The Last Stand Down
- When dreams and nightmares collide
[First book in the The Last trilogy]
Philip J Bradbury
ISBN- 978-0-9922908-9-4
Table of Contents
Title Page
TESTIMONIALS
INTRODUCTION
PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING
Yet Another Day ... Perhaps
Stood Down
Accidental Hero
Victim or Graduate
A Second Death
Slipping Off His Map
The Blonde Tracker
The Making of Mary Collins
Mary Collins' Business
Homecoming
The Empty Nest
Sam Disappears
The Call Back
The Investigation
Intruders
Burglars and Bungles
Emily and Chloe
Search for Sam
Sifting and Sneaking
The Scottish Connection
The Turncoat
The Chase
The Call Of The Lord
The Turkish Connection
The Mansion Attack
The Happy Brother
An Inside Job
A Head Job
The Tribe Gathers
Escape From Certainty
The Committee for Inaction
Moving On
Arthur Writes His Story
The Last Rejection (2nd book in The Last series)
Appendix and Afterword
GLOSSARY OF MAORI WORDS
GLOSSARY OF ABORIGINAL WORDS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY PHILIP J BRADBURY
TESTIMONIALS
I loved reading it, the polite Englishman getting acquainted with the kiwi tribe in London! And the way of using a novel form to explore some important secrets regarding free energy and the world grid and so on. Very enjoyable read, thank you!
Cornelius van Dorp, author of Crystal Mission, New Zealand
A compelling read, becoming fast paced and action packed as the plot thickens. I particularly liked the natural and easy way in which ideas from A Course In Miracles popped up in conversations between the characters.
Riana Avis, Life Coach, London
Your story is well written. I'm hooked early and see you have a lot more in store for us. I look forward to you writing more.
Craig Bandalin, author of Just Out Of Sight
INTRODUCTION
As a publisher in New Zealand, I had the pleasure to meet with Bruce Cathie at his Auckland home. He eventually decided to continue self-publishing his books, rather than have my company do it. He did, however, introduce me to his colleague, Robert Adams, in Whakatane, NZ.
Robert Adams was former Chairman of the Institute of Electrical & Electronics Engineers, Inc., U.S.A., (N.Z. Section). The articleabout his Adams Switched Reluctance Pulsed DC Permanent Magnet Motor Generator was published in Nexus magazine in January 1993.
Because of Robert's experiences (related here in this book) he was naturally suspicious of me. I would not have seen him without Bruce's introduction. He eventually dropped his guard, showed me his free-energy machine (it produced 37% more energy that it consumed) and asked that I publish the manuscript he had nearly finished writing. I had not heard from Robert for several months, as he'd promised and, after inquiries, I discovered that he'd died and the whereabouts of his manuscript remains a mystery to this day. The nature of his death in 2006 is a mystery as well.
I have a degree in accounting and economics and studied E F Schumacher and his ideas on intermediate technology, some of which have permeated this book.
I have been a student of A Course In Miracles since 2005 and it has transformed my life. That, too, has permeated this book for fear and its weak offspring - anger, bitterness, war and so on - foster nothing but further weakness. Only Love has strength.
Anna and I came to Britain in 2008, ten days after we were married (a long honeymoon, really) and, among other jobs, I was a corporate trainer for Crown Agents Bank Ltd., training senior government officials from developing countries.
My daily trek - by foot, train and tube - from our house at Tunstall Road, Croydon, to London, each day, inspired the start of this story. Coming from the beautiful expanses of New Zealand to the drab, daily monotony of England's commuters was a shock I will never forget. Most of them, I suspect, feel they have no choice but to put up with such an existence. I was lucky - I saw choices and took them.
PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING
My attempt to help readers find their way round this story may upset some literary people as I have broken their sacred rule of having chapter names in a fictional work, rather than just chapter numbers. If you've chosen to be offended by this, please try to get over it. In writing, as in life, rules are there to serve us, not hinder us. If they no longer serve us, break them, which is the point of the story ... well, one of the points, anyway.
For those of you who know London and other parts of Britain, you may recognise actual streets, buildings and other places that exist, in this book. Other places that do not exist have also been included here. If this upsets you, get over it. This is a story. If you're happily comfortable with the unexpected, you've got it. This is a story. The unexpected, and dealing with it, is part of the story.
In the same way, I have used actual people I have met and/or worked with and businesses that I have dealt with and/or worked in. Some of them have had their names changed and some of them have not. This is a story.
Enjoy the story.
Yet Another Day ... Perhaps
Monday, 5th March 2012, 6.30 a.m.
The map of Arthur Bayly's life was a narrow one and, like a child in a cot of steel, he could only dream of another life. He awoke from his fitful sleep with his usual sense of foreboding and wondered, again, how it was ever possible to feel elated about the day, about life. Apparently, some people did. Quite unaware that his world was to become a little wider, a little wilder, he lay there for a few minutes, pretending that he didn't really have to get up, endure another day and look happy and successful while feeling lost and lonely. He shrugged a little, as if to brace himself, once again, for more of all he'd ever known. His wife stirred slightly and snuggled deeper into the duvet, accentuating his lack of choices.
