by Nick Albert
“Payback’s a bitch,” he said as he pushed the big green button to activate the rubbish compactor.
Ten minutes later the dustcart drove away, revealing the huddled forms of three half-naked men, who had lost all interest in throwing rotten fruit at unsuspecting old ladies.
***
Charles Rathbone drove his Austin Healey Sprite home at a more sedate pace, checking his mirrors frequently. He knew about the observers, he had been aware of them for almost a month. He knew why they were following him, and now he knew what he had to do if he was going to stop them. No one could help him now — although a few had tried. Even his friends, his powerful friends, his good friends were unable to help.
Rathbone had fought a good battle, and for a while he had thought he was winning, but now he knew that he had lost — he knew for sure thirty-six hours ago. A good and trusted friend had shown him the evidence. His friend had been so apologetic. She had explained that the evidence was clear, she said there was nothing he could do, she had cried as she told Charles what would happen next. Then she gave Charles a wonderful gift; she gave Charles a small amount of time. At great risk to herself, his friend promised to delay what had to happen for forty-eight hours, to give Charles time to prepare, time to get his affairs in order — and now that time was almost gone.
It was crucial that the observers did not suspect anything, so Charles made sure that he kept to his usual routine. The little green sports car turned into the driveway of the family farm and pulled into the garage as usual. Charles climbed out of the car, closed the garage doors, and walked back down the driveway to check the post-box before closing the old wooden gates. He could not see the observers, but he was certain that they were close by — probably using binoculars and cameras to monitor and analyse his every move. As he walked confidently towards the beautiful farmhouse, he thought that the thatched roof would probably need attention in the spring, and for a moment, he was saddened that he would miss the fun.
Once inside the house, he carefully locked and bolted the front door. Charles walked swiftly to his study where, using his favourite 18 karat gold Cross fountain pen and personalised writing paper, he hand wrote a short letter. After carefully drying the ink with a blotter, he sealed the letter in an envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Confident that the thick net curtains on the windows would prevent anyone outside from seeing in, he unlocked his gun safe and removed a shotgun and a few shells. This began the critical phase.
Once he had closed and relocked the gun safe, he lay down on the carpet and belly-crawled down the corridor and into the sitting room. He rose slowly and stood absolutely still alongside the window for five full minutes; watching for any movement in the rear garden. When he was confident that there was no one hiding in the bushes, he sombrely loaded both barrels of the shotgun.
Inherited from Charles’s father, the Baikal IZH-43KH shotgun was manufactured in Russia, and imported from Canada. Although the shorter 18.5-inch barrel makes it less accurate than a traditional shotgun, Charles considered it an excellent weapon for close quarters fighting. It was also exactly the correct length for what he had in mind. The Remington hypersonic steel shells he was using were specifically designed for shooting fast moving ducks. These unique shells combine a tight pattern of pellets with a 1,700 foot per second mussel velocity, capable of delivering a devastating punch — deadly to both ducks and men.
Rathbone silently opened the French doors and walked out to the exact centre of his lawn, where he turned a slow, deliberate circle, checking once more for the observers. Satisfied that he was temporarily alone, he faced his house and knelt down on the grass. Then, Charles Rathbone, decorated war hero took a deep breath, put the shotgun barrel into his mouth and, without hesitation, pulled both triggers.
TWO
It was not until the next morning that Stone heard that Charles Rathbone had committed suicide. Fresh from the shower, he was in his kitchen cooking some eggs for breakfast when the local radio broke the story.
“Local war hero and political activist Charles Rathbone has been found dead at his house near Sible Hedingham, in Essex. Police were called to the house yesterday evening after a woman walking her dog reported hearing a single gunshot. Mister Rathbone was discovered lying slumped in his garden. He was pronounced dead at the scene by a local doctor. A source within the Essex police has confirmed that Mr Rathbone died from a shotgun blast to the head. Foul play is not suspected. A suicide note was found in his jacket pocket stating that he had recently been diagnosed with an inoperable brain cancer while secretly attending a clinic in America, and that he had chosen to end his life at this time to maintain his dignity. The letter went on to say that Charles Rathbone’s dying wish is that the nation’s desire for ‘True Democracy’ in politics would not die, just because its strongest voice had passed away; to this end he nominated his staunch supporter Sally Field to replace him at the next election.
The son of a farmer and a graduate of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, Charles Rathbone had a distinguished career in the British Army. In 2008, while serving with the Royal Engineers in Afghanistan, his squad came under a sustained enemy attack culminating with a large IED explosion. Although badly wounded himself, Charles Rathbone twice entered a known minefield to rescue injured colleagues. For this act of conspicuous courage in circumstances of extreme danger, he was awarded the George Cross. After his rehabilitation, Charles Rathbone retired from the Army and returned to his native Essex to manage the family farm. More recently, he had become a central figure in the growing campaign to change the face of British politics. He was standing as an independent candidate in the general election, under the banner of ‘True Democracy’; he was widely expected to win.
Charles Rathbone was aged sixty-two; he was unmarried and had no immediate family.”
After saying just two words, ‘Good God!’ for the first time since the death of his mother, Eric Stone sat and cried.
