The Aurora Journals

by Sam Nash

  “Are you insinuating that my ancestors were related to the Queen somehow?”

  “The Royals? Good God, no. Bless her. They only stretch back a few hundred years at most. You are from the oldest bloodline. Take a look.” Knight slipped his cotton covered finger beneath the preceding page edge and flipped it over. The Seventh Earl of Sedgewell married into a familiar surname and title that carried down the ages, through and beyond King Henry VIII’s reign, its spelling and pronunciation altering with time. It veered towards Scotland for a while, battling in the Crusades and continuing on with French nobility, until the Anno Domini demarcation ran out of numbers.

  One name stood out at the top of the page the year of birth denoted by a single zero. I gasped. This had to be a work of fiction. Knight must be part of some group of religious zealots, at loggerheads with the teachings of Rome. The book was a persuasive ruse. I feigned a suitable look of amazement.

  Raising my gloved hand, I touched the text. Next to some of the names, a tiny symbol resembling a pinecone, embellished with golden paint. I had to know what the symbol represented but I was afraid of the answer. Looking up, my eyes met Knight’s gaze. That smirk returned. He had guessed my question.

  “It seems that some of The Family inherited special talents. Those blessed, are marked on the tree with that symbol. They appear to peter out during some generations, but not all.” He squinted, studying my response.

  I did all I could to remain still and neutral. He did not look convinced. “Talents?” I asked, too little, too late. The tone in my voice betrayed me. Knight scowled. I held fast.

  “Hmm, you know the sort of thing. Elements of extra sensory perception and the like.”

  “Well, being a scientist, that all sounds like unproven fallacy to me. Makes for a nice story though.”

  Knight fell uncharacteristically silent, then slammed shut the book of my ancestors. “I am surprised that you have not been approached before regarding these revelations, my lord.”

  “Approached by whom?”

  “Other, interested parties. Large and powerful organisations that can turn a man’s head with promises of wealth and power.”

  My mind ran to the blue transit van staking out my house and the woman on the train. I was definitely on someone’s radar, if not Knight’s. “Perhaps,” I said, a little rashly, “I am more like my Grandma Phebe. I seek a quiet life.”

  “I think I can guarantee that as an impossibility. What you choose to do next will secure or condemn your future and that of all your loved ones.” He stood tall, his feet wide apart in an imposing stance.

  I was never one for bullying. “You are threatening me?” I pulled my shoulders back, but he dwarfed me. An image of David, viewed through the sights of a sniper rifle, flashed through my mind. I had to stay strong. Steer myself through this minefield of a conversation, without provoking Knight any further. This could be the one chance I had to divert the outcome of my vision, but at what expense?

  “Threaten is such an ugly word. In your shoes, I would choose to take the advice of someone who can springboard you into your birth right.” Knight took my silence for acquiescence. “Would you like to speak with David? I have his location, it would not take long to get him on the telephone, before we relocate him.” Another pause, he could see me wavering. “It is up to you, my lord. Do we move him closer to the fray, or pull him out to safety? Of course, he would also need to be fully inoculated if he were to stay in such a dangerous part of the world.”

  What choice did I have? I’m a simple doctor. I have no experience of these political machinations. My mind tuned out for a moment, thinking of the peril that my son now faced. Was the Secretary of State for Defence using my son’s life as leverage for my collaboration? I needed clarification. “If indeed, I am from this important bloodline, why would you jeopardise its continuation.” I sounded forceful, even though my knees felt like they were giving way beneath me.

  “Ah, but the line continues in your grandchildren.”

  The wind was knocked from my lungs. I was unable to prevent the crack in my voice as I said; “So, you feel David is expendable?”

  He left the air heavy with expectation. That smirk lifting the corners of his insincere eyes. My own eyes stung and filled with saline. It took all my will power not to grab him by the throat and choke the life from his bones.

  “Come now, my lord. Let us not quarrel. There are many advantages for you, and your descendants, if you make the right decision.”

