by Nick Albert
He took a stool at the bar and ordered a toasted cheese sandwich with a side order of chips and a pint of Guinness. Because it was an Irish pub, the barmaid poured the drink correctly — half-filling the glass and leaving it to settle, while she busied herself behind the bar. In a few minutes, she would return to top off his glass. Alan secretly enjoyed the anticipation of waiting for his pint of the ‘black stuff’, so he made use of the time by reading through his notes for the forthcoming planning meeting.
There were the usual residential applications for porches, conservatories, and garages, along with two applications for loft extensions — all fairly routine and acceptable stuff. He noticed that there was an application for a change of use that he thought could cause some discussion amongst the Councillors. A local farmer wanted to convert some stables into bed and breakfast accommodation, presumably to try to cash in on the growing numbers of tourists visiting the area. The previous year the same farmer had an application to open a go-kart track turned down, because of the potential for noise pollution upsetting the residents of a nearby housing estate. However, Alan suspected that this application stood a much better chance of getting approval. On the other hand, he was certain that the planning application for change of use at Whitewater farm was going to fail.
Harry Harrington had been battling with the Council for months over his farm — or at least ten acres of it. Harrington ran a haulage business, which mostly seemed to involve buying and breaking old trucks and buses for spare parts. All of which would be fine, if he hadn’t taken it into his head to park almost one-hundred broken and rusty vehicles in a corner of his land. He had never applied for or received planning permission to operate a breakers yard, and recently there had been several complaints about safety issues — particularly since waste engine oil had been found seeping into a nearby stream. The council had already issued several notices ordering him to clear up the site, but they had all been totally ignored — at least until now. Incredibly, today Harrington was formally applying for permission to operate a breakers yard on an expanded site of twenty acres. The barefaced cheek of the man was unbelievable! Not many things in life are guaranteed, but the comprehensive refusal of this planning application most definitely was. Alan’s mood brightened noticeably — perhaps there was something to look forward to this afternoon after all.
With excellent timing, the barmaid carefully placed Alan’s pint on the counter and gave him a smile.
“Here’s your Guinness love, your sandwich will be along in a couple of minutes.”
“Thanks. I’ve been looking forward to this!”
“Enjoy.”
Alan picked up his pint and held it to his lips, savouring the nutty smell for a moment before preparing to take his first sip. Suddenly, something gave his right elbow a mighty shove. The pint flew out of his hand, bounced on the counter, and fell to the floor. Luckily, the pub had recently started to use plastic glasses so nothing was broken, but the Guinness was lost.
“Jesus Christ!” Alan growled in shock and anger. He was about to turn and let fly at his assailant when a firm hand was placed on his shoulder and a cultured voice spoke into his ear.
“Oh! My dear chap! I am most awfully sorry; I’m such a clumsy buffoon. I trust you are uninjured?”
Alan turned to see a tall sophisticated looking gentleman of about sixty, with a comb-over of grey hair and a short goatee beard. He was dressed in a smart green tweed sports jacket with a beige waistcoat and matching trousers. Hanging between the waistcoat pockets was a heavy gold chain, presumably connected to a gold pocket watch. The man kept his hand firmly on Alan’s shoulder and gave him a dazzling and genuine smile as he waited for a reply.
“Err... No, I’m fine,” Alan responded, “it’s only my drink that’s suffered.”
“Splendid! Splendid,” the man replied loudly, as if Alan had just performed some exotic magic trick. “Now, you must allow me to replace your beverage — BARKEEP! Another two pints here, please!”
“Oh, that’s really not necessary, I am sure it was just a silly accident,” Alan mumbled in a slightly embarrassed tone. The man gave him a mighty slap on the back.
“Indeed it was! Nevertheless, this fortuitous accident has brought us together — let us become friends!” He waved at the barmaid who was trying to mop up the beer. “A Bushmills for my friend as well — make it a double.”
Alan was instantly won over by this man with the friendly smile, as well as the offer of a double of his favourite Irish whiskey.
“Thanks very much,” he said.
“Roger Taylor, at your service.” The man thrust out his hand.
“Alan Merry,” Alan responded, shaking the proffered hand.
Once their drinks and food had arrived, Roger suggested that they move to a booth. They chatted while they ate, mostly about the state of the economy and the latest situation in the Middle East. Alan found Roger to be affable, humorous, and quite pleasant company. Soon the conversation turned towards their families. Roger asked if Alan had grandchildren.
“Yes I do, in fact they’re my favourite subject. Here, let me show you a photograph.” He pulled a picture from his wallet and pointed. “Now this is—”
“Emma,” Roger interrupted, “and that must be Suzie with the blonde hair.”
“Good gracious!” Alan said in perplexed surprise. “How could you possibly know that?”
Roger smiled. “Why Alan, I know a lot about you, and I know a lot about your family — and your beautiful grandchildren.”
“But…I don’t understand. How could you know? We just met.”
“Oh Alan…my dear, sweet, innocent Alan. I know all there is to know about you. Would you like to see my photographs?" He opened his briefcase.
“Now…Here is a picture of your lovely wife shopping.”
