by John Patrick
Three and a half centuries later, Stafford was leaning against the same fireplace. It was filled now with a shiny, white central heating boiler and hadn’t seen a blackened pot in many a year. As he was getting nowhere with extracting information from Elvis, Stafford decided to stand back for a moment and see if Monica could do any better.
'Elvis, please! Tell me what's going on! They're saying you're a terrorist! Tell me the truth, sweetie, please.'
'Mum, it's crazy! I'm not a terrorist! I swear!'
'And they're saying that Singh boy and Henry are terrorists too! Tell me you didn't do anything silly Elvis! Tell me that you didn't... you didn't turn Muslim, did you?'
'Oh Mum! Don't be stupid!'
'Don't call me stupid Elvis! I knew I should never have let you play with that boy!'
'Alan isn't Muslim. He's Sikh.'
'I don't care, it's all the same.'
'Mum, it's not. And anyway, half the world's Muslim, for God's sake!'
'As soon as I saw that boy...'
'Look, Misses. Klatzmann,' Stafford interrupted, 'I haven't got all night. I need to know where else he's sent that stuff. I need to know where's it hidden and what else he's got. If he's not going to tell you either, then I'll have you removed.'
'You'll do no such thing!' shouted Monica, struggling to sound angry rather than desperate. 'This is my son, and... and...my house!'
'Oh for heaven's sake!'
'I'll... I'll have you removed!' shouted Monica, pointing a finger at his glass helmet.
Stafford laughed and smacked her hand down. 'Do you realise who you're talking to? Half of Britain's security services are outside this house working for me right now!' He prodded her forehead. 'You’ll have me removed! Ha! That’s good.'
'Don’t you touch her!' shouted Elvis, jumping to her defence. But as he leapt to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell.
Stafford looked contemptuously back at him, one hand still on the mantelpiece. 'Look at you! You're pathetic, both of you. Do you really think you can scare me? Or anyone else, come to that? Without your little bugs to send around the place to make people sick, you're nothing, either of you! Just a couple of sad losers, a washed up drunk and her cripple son! God help us! And as long as I'm wearing this suit,' he tapped smugly at the breast of his white overalls, 'there's not a thing you can do to harm me.'
The white cat was cleaning himself on the mantelpiece. Stafford's gloved hand was irritatingly close. He licked his paw once more and then sank his claws deep into Stafford's flesh.
Stafford squealed and jumped back rubbing at his hand. 'Stupid bloody animal!' He raised an arm to strike the cat, then noticed his glove was ripped and blood was appearing on the white cloth. He looked at his hand and then at Elvis. Realisation hit him; his protection was breached. He was no longer safe. 'Shit! shit!' He turned and sprinted out of the room, sending the stool tumbling over in his haste to escape.
Monica and Elvis were now alone in the kitchen.
'Elvis, sweetie, please, just tell me what this is all about?'
Without answering, Elvis grabbed his mobile 'phone from the table and began hurriedly tapping on the keys.
'Elvis, talk to me, please. What's going on?'
Elvis checked the clock again. 11.51pm. He had to go. 'Mum, look. I know it's hard to understand but I'll explain, I will, I promise. I'm not a terrorist.'
'I know you aren't Elvis.' She swept his fringe back from his face. 'I know you aren't.'
'But I've got to go right now. I'm sorry, there's no time.'
Elvis climbed on to the table and opened the window.
'Elvis what on earth are you doing? Get down!'
Elvis lifted his crutch ready to push it through the window. Monica grabbed the other end and pulled it back.
'Elvis, no! Where are you going?'
'Please Mum, trust me. Just this once.'
'But where...'
'Just this once, Mum, please.'
Monica hesitated. 'But...I'll be alone, with all these people. What am I going to say to them?'
Elvis shrugged. 'I'll be back, Mum. I will, I swear.'
'Come here.' She put an arm around his neck and pulled him in. She gave him a last hug then a wet kiss on the cheek. 'Take care sweetie.'
Elvis pushed his crutch through the window then followed it into the gap between the wall and giant plastic cover. He squeezed along the edge of the house. There was a parting in the plastic for the kitchen door. An armed guard had taken a couple of steps away for a surreptitious smoke. Elvis crawled past the door and then on around the side of the house. Eventually he made it to the front. A large, blooming lilac bush had been swallowed by the plastic sheet along with the house. Elvis pushed the branches out of the way and squeezed behind it. On the ground beneath him was an old iron drainage grid sitting over a gaping black hole. He dragged the grid to one side and let himself drop into the space. Once inside he reached up and carefully pulled the grid back across. He crouched down. In front was a tunnel leading away from the house. He wriggled along on his belly for several yards until it became wider. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small torch. It lit up a cave-like drain, the walls made of rounded, red brick, stained with the dirt from the floods of centuries passed. The drain was dry now but the air was still dank and humid. Roots from shrubs above had pushed their way between the bricks and dangled like spindly fingers above his head. The passage ahead split with a hole disappearing downwards and a larger space above. Elvis pushed his crutch into the upper space and crawled in behind it, clutching his torch between his teeth. Pairs of pink rodent eyes twinkled back at him from the darkness. After what always felt like miles but was no more than a hundred yards, Elvis came to another space large enough to stand. A rusted iron ladder was fixed into the wall. He clambered up it, creaking and wobbling, until he could slide open the heavy flagstone cover above and climb out. He was standing in a small stone building about six feet in diameter. There were no windows, just a big old door of wood and iron. He tugged on the rusted handle until finally it groaned open about a foot. Elvis peeped out through the gap. Across the road was his house. It was drenched in light and a hive of activity; a stark contrast to the dark lifeless churchyard in which he now stood.
He crept between the headstones and marble angels to the back of the medieval church. At its rear was an ugly concrete hall. As he reached the door Elvis could hear shouting and arguing, coughing and crying coming from within. Elvis cursed to himself and looked back towards the police and military just yards away across the road. He eased open the door. Inside there were more people than ever. Babies slept in mothers’ arms, men played cards by candlelight and children ran about the room. They were dressed in a mix of rags, work clothes and seventeenth century finery. When they saw Elvis enter they flocked around him as one.
'How the hell could I ever explain this?' he asked himself.
Chapter 12