  “What do you want from me?” He had me cornered. My body felt twice its weight, my head most of all. I perched on the edge of the table.

  “You belong here, in the heart of the capital, pioneering change for the future. You will take the title and I will arrange for the formalities at the palace so that you may sit as a hereditary peer in the House of Lords. I will need you to sit on a few committees and such too. Rest assured, my lord, that you and your family will have a reserved suite in the bunker, should the inevitable happen. I suggest you purchase property in London. All that commuting wreaks havoc with your digestion.”

  He had it all planned out. I was to be his puppet in power for as long as the threat over David’s life was sustainable. I held my hand over my face, and shut my eyes to his rehearsed speech, tuning him out for a few moments. When I snapped to, and listened once more, he had changed tack. “Look, it’s up to you, but I cannot guarantee his safety, or yours for that matter. Who knows what the other interests will try to get you on board.”

  Was he really suggesting that his method of persuasion was the lesser of two, or more, evils? I had nothing to say to him. He must have noticed me withering as he said, “It’s a lot to take in. I understand. How about I give you a couple of days to think it all through?” Knight stripped off his cotton gloves, and rested his hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t feel his touch through the thick fabric of my jacket but I felt invaded nonetheless. Flinching away, I rose fully upright, and moved towards the door.

  Knight’s thin man stood across the threshold, holding out a metallic card in the palm of his hand. I took it and peered at the embossed markings on its surface.

  “Call that number, anytime, day or night. It will put you through to Jenkins. Anything you need, he will make it happen.” Knight followed me along the corridor. Clearly, he had more to say.

  I recalled my apprehension upon our first meeting, and the trickery used to subdue me. “And what of the vaccine schedule for the troops?” I asked, quickening my pace towards the exit.

  “What indeed. The schedule will go ahead as planned. It is down to you, whether your name will be attributed to its formulation, or whether another is publicised in your place.”

  I should have known. Of course, he would use it as the icing on the turd cake. He followed me outside the building and shook my hand. Then, he drew my attention to the plinth supporting a bronze statue of a bearded Duke of Devonshire facing the entrance to the Horse Guards’ Parade Grounds.

  “He was a cousin of yours. You should look him up, did some sterling work for the good of the British people. Safe journey, my lord.”

  I could not get away fast enough. My knees cracked and crunched as I practically sprinted across the road towards Westminster. A couple of tube stops and here I am, on my way in a rickety carriage bound for Brighton.

  With all that occurred, I missed the latest bulletins in world news. Saddam Hussein met with the US Ambassador yesterday, or so I read in a newspaper abandoned on the train seat. By all accounts, things did not go well. The crisis in the Gulf seems to deepen daily, with everything hinging on the talks in Jeddah.

  ***

  Just about to get into bed, I thought I would jot down this addendum as a highly peculiar event, but in light of all that has happened today, I cannot say it was wholly unexpected. As I disembarked from the train, Lady Charity sneaked up behind me and tapped my shoulder. She said nothing, but thrust an A4 brown envelope into my arms, smiled and walked
away.

  I watched her disappear into the crowds before I ripped it open. Inside, a flight ticket to Rome and a hotel reservation slip.

  Friday 27th July, 1990

  David is my priority now. If only I could get word to him that he is in the most terrible danger. To tell him not to trust those he is working with, despite their government allegiances.

  The ticket to Rome is also praying on my mind. At least with Knight, I could dismiss his notions of my heritage as an elaborate scam to wield more power in the Commons. This latest development seems to reinforce his convictions.

  I called the surgery office manager first thing, to arrange for the locum to cover for me again. There was too much at stake to do a normal shift. As I opened the front door to collect my delivered milk, a crumpled gentleman had his arm raised, reaching for my doorbell. I greeted him, then noticed the battered leather briefcase and twitchy demeanour.

  “Hello, I’m… um… your solicitor. Anthony Knight sent me.”

  He grasped my hand in his. It was feeble and slightly damp. Sighing, I picked up the pint of milk and invited him in. He wiped his feet on the mat several times, even though it was a dry and sunny day.