Roger placed a large glossy photograph on the table. Alan could immediately see that the woman in the photograph was indeed his wife. She was pictured from the side and slightly above, selecting some fruit at a local farmer’s market. The image had a grainy quality, perhaps from being digitally blown up, or because the person taking the picture had used a telephoto lens. Roger placed another picture on the table in front of a stunned Alan.
“In this one I think she was just getting out of the shower. Lovely legs!”
He placed another picture on the table, as casually as someone sharing their holiday pictures.
“Oh… and here is a picture of you with that cute young actress you have been seeing every Wednesday morning for the last month.” Another picture was placed on the table. “Here you are in bed together.”
One more picture was added to the pile.
“And here are your grandchildren arriving at school — they really are most lovely. Children are so fragile at this age. We have to make an extra effort to be sure they will come to no harm.” Allowing the threat to hang in the air like stale cigarette smoke, Roger’s finger stroked the image of little Suzie as if he were softly caressing her blonde hair.
Alan sat staring at the photographs, numb with shock. Finally, he looked at the man sitting across the table. The soft smile and affable joviality had disappeared. Roger’s eyes were as hard as black diamonds and when he spoke again his voice was as cold as steel.
“We know a lot about you…Councillor Alan Merry. We know where you live, what you earn, what you do — who you do it with — and we know about your family.”
His finger tapped the last picture harshly and when he spoke, next his words were deliberately chosen.
“We particularly know all about your grandchildren.”
Roger closed his briefcase with a harsh snap that made Alan jump. The cold voice was suddenly more business-like.
“And that is why I am confident that you will vote in favour of the Whitewater farm application at the planning meeting this evening.” Roger leaned forward towards Alan, until his eyes were just inches away. “Do I make myself clear?”
“What! Is that what all of this
is about?” Alan reeled back in shock. “You’re threatening me over some poxy planning application?”
Roger ignored Alan’s sudden outburst. He leaned back and made himself taller in the seat.
“I said…Do I make myself clear? Or do you want me to be more specific about the consequences of your failure to comply?”
Alan sighed in defeat and slumped into his seat. His voice was just a dry whisper.
“No, you have made yourself perfectly clear. I will do as you ask, just don’t hurt anyone — please, please don’t. There is no need.”
“Excellent Alan, that’s just fine. I am glad that we had this little chat.” Roger stood. “You can keep these photographs as a reminder of our agreement, I have plenty of copies. Oh, and another thing. I am afraid that you won’t be seeing your young lady on Wednesday mornings anymore.”
Roger pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and dropped it casually onto the table.
“Such a sweet girl, and so talented — but you know that already. Here’s her bill. She’ll be expecting payment as specified by the end of next week.”
“Why are you doing this?” Alan pleaded.
For a moment Roger stared unblinkingly, as if he was wracked with some internal conflict; finally he shrugged and closed his eyes.
“For the same reason you are. I don’t want to get hurt — or worse. There are people out there who do these things for a living, bad people, the sort of people you do not want to meet. There are some very dangerous people out there, Alan. They have you on a hook now and that’s a hook that you can never get off.”
He paused, looking down at the photographs with genuine sadness in his eyes.
“You may not believe me, but for what it is worth, I am truly sorry.”
“It won’t help you,” Alan said defiantly.
“What won’t?”
“All of this,” he said waving his hand at the photographs, “All of this won’t help you. I am just one vote — you need a majority to get the planning application passed.”
Roger sighed and put his hand on Alan’s shoulder.
“It will pass. We have a majority now. Your vote was the last one we needed. Just do what I have asked, and everything will be all right. Goodbye, Alan.”
Roger gave Alan’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Until the next time,” he added in a chilling postscript as he left.
Alan sat alone in the booth, stared at the pictures and cried quietly, until it was time for him to leave for the planning meeting.
***
Stone curiously studied the envelope before him. As people sometimes do, he found himself trying to guess the contents without opening the flap. He knew Charles’s distinctive handwriting from the cards he always sent for Christmas and on Eric’s birthday in July, but it was too early for the first event and too late for the second. The envelope obviously contained a greetings card of some sort and the postmark clearly showed that the envelope was posted on the day of Charles’s suicide. Stone rested his forearms on the steering wheel and held the envelope in his fingertips so that it was at eye level. He felt unwilling to open the flap, realizing that it probably contained the last words that Charles wrote, just minutes before he committed suicide. Cold dread squeezed his heart as he anticipated the contents; perhaps it was a personal suicide note, or instructions for Charles’s funeral. Stone pursed his lips and drew a deep breath. With a deft flick of his finger, he ripped open the envelope and extracted the contents.
It was a simple birthday card. On the front was a picture of a classic car, a red Jaguar ‘E’ type, and the words, ‘Best wishes on your birthday’. Inside Charles had written, ‘Happy birthday — you old fart!’ — The exact words that he had written on an identical card back in July. However, this time there was also a small slip of yellow paper, folded twice, with ‘Phone me — now!’ written in the same handwriting but with a different ink.
“God, I wish I could!” Stone whispered.
