, too, was making the same journey for her meeting, and so they sat together on the smart Great Western Intercity to Paddington before taking the long walk across the station concourse and joined the hundreds of fellow commuters hurrying down the steps to the underground Circle line platform. They were fortunate and were able to stand together on the first train to arrive, though in the cramped conditions conversation was not attempted.

  At Liverpool Street station it was only possible for Alan to half turn towards Cindy as he said ‘goodbye’ before he pushed his way forward to leave the carriage. Standing in the middle of a throng of fellow passengers, she could just glimpse Alan exiting the platform concourse and she reflected that they had not spoken more than two sentences to each other during the whole two hour journey. Alan had assiduously studied The Financial Times before turning his attention to the crosswords in The Times and The Daily Telegraph, whilst Cindy had read the latest Kathy Reich novel. Grabbing the handrail above her head to steady herself in readiness for the train to pull away from the station, she turned her mind to what her morning meeting was really all about. She had left the Cabinet Office six months earlier, so what could her friend Peter Knowles possibly want to discuss now? And more intriguingly, why? It certainly wasn’t going to be what he had inferred, it never was. Peter was renowned for speaking in riddles.

  The powerful electric motors whirred as the London Underground train 204 accelerated into the tunnel and had started to pick up speed when a blinding flash of light was followed almost instantaneously by an explosion that echoed and reverberated like a massive clap of thunder. The blast threw Cindy across the floor. Bodies tumbled over her. She instinctively raised her slender arms to shield herself as more people were hurled back and forth whilst the crippled train shuddered to a violent halt from the automatic emergency braking system.

  Cindy, dazed and barely conscious, tried to focus but the swirling black dust stung her eyes forcing her to squint into the murky darkness. People were screaming, crying, shouting. Something heavy was lying across her. She pushed against it but the lifeless body refused to move. She tried to raise her head but her neck hurt. Someone nearby started to groan, obviously in pain. Smoke and fumes started to replace the filthy dust and an acrid, bitter, burning sensation pricked the back of her throat as she gulped the foul air. She started to panic as her lungs became slowly starved of the oxygen they needed, causing her to breathe harder and deeper. Terrified that her lungs seemed incapable of working, she cried out for help but her voice went unheard as it blended into the many other screams, cries and groans. She glimpsed fresh blood running fast across the bodies near to her. The carriage lights flickered, as if struggling themselves for survival, and were accompanied by a synchronised crackling noise like the rasping sound of breaking matchboxes before they uttered a final hissing screech and were no more. The silver-coloured carriage plunged into almost total darkness until a dim, emergency light came on and cast an eerie, yellow glow. The screams of its trapped and wounded occupants intensified.

  Slowly the acrid smoke cleared easing the sour pain in her mouth and chest. The thick black dust began to settle. It clung to open wounds, much as small iron filings do when placed near a magnet. Warm, crimson blood turned a cold, dirty purple. Cindy tried to move her arms to wipe the soot away from her nose and eyes, but her strength had gone and she was unable to move. Loud, terrified voices were shouting.

  “Get Out. “Get out” someone yelled from the opposite side of the train.

  “No, no. Stay put. Everyone stay put. The current may not be switched off, we could be killed” screamed a woman near to Cindy, panic evident in her voice.

  But over and over she heard people saying “Bomb, it’s a bomb”.

  Cindy watched helplessly as some passengers managed painfully and slowly to get to their feet, groggily exploring themselves for injuries. She could see blood pouring from faces, arms and legs, some covered only by slithers of cloth that were moments earlier expensive tailored suits and dresses. Torn garments hung helplessly from the shattered limbs of blackened people whose faces were distinguishable only by the whites of their eyes. Larger pools of blood appeared, slowly filling the indentations of the tread pattern etched onto the rubberised floor. As the contours became overwhelmed, the warm, life-giving liquid spread out into small rivulets and formed macabre, crimson diagrams between the prone bodies of the injured. Cindy, her eyes focusing more clearly now, had to look away from those whose injuries were obviously severe and from which most of the thick, sticky blood had oozed. She tried to raise herself once more but gave up when she started to feel pain, first in her legs and then her arms but which slowly spread to her entire body. She tried to stay calm but the intensity of the pain kept interrupting her determination and she started to shake from the dangerous cocktail of panic and fear. She kept repeating to herself that she must try to remain conscious. She so wanted to stand, desperate to get away from the hell around her. She made one last abortive attempt to push away the lifeless body that was pinning down her leg before she let out a loud scream and passed out.