His friendship with Charles Rathbone was as deep as siblings, or closer, if that was possible. They had first met at Stone’s dojo in Colchester in the spring of 2009. Eric had just finished teaching a Sunday morning kids class and was in the process of clearing away the equipment, when he noticed a tall man standing quietly, just inside the dojo door. He was wearing a long black raincoat over a sports jacket and waistcoat. Visible below the raincoat, perfectly pressed black trousers sat above a pair of highly polished black leather brogues. In his right hand, the man held a rolled umbrella with a curved wooden handle, which doubled as a walking stick and seemed to be helping him keep much of his weight off his right foot.
Stone surreptitiously studied the stranger as he continued collecting the equipment, wondering if he was perhaps a parent or Council official of some description. He had initially thought that the man was angry, as his face was full of dark tension, but on closer inspection, Stone decided that he was suffering some deep pain. Although the day was cool, there was a gleam of sweat on his brow, deep lines under his eyes and his cheeks were hollow, as if he were a recovering drug addict or a cancer survivor. If he was an angry parent, or someone with an axe to grind, Stone felt that the man would have come forwards by now, but he had just remained standing quietly by the door watching as Stone went about his work. After putting the last of the protective headgear and gloves into the storage locker, Stone turned and spoke to the man for the first time.
“May I help you, Sir?”
“I hope you can.” His voice had a full, cultured quality, which spoke of education and confidence.
With some difficulty and barely concealed pain, the stranger brought himself upright and walked twenty careful paces until he was face-to-face with Stone. After hooking the handle of his umbrella over his left arm, he offered his right hand to shake and gave a warm smile.
“Mr Stone, my name is Charles Rathbone and I would like to engage your services. Recently I lost part of my right leg in Afghanistan. The Army medical people have done all the
y can but they tell me I will never walk normally again — I want you to help me to prove them wrong.”
“OK, you have my attention,” Stone said politely, “But I’m just a humble karate teacher, how do you think I can help?”
Rathbone smiled and his steely blue eyes glinted with wry humour.
“Why Mr Stone, you are too modest by far. I have done my research very carefully and you have been recommended to me by the highest authority. I know that you are highly skilled in a range of martial arts. I know that you are a talented and passionate instructor. I know that your experience and training has given you a unique knowledge of biomechanics, and I know that you are a man who loves to be tested.”
Rathbone thrust his chin forwards daringly and his eyes narrowed as he delivered the challenge.
“So Mr Stone, they said that I will always limp along with the aid of a stick. I intend to prove them wrong. Will you help this cripple to walk like a man again?”
Stone looked at the man before him with fresh interest. The physical pain that he was suffering was etched deeply into his face. He noticed that despite the firmness of his handshake, Rathbone was visibly shaking in an effort to remain standing. Eric imagined how hard it must have been for this unassuming man to ask for help from a complete stranger. For a full minute Stone looked into Rathbone’s unblinking eyes, while he considered how he would approach such a difficult task. Then, with his mind made up, he gave one sharp, decisive nod.
“OK, let’s do it!”
Over the next six months, through the gruelling hours of intense physical training and balance exercises, Charles gradually learned to walk without a stick. At the same time, even though they were very different people, a deep friendship developed between the two men. Though he had done his research before their first meeting, Rathbone was impressed with Eric’s analytical intelligence and quiet determination. He found Stone to be a thoroughly likeable and totally trustworthy person.
Stone, a naturally modest and introspective man, was happy to sit for hours listening to Charles Rathbone’s animated stories of Army life, or his passionate opinions of how the British political system could be reformed. Usually, these discussions took place in the local pub, over a delicious meal and a few pints of best bitter. The two men also discovered that they had some shared interests — vintage cars, target shooting, and beautiful women.
Both men were single and unattached. Although Stone enjoyed the company of beautiful and intelligent women, he was rather shy and had yet to find one that interested both his heart and mind. Conversely, the always-effervescent Rathbone, a widower of fifteen-years, seemed to have a bewildering stable of stunningly beautiful female acquaintances that seemed happy to share his company and his bed, without demanding any further commitment. Whenever Charles invited Eric to a party or a barbecue at the farm, one of these delightful young ladies would bring along an equally attractive friend to act as Stone’s companion. Although these dates were always intellectually interesting and sometimes physically satisfying, few led to anything more than an exchange of telephone numbers and a shared lie to keep in touch. For the most part the girls were interested and willing, Stone was after all a handsome man, but he found it difficult to engage in a relationship where that rare but indescribable spark was missing.
Being brought up on a farm in the Essex countryside, Charles had learned to shoot at an early age. For a farmer, a shotgun is as much an essential tool as a paintbrush is to a decorator, or a spirit level to a builder. As a youngster, Charles had shot vermin and game with a shotgun and later he progressed to culling deer with a rifle. He had a good eye and a steady hand, essential skills that were later honed to a fine art in the Army; where he would go on to win several competitive medals at Regimental competitions.