He wondered if the note was a desperate plea from a suicidal mind sickened and twisted by cancer, but he quickly decided that it was not. Around a month earlier, Charles had told Eric that he would be out of touch for a while as he was working on some important new project. Yet, just four days ago he had still found the time to telephone Eric to send on his best wishes to three of the karate club’s students who were about to take their black belt grading. The call was short, but Charles was his usual effervescent and humorous self.
The more Eric thought about Charles’s death and the weeks leading up to it, the more questions he found he wanted to ask. Where had he been for the last month? What was the new project that suddenly seemed more important than Charles’s beloved True Democracy? Exactly when did Charles discover that he had cancer? Why had he decided to keep the diagnosis a secret, even from his best friend? Why did he deliberately copy the original birthday card so exactly, but then send it on the wrong day? Moreover, perhaps the most important question was — why would Charles ask Eric to phone him when they both knew that Charles never took incoming calls. Although he always had the latest model smart phone, Charles despised receiving calls in public and kept the phone permanently on silent mode, preferring to use his mobile for email, texts, and banking — so Charles always called Eric.
Stone was still contemplating the significance of this message from beyond the grave, when he felt a small bump within the folds of the note. He carefully unfolded the paper and discovered that on the rear there was a short strip of clear tape covering what appeared to be a small oblong of thin black plastic. Confused, he used his fingernail to unpick the tape and pry the plastic oblong free for closer inspection. In the dulled light within his car, Stone had to squint to overcome his mild short-sightedness. Slightly smaller than his little fingernail and as thin as a business card, the little oblong of plastic weighed almost nothing.
Although three sides of the plastic oblong were perfectly square to each other, Stone could see that it was slightly wider at one edge and the bottom had a slight saw-toothed look with a step in the centre. There was also a slight ridge on the left edge, just high enough to trap with a thumbnail. On the surface, printed in light grey, there was a seemingly unreadable stylized logo and a small arrow pointing to the right. Examining the other side, he could just make out eight gold irregular strips around three millimetres long, and three lines of writing too small to read without a magnifying glass. However, if Eric’s suspicions were right, two readable letters would help solve this evolving riddle. The letters were ‘CE’. Often seen but seldom noticed, the ‘CE’ mark is a key indicator of a product’s compliance with European Union legislation — and it is a common mark on most electrical items.
Stone quickly stuffed the post into his pocket and carefully folded the plastic card back into the sheet of paper, before climbing out of his car and jogging back to his house. Once inside he went directly to a drawer in his kitchen where he kept those items that even the most house-proud man finds difficult to discard. He sorted through batteries of indeterminate age, instruction manuals for products long since discarded, and several miscellaneous electrical leads, until he found the magnifying glass he was looking for. With the aid of the natural sunlight shining through the kitchen window and the magnifying glass, he was able to study the tiny plastic oblong more closely.
He quickly deciphered the logo as the word ‘Micro’ curved around the letters ‘SD’ and just to the right ‘64’ was printed over ‘GB’. Stone was not particularly tech savvy and so it took a moment before he realized that ‘GB’ did not stand for Great Britain, as he would have expected, but in this case, it meant Gigabyte. He was holding a micro SD card for a mobile phone. The message ‘Phone Me — now!’ was not a request to make contact, but a direction to put the SD card into a smart phone.
Although he had acquired a 3G smart phone as a free upgrade when he had last renewed his mobile phone contract, like many people of his age, Stone had little knowledge of the internal workings of his device. A
part from sending the occasional text messages and using a couple of pre-installed Apps to check on his emails, or play music while he was out running, he really only used his phone to make calls. Consequently, it took him a little while just to get the back cover off the device, and several more minutes to locate the correct slot for the SD card, but after that, things got a little easier. Although he had never noticed it before, right in the centre of the screen was a familiar icon marked ‘My Files’ which, after several attempts, allowed him to view the contents of the SD card.
There were four files:
Money.doc
Wreckingcrew.pdf
Myteam.doc
Openmefirst.mpg
Eric tapped the last file and the operating system automatically selected the correct application to open the video player. There before him, reflected in a mirror, was Charles Rathbone sitting at a desk in what looked like a budget motel room. He smiled, waved, cleared his throat, and began to speak.
“Hello, Eric. Please excuse the cloak and dagger theatrics with the birthday card, but I can assure you it was most necessary. They would do anything to stop you, or anyone else from getting this message.
If you are watching this, then I am dead — hopefully without pain and by my own hand. For this act, I can only apologise.
Eric, you are my closest friend and confidante, the person I trust the most, but I could not tell you what I was working on, or what was happening to me. It was simply too dangerous to the two things that I hold most dear, you and True Democracy. I sincerely wish that it could be another way. I have thought long and hard about what I am about to do, but there is no other option. I have read that suicide is believed to be the ultimate act of cowardice, don’t believe it Eric; this is the hardest thing I can imagine anyone having to do. There is so much to live for and so much that I still want to achieve. I almost died once before, with your help and friendship I learned to walk tall again. Now it is all going to be wasted — I am so sorry, but I have no other choice.