  I made him a coffee and handed him my newspaper, then sauntered up the stairs for my shower. There was no way I was going to talk business in my dressing gown and slippers. Knight certainly doesn’t let the grass grow. This was his idea of allowing me time to think.

  Dressed and prepared for battle, I ushered the jumpy man into my study, and opened the curtains and windows wide. The Mock Orange was in full flower and its scent drifted in to mask the stale odour of floor polish and dusty paperwork. The solicitor, Mr Bunyan, began sneezing almost immediately. Dragging a greying hanky from his trouser pocket and catching his expulsions, then wiping his streaming eyes. I looked at the wretched man and wondered if I ought to relieve his suffering with an antihistamine from my doctor’s bag, but I did not want him to think that his presence was welcome. Any minion of Knight’s was bound to have an ulterior motive, even if it was wrapped up in a pitiful cloak of a man.

  Mr Bunyan balanced his case on his knees and removed a large bundle of papers, tied with strong woven ribbon - beneath the bow, a single key. He laboured with the knot that secured the documents together, then reorganised himself with the case relegated to the floor. I was losing my patience. “Mr Bunyan, what if I choose not to accept this title? What happens then?”

  “Oh, well, my lord, it changes nothing. You are the legal and rightful heir to the title and assets. Whether you choose to use the title publicly is your decision.” The knot finally gave way, flicking the key into my crowded bookshelves. “Pardon me, my lord.” He scampered over to the landing place and retrieved the key, placing it down on my desk before me.

  “I would like you to refer to me as Doctor Phillip Lawrence. The name I was born with, and a title I earned.”

  “Of course, certainly.”

  He sat watching me as I read through the volumes of clauses and details, trying to find any evidence of chicanery that might trap me into signing my soul over to Her Majesty’s devils at Whitehall. To my untrained eye, I could find nothing ominous at all. But then, I am not fluent in legalese. I needed a second opinion, someone who I could trust with my life.

  I made Mr Bunyan a second coffee, and called Doc Wildman from the kitchen phone. Today is his half day at work. I stalled for time, offering sandwiches and diverting the conversation to tourist attractions in the vicinity, but there were still hours until my best friend’s morning surgery was finished.

  Bunyan, being shrewder than he looked, noticed my subversion. “Dr Lawrence, if you would like to confirm the contents of these documents with another solicitor, I can check into a hotel overnight. Anthony Knight has instructed me to stay until business is concluded.” The strain dissipated in a moment. I directed him towards the town centre, gave the names of a couple of nice hotels, and showed him out.

  Newspaper read, news announcements watched, I paced around my lounge, turning the key in my hand. When my friend arrived, I was jittery from too much caffeine and suppressed anxiety.

  “Lawrence…” He said, slapping my back in his customary way.

  “Wildman, thanks for coming, its good of you.” We sat in the kitchen. He helped himself to some lunch. I couldn’t eat a bite.

  I paraphrased my dilemma for him, making sure to substitute the top-secret aspects of Porton Down with ‘an issue of confidentiality’, until I came to the revelations in the War Office library.

  Wildman almost choked on his butty. “You’re serious? They think you are a direct descendant of…?”

  “I know, it’s ridiculous, right? But then I got handed these.” I showed him the ticket to Rome and hotel reservation slip. He put his sandwich down and took them from me. I thought he would have some kind of stress busting quip, but he just sat there, his mouth wide open. “And then there is this.” I said, pushing the bundle of papers towards him. He knew from the ribbon I had re-tied, that they were legal documents.

  Wildman cleared his throat. “This is serious. I am not a legal professional, I only studied law for two years before transferring to medicine.”

  “I need someone I trust. Please. Can you take a look?”

  He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and got busy scanning through the bundle. I started my pacing once again, the key growing shinier in my palm. He paused just once in his appraisal, to say; “Could I have another drink, my lord?” I scowled at him, but made his tea and another for me.