Although Eric Stone disliked blood sports, he thoroughly enjoyed target shooting. He loved the cerebral test of calculating the effect that wind, humidity and gravity had on the path of a bullet, combined with the physical challenge of controlling your breathing and heart rate, as you must if you are going to hit something the size of a tomato from 300 yards. His first experience of shooting came about after a girlfriend had invited him to join her at a corporate getaway at some swanky hotel in the Huntingdon countryside. As a part of the package, the guests had free access to activities like horse riding, quad biking, and golf. There was also a climbing wall, a swimming pool, and a skeet shooting range. Stone had soon tired of chlorinated water, plastic rocks, and racing around in muddy circles, and decided to have a pop at skeet shooting, while his lady-friend was enduring something called a hot mud facial.
After a safety lecture and some basic directions about how to hold, aim, and fire a shot gun, the instructor explained the principle of deflection shooting — the process of aiming ahead of the target so that the shotgun pellets can intersect with the fast-flying clay. When he was ready, Stone shouted ‘Pull!’ for the first time, and to his surprise, hit both of the clay targets with his first two shots. Suspecting a large dose of beginners luck, Stone tried again, and he was delighted to see his second attempt produced the same result.
Initially the instructor suspected that Stone was some sharp shooter, planted by friends as a practical joke, but he soon came to accept that Eric simply had a good eye and a natural feel for deflection shooting. To the barely concealed displeasure of his girlfriend, Stone spent most of the remaining time that weekend at the shooting range, stopping only when his right shoulder, unused to the recoil of the shotgun, became too bruised and painful to continue. By that time, he was hooked and committed to joining a local gun club at the earliest opportunity.
Inevitably, the girlfriend proved to be a fad, but his love of target shooting turned into a serious hobby, and Eric soon bought a shotgun and a .22 target rifle; both were kept in a gun safe at his home. On his birthday in July of the previous year, Charles had presented Eric with a very special gift. It was a Barnett Ghost 410 crossbow — identical to the one that Charles owned. The jet black Ghost 410 was a rare and expensive weapon that was manufactured in America using strong but ultra-light materials, more commonly associated with racing cars and jet fighters. Sleek, stealthy, and beautifully balanced, it weighed just a few pounds, and yet it could fire a projectile with incredible speed and accuracy. The crossbow was even fitted with a telescopic laser sight that could project the classic sniper red dot onto the intended target.
Eric was delighted with the crossbow, a gift that helped to deepen his friendship with Charles. Over the years the two men spent many happy hours together in friendly competition at the shooting range with guns and their crossbows, or in the pub talking about politics or women, or both, and visiting classic car shows. Through such shared interests and beliefs, based on duty, fairness, and equality, they had eventually become as close as brothers. With a deep sigh, Eric shook his head at the tragic waste of life and the loss of a true friend.
“Come on Stone; pull yourself together,” he said sadly, wiping his eyes.
He splashed his face with cold water at the kitchen sink and wondered what, if anything, he should do next. Although Charles was his closest friend, that relationship held no status in the eyes of the law. Eric was not a relative, and although the news report said that Charles had no immediate family, he presumed that there would be some arrangements in place to deal with the funeral and other matters. Nevertheless, as a friend, he felt that he had a duty to offer his help to whoever was appointed as executor of Charles’s estate. He knew several police officers through his karate club, so after some consideration, he decided that the best course of action was to go in person to the Braintree town police station and ask for some information and advice. Pleased to be doing something positive in his grief, Stone washed and dried the breakfast dishes, brushed his teeth, got dressed and was stepping through the front door just twenty minutes later.
He almost collided with a young and very pretty postwoman as he turned, and after a mumbled apology and a shy smile, he accepted the proffer
ed handful of bills and junk mail, which he took with him to his car. With the engine running, he sat for a moment and watched as the postwoman continued her round. At that moment, Stone was suddenly aware of just how insular grief was. His world had become dark and depressing, he had just discovered that his closest friend was dead, a tragedy by his own hand to avoid a painful and undignified end; and yet just the other side of the door the sun was still shining, the girls were pretty, and there were still bills to pay. With a shake of his head, Eric snapped out of his reverie.
Realizing that he was still clutching the post, he gave a sad and somewhat ironic laugh and dropped it onto the passenger seat. He was about to put the car into gear when a pale blue envelope caught his eye. The neat careful handwriting was distinctively that of one man — Charles Rathbone. As he picked up the envelope with his left hand, his right hand automatically reached for the key to switch off the engine.
***
Alan Merry stepped off the train at Reading station and as was his habit, walked directly to the nearest pub. He liked the ‘Three Guineas’; it was an Irish theme pub that had recently been refurbished. It had a great menu, comfortable seating, plenty of space and, most important for Alan, it served a decent pint of Guinness. This early in the afternoon, the pub was quiet, apart from a few businessmen passing some time whilst waiting for their train. Alan had just travelled from London and, as usual, was planning to enjoy a pint and a sandwich before taking a leisurely walk to Reading Borough Council. As part of his responsibility as a Councillor, Alan sat on the Planning Applications Committee every Wednesday afternoon. He found it to be mind-numbingly boring work that was best approached with a slight beer buzz and a full stomach.