  It was 8:50am on Thursday 7th July 2005, the day which became known as Britain’s 7/7. A day of huge implications and consequences for the United Kingdom generally, but for Cindy it was the day that changed her life forever.

  * * *

  Alan Crossland reached the top of the crowded escalator, walked across the concourse and out into the bright, summer sunlight. The noise and bustle of the city never failed to excite and impress him. He loved its buzz, its people, its business and delighted at being a part of it. He had cut his teeth in banking during the later Thatcher years when employment within financial services stopped being a humdrum, boring existence and turned itself into a dynamic, progressive and world-leading industry which rewarded enterprise and risk taking. He had witnessed how under a Labour government the traditional virtues of ‘a man’s word is his bond’ and ‘uberrima fides’ (‘utmost good faith’) had been slowly overtaken by the more ancient vices of greed and lust. Banking was at last freed of over restrictive regulation and now looked upon benignly by an administration anxious to boost its own exchequer from the additional taxes raised as the burgeoning profits of the financial corporations soared.

  Although personally saddened at the diminishing integrity that was once prevalent within the financial world, where his own pocket was concerned Crossland was not so distraught as to try to impede its ongoing decline. He embraced the new radical monetarism that had severed the shackles from the city and which was why, if he were totally honest, he regarded London as the best capital in the world. It was where you could now make serious money.

  He stood amongst the throng of pedestrians patiently waiting for the traffic lights to change. Absorbed in speculative thoughts as to where his fellow commuters might be headed for, or pondering the sort of jobs they might have, he only noticed that it was safe to cross when the mass of bodies surrounding him moved forward. Halfway across, a sharp noise, like a car backfire, momentarily caused a few to turn their heads in alarm, but seeing no imminent danger they quickly continued on their journey.

  Four minutes later Crossland walked up the seven brown marble steps that marked the entrance to his bank, pushed through the large revolving glass door and took the lift to the executive suite on the third floor. Jane, his long serving and trusted secretary, welcomed him as he settled back into his comfortable black cloth and leather chair and immediately poured some freshly-ground coffee into his large, personal mug which he preferred to the bone china cups that had to be used whenever clients were present. Crossland switched on his computer and took a quick glance at the papers on his desk. How he hated being away for so long. Since his rise to chief executive, he had personally steered the Bank’s principal activities away from traditional bankin
g towards the new financial services products and into areas where the risk of taking on more lucrative ventures offered great rewards – occasionally even taking personal control of a few very special accounts of which no one else was aware. The profits, and with it his performance-enhanced salary, leaped. He enjoyed the wealth, and the risk-taking. It was in his blood.

  “You’re a natural” the old chief told him at his first appraisal, and he was.

  He joined the little known Hannet-Mar International Bank in 1996 having gained a 2nd class business degree at Bristol University followed by a three year stint at a small accountancy firm during which time he gained distinctions in the external professional qualifications. He then set about climbing the ladder of commercial banking. Hannet-Mar ostensibly specialised in providing finance to mainly Middle Eastern clients for development projects in Arab countries, via a mix of funds, bonds and securities. In reality however, the bank was either investing in or underwriting real estate, mortgages and debt guarantees, some of which he ensured received his personal attention. The downside of having control of these few accounts was there was no one else to deal with them in his absence. His private clients knew that – some even insisted upon it – but it meant it was going to take him the rest of the day to get up to speed on them. As he took his first sip of the steaming, much needed caffeine, he started to browse through his emails and read a particularly long memo about a pipeline project in the United Arab Emirates which the bank were part financing, but he was unable to fully concentrate. The office, fully air-conditioned and triple-glazed, was usually very quiet given the general noise levels of the city, but a constant wail of sirens from emergency vehicles penetrated the sound protection and invaded the room with a continuous cacophony of irritating noise. The combined effect of so many sirens blasting forth sound waves of differing amplitudes and frequencies, with the only common factor being that they were clearly designed to alarm anyone near to them, was too distracting. He got up and looked out of his window and was shocked to see large numbers of ambulances and police vehicles dashing in different directions, each emblazoning a path through the traffic aided by their flashing lights and awful wailing.