  As he neared the end of the final page, I hovered with a dismal expectation. Instead, he looked up at me and said; “It all seems perfectly above board. I couldn’t find any misleading clauses, no ambiguous statements, nothing peculiar at all. It sounds too good to be true.” He stood up and stretched. “Like I said, I’m no expert, but it looks like you inherit the lot, whatever that is, regardless of what the Minister for Defence is expecting of you.”

  “So, there are no clauses or caveats that tie me to servitude to any ministry or government office? No, loop holes for them to exploit?”

  “None that I can see, but like I said, I’m no expert. There appears to be a straightforward account of how the original estate was liquidated by executors and invested under the terms of abeyance. It is a variation on a will, of sorts, transferring ownership of title and assets to you.” Wildman stacked the pile of papers back in order and tamped them into neatness on the countertop.

  “Does it say how much the assets are worth?”

  “No. There are bank details, account numbers, bonds and certificates, and that key.” He pointed to the metal object I still had in my hand. I peered at it, tracing my thumb over the engraved number on its head. It looked to me like a bank box key. Wildman confirmed my hypothesis, marrying it to the bank name and location listed in the documents.

  It was all so staggering. I couldn’t get the vision of David’s murder out of my head. There are just a few days until the talks between Saddam and the Kuwait delegate, and here I was, receiving an Earldom. To add further distraction, Lily turned up at the door, dragging a bawling Mary by the wrist.

  “I cannot cope with her today, Pip, you’ll have to take her. She’s being impossible.” Lily thrust the pony case into my hall way, then lifted Mary up and delivered her into my arms. I took this to mean that Mary would be staying the night once again. Looking at my daughter-in-law, I recognised the birthday jewellery my son had gifted her, the light flowing silk dress and hint of perfume. This was not a mother at the end of her tether, crying out for help. I reserved my judgement and held my tongue. It was a matter for my son to deal with, provided I could find a way to get him home unharmed.

  Mary tears ceased. She nuzzled into my neck with her thumb wedged in her mouth for comfort. I held her tight and swayed gently, providing us both with much needed assurance. As Lily marched out on to the driveway, she turned and said; “Oh, and there appears to be a delivery man lo
oking for you. Just over there.” Lily pointed to beyond the tall trees and shrubs at my property boundary. I carried Mary down the drive, and out to the kerb side.

  Two men, one dressed in overalls, one in a black suit and hat, were struggling with the strapping mechanisms attached to a huge low-loading truck. Upon seeing me, the suited man stood up straight, pulled his jacket to and buttoned it, then stretched out his hand in greeting.

  I looked first at him, then at the winged monogram of the pale metallic blue Bentley Mulsanne they were attempting to unload before me. Its registration personalised to EOS8. The Eighth Earl of Sedgewell; who else knows of my lineage?

  The man withdrew his hand. “My lord, sir…” he began. Lily scoffed, and burst out laughing, retreating to my son’s car and driving away. To her, it was nothing more than a comedic mistake that ate into her free time.

  “Sir, my name is Robert Fletcher, most just call me Fletch. I am to be your chauffeur, my lord. My salary has been taken care of in advance. This car is a token of esteem from a consortium who would like to become better acquainted. Would you like me to take you to them now?”

  The car, the suit, my movements and business tracked as though I was an exotic pet. Treats and toys to occupy the new foundling.

  “Thank you, Fletch, but no thank you. Please take it away. I’m sure The Consortium, can find you someone else to drive.” I started to walk away, carrying my most treasured gift.

  Fletch ran after me. “But sir, please. This is a done deal. You get the car and me, no strings…”

  “Take it away. I do not wish to be better acquainted with The Consortium, whomever they might be. There are always strings.” I left him on the pavement, his hat in one hand, keys to a quarter of a million pound car in the other. The delivery driver completed his task, hopped into the truck cab and abandoned Fletch at the roadside.

  Wildman met me near the gateway to my drive. He observed the commotion without his usual wry grin, his face ashen with concern. “This is very serious.” He said, following me back into the house.