As he munched his nutrition-free Wharton's bread and chemically-enhanced marmalade, he wondered what agent 007 would be having for breakfast; probably something with long names like Eggs Benedict with Spanish tomatoes and French toast, sparingly dusted with cinnamon and Sargasso sea salt and a touch of Tabasco sauce, followed by a 1966 Darjeeling tea. Like Arthur, Mr Bond would probably be breakfasting alone. The difference, Arthur told himself, was that Mr Bond had probably left, upstairs, an exotic, tanned and lissom young lady asleep, still in dreamy post-orgasmic bliss.
He read a few chapters of his latest book - a Lee Child book with that enigmatic giant, Jack Reacher, who lived beyond life's rules and expectations and battled for lost causes - then rinsed his dishes, cleaned his teeth, packed the lunch he'd made the night before, checked that he had his keys, oyster card, cell phone, glasses and wallet, checked himself once more in the mirror, kissed his wife as she shuffled into the dining room in her favourite pink dressing gown and left the house. It never ceased to amaze him that, though he never looked at his watch during this routine, it was always exactly 7.15 a.m. as he closed the little, black iron gate. He allowed himself a small smile about that, as usual. Then it was a four and a half minute walk up the street, past the all-too-familiar grubby brick terrace houses, wait a minute for the tram which got him to the East Croydon station at 7.26 a.m.
As he hopped as jauntily as he c
ould into the tram, he saw, yet again, the Russian spy with the suitably battered brown trilby hat, seated and facing Arthur, pretending not to notice him. He had heavy jowls and pig-eyes and had been keeping tabs on Arthur. So Arthur did what any MI5 agent would do, which was to adopt a devil-doesn't-care-a-toss attitude by looking at the flaccid neck of the woman wobbling near him as the tram bumped along. He was determined the Russian would never detect his fear and uncover his secret.
With his mind on some distant planet, wondering what 007 would be doing today, his body's automatic system took him off the tram, into the station to wait two minutes for the 7.34 to Victoria station.
While he was aware, in some part of his mind, that he was doing this routine with hundreds of others on the tram, thousands of others on the train and the two million others who poured into London every day, it never occurred to him that they might also be feeling that sense of quiet panic. In his thirty years of working life, he had never conversed with or smile at anyone. Never tried to, even. He was jostled a little. He had to walk around people. He had to stop and wait for people. There was no denying that others were there, in their multitudes, but a different coping part of his mind just didn't register that they were like him - humans with two legs, two arms a head and mixed feelings about life and work. He knew they were there but his mind couldn't acknowledge them.
On the train he noticed the Russian spy had again taken up a strategic position, facing him on his seat, pretending not to notice Arthur by reading today's free Metro newspaper. Again, Arthur adopted the MI5 attitude by looking at the ear of the man swaying in front of him. Arthur grimaced inwardly as the fetid smell of nicotine and cheap deodorant washed over him.
As the train approached Victoria station, he braced himself for the larger struggle ahead. With nineteen platforms disgorging their human payload, the herd became an avalanche of people, all going the same way, approximately. One just had to keep the feet going, the body vaguely erect, and make it through the next half hour of tedious jostling. Then, waiting for the Victoria Line underground train, with his back to the wall, he was roughly in the sixth row back from the edge. As each tube train arrived and left, he could feel himself oozing forward. Eventually, as if by osmosis or some natural phenomenon, he found himself at the edge of the platform ready to be squeezed into the next tube.
The man had disappeared but Arthur knew he was still under surveillance, somehow.
Though the train's machinery screeched, rattled and whooshed, and thousands of feet on concrete clattered, there was no other human sound. The odd cough, perhaps, but no talking. Just silent people in their own silent bubble. For many years Arthur had felt this silence as an eerie and malignant curse - as if the commuters had had their tongues removed, unable to give vent to their crying souls. Over the years, though, he'd become immune to his silent cry and nothing was left of those feelings now.
He knew the statistics of the London tube system: eleven lines, 270 stations and a ridership of 1.34 billion people a year. But he neither knew nor talked to any of them.
Clinging desperately to something in the tube train - a rail, a hanging strap but never another person, heaven forbid - he stood amid the other black suits and sombre faces, looking through people as if they weren't there. After five minutes and three stops, he found himself near the door and then out on the crowded Warren Street platform.
As he walked from the turnstiles, he noticed the man with the battered trilby hat walk off in the opposite direction, a standard KGB trick. Arthur knew the Russian would soon turn, when Arthur's guard was down, and tail him, taking prodigious notes in Russian for his report to the Kremlin that evening. Arthur sauntered off with his devil-doesn't-care-a-toss attitude, tripped on a dropped purse, bumped heads with the owner as they both bent to pick it up, said an embarrassed sorry several times and sauntered out to the fresh air above ground, to find that he had come out the wrong exit. This was, he quickly decided, his clever trick to lose the Russian and he knew he would now arrive at work three minutes later than usual.
As he walked the three blocks to the office, he realised that he hadn't needed his umbrella for ages. Of course he'd read about places like Australia and Africa where it didn't rain for years but it seemed unreal somehow - just mere pictures in a book. Perhaps an artist's fantasy, perhaps not. Perhaps his own fantasy. Perhaps not.
The herd of commuters surged around him and he wondered why he suddenly thought of sunshine and blue skies. Maybe it was last night's news of bush fires near Melbourne. Maybe it was Joan mentioning their neighbour's trip to New Zealand. Instead of feeling the usual dread of the day, the G-clamp of routine, pressing on his brain, as a building labelled Allied Insurance Limited glared down at him, his mind went quiet. He reached his destination and the words Allied Insurance Limited didn't seem threatening at all. The glass doors opened for him and then he fitted himself into the lift, discretely positioning himself for minimal contact with others.
Instead of his usual thoughts of the papers and programs he needed to start work with, his mind kept jumping back to dry dirt, brown grass, a huge rock, an orange sun and an apricot moon at night. As he emerged from the lift, he felt as if he was smiling ever so slightly, something one didn't usually indulge in. He tried to repress the smile but it just wouldn't go.
"Good morning, Sir. How was your weekend?" the receptionist asked as he passed.
He stopped, momentarily stunned that a stranger should inquire into his weekend. "Ah, yes, er, nice thank you," he said, fiddling with his coat button, not knowing quite what to do next.
"That's great, Sir, you have a lovely day."
"Ah, yes, ah, thank you young lady," he stammered, making a quick and graceless exit.
It wasn't until he reached his desk that he realised that she had a strangely Antipodean accent - Australian, he presumed. Forgetting his usual routine of hanging up his overcoat, turning on his computer, getting files onto his desk, he simply sat there feeling a little limp, while a wan smile crept across his face. Dashed perplexing, he thought as he realised that his hands were shaking a little.
It was as if some distant part of him knew something was about to happen but he didn't. As if there was some cosmic timetable that told of the next train coming but none of it could he read. He looked around and nothing seemed to be happening so he got up and hung his overcoat up, just to have something to do. This simple thing he could manage but little else.
Gosh, he thought, it's not as if I've been made redundant or there's been a takeover or an earthquake. Just an unexpectedly incessant thought of change in the air, perpetual sunshine and then a new receptionist bids me a cherry good morning in an Australian accent. Scant significance in the events of mice and men, so why is it affecting me so much? Dashed nuisance, really. He needed to move but his palpitating body, floundering through the main office, could embarrass him. He eventually rose, braced himself and then made a concerted effort to walk brusquely past the receptionist. Thankfully, she was talking animatedly on the phone. He pushed open the double doors into the main office which contained thirty or so people at their desks behind their half-walled enclosures; looking studiously busy and/or gossiping with each other. He imagined a curtain of silence falling as he entered.
In the staff room, habit had him reaching for the tea bags but he knew he needed something stronger, something different. Fumbling around in the cupboard for coffee, a gangly young man - suit too big, collar large enough for two of his necks and tie askew - came in.
"Ah, excuse me, Sir," he said deferentially, "but if you want coffee, you can get it directly from the machine. This button here, Sir."
How did he know I wanted coffee? he asked himself, back in the glass cell they called his office. He smelled the coffee and surmised it would be better with milk. Turning sideways in his swivel chair he looked out at the ancient buildings that he loved, at the modern buildings he didn't and at the swarming human ants seven floors below him. Staring through these familiar images, his min
d went oddly blank while a sort of relaxation settled in. Time sat still. Like him.
"Interesting view?"
Arthur spun and sprang from his chair, shocked out of his reverie. "Oh, ah, yes ..."
"Oops, sorry, Arthur. I didn't mean to startle you," said Mary Collins, the Assistant Director, smiling apologetically. "How are you going with the Atkinson file - is the inventory list complete?"
"Oh, um, ah, yes ... no, not quite," he said, returning to the real world with a bump and wondering what to do with the clean desk. Strangely, Mary seemed quite unconcerned about it.
"That's alright, Arthur. I know it's a confusing case and the burglary may not be all there is to it. I'm not really here about that, anyway," said Mary, settling in the other chair in his office.
"There's several things I'm still working on," he said, a little too quickly. "I've got most of the reports and claims but some of them don't quite tie up ..."
"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur! It's alright, really it is," said Mary, trying to reassure him. "You're jumpy today. Is everything okay with you?"
"Oh, it's just my womenopause," he said, attempting a little humour.
"Your what?"
"My womenopause. You know, menopause, womenopause ..." he said. He sensed her mind glazing over, missing the joke. "Yes, I'm fine, just planning my day, you know, thinking ahead," he said, trying to recover a little dignity.
"Right. Right. Good. Now, why was I here?" asked Mary, leaning back, crossing her legs and adjusting her designer glasses. "Ah, yes, yes, could you come up to Mr Lord's office - we'd like to have a wee chat with you."
'Oh, shit!' was what he nearly said, hearing wee chat and the Mr Lord in the same sentence. Mr. Sam Lord. A worm turned in his stomach. Thankfully, there was an infinitesimal space between thinking and speaking and he actually said, "Yes, no problem. What time, Mary?"
"Oh, how about ten - we'll all need a coffee by then!" she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, with little success.
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