The Dastardly Mr Winkle Meets His Match

by Rufus Offor

  Before the week was out he was fighting with the insurgents in the jungle, sweating, clambering through the thick bush, bruised, aching, killing, wonderful. He was as happy as a filth monger in a brothel.

  He idly inhaled opium fumes, flat on his back, grinning contently, making all of the aches and pains warm and fuzzy and yet somewhere, far through the intoxicating mist in his cranium, he wondered what he’d do next. He couldn’t stay with the insurgents as, if he stayed in one area too long, the Sphere were bound to catch up with him. Their agents were many and widespread.

  ‘Oh well,’ he sighed lethargically, ‘I’ll worry about that later.’ and he sank back into his deep deep stone.

  Chapter 23

  What It Takes To Be Evil

  The Boss was deep in the underground town beneath his offices. He was hunting for clues, or more accurately, he was watching while a gaggle of his lackeys hunted for clues.

  Nine of his men had died trying to gain access to Shoop’s lair and the Boss was not best pleased with the turn of events. Apparently Shoop had rigged the main door to an electricity supply, put an explosive device just past the entrance, rigged the main hallway with lasers that diced three people in a one-er and had installed a wrecking ball to the ceiling of the library. It swung down out of the blackness and swept up two men. It was riddled with big metal spikes and the men were dangling from it, gore dripping from them as the Boss looked on.

  He was distinctly put out!

  ‘This is absolutely intolerable!’ he fumed, ‘what the hell do I have to do to get things done right for Christ’s sake!’

  One of the dangling men on the wrecking ball, the one who was still alive, squeaked out a strained response, ‘Sorry Boss, won’t happen again…….. AAARRRGGGHHH!’ Two men on a stepladder yanked him off the spikes. He passed out from the pain.

  Later, the impaled man realised that he may have made a colossally misguided career choice, quit the Sphere of influence after months of recovery in the hospital and opened a small teashop in one of the more liberal parts of Edinburgh. After working with a very nice gay man for a few months he discovered that the reason he’d been so angry all his life was because he’d denied the fact that he’d always fancied boys. He and his new partner and work colleague went on to open a chain of gay friendly teashops, cafes and restaurants throughout the UK and lived very happily ever after, donating large chunks of their yearly earnings to various charities.

  They bought a dachshund, named him spike after the wrecking ball that had brought them together, and spent a lot of time marvelling at what a quirky sense of humour fate had.

  The signal went up that it was safe to enter Shoop’s rooms and scores of men poured into the library. The desperate search began with fervour matched with an equal amount of care. Nothing was taken for granted as being safe and for every book that was taken down from a shelf, a small sigh of relief could be heard. The room was full of a tepid mixture of dread and reprieve. They felt like bomb technicians in a room full of plastic explosive and any given book could be the trigger to set the whole damn thing off. Luckily though there were no fatalities, just a few minor maimings.

  The Boss sank into a regal looking leather chair and began to relax a little, occasionally piping up to bark orders at his second in command, Peter. It was Peter’s job to interpret the orders and delegate to the troops. He did it all with a certain vicious flare and without mercy or remorse for the injured. The man was a weasel, which was part of the reason why the Boss had taken him on.

  One of the conditions that The Boss had adhered to when his offices had been built over the underground town was that nobody from the Sphere of influence was to enter Shoop’s private rooms. The boss had agreed but not without protest. It bothered him that he could have alien and inaccessible territory right under his own nose, it tugged at the jumper of his control, fraying its ends and unravelling its tight knitting. He was glad to have broken down that particular wall but was on edge at the feeling of not being safe in his own territory. The whole library pulsed with tension, worried eyes darted around looking for hidden booby traps, moist sweaty browed men carried out their orders carefully, handling their environment with kid gloves.

  The Boss remained in his leather throne sipping a brandy from George’s supply to calm his nerves.

  A few hour passed by and the air started to thin a little, feeling a tad less oppressive. The Boss deemed it safe to start walking around the room and its book lined anti-chambers, assessing the work being done and occasionally spitting orders at his minions like the general of an invading army organising the pillage of a town. The looting, however, was proving to be somewhat fruitless. There were thousands of books, files and artefacts but none of them yielded anything more than intriguing oddities. It seemed that there was nothing to be found that would reveal Shoop’s current plans.

  Shoop and George had been very careful. The main part of the library housed information that would’ve turned the pallor of the average person to a clammy grey but none of it was new to the Boss or his minions. Tales of horrors and wonders from every corner of the globe were the stock and trade of the Sphere of Influence. There were very few snippets of information and freakish tales that they didn’t already know about.

  George and Shoop had taken great care to ensure that any invader would find nothing that they didn’t want them to know about. No amount of probing could unearth anything but the relatively run of the mill, well, run of the mill for anyone in the “business” anyway. Behind the walls of the lair, however, was a completely different story. There was no device that Shoop knew of that would see through the thick lead lined stone walls. Shoop had set up all manner of technical doo-dads to ensure that nobody would see the true treasures of the caves. Decades of information, research, artefacts, files and the more valuable books were only accessible through a tiny hatchway that could only be opened by the initiated.

  The library was rectangular with the main entrance at one end, eight deep antechambers along each side and another at the far end, behind George’s desk, that housed his bed, sparse wardrobe and amenities. The wall behind George’s poky little bed was made up of a collection of muddled stone, not unlike any wall in the old-town part of Edinburgh and didn’t look out of place in the dingy alcove that was George’s living quarters. The wall housed a number of stones that, just like the floor in the service station where Shoop had escaped the Sphere, when certain of the stones were pressed in the correct order and with the right amount of pressure, would slide in on themselves and reveal a man sized entrance to a cave beyond. The cave lead to the mysterious underground tunnel system that had aided both Shoop’s and George’s escape. The cave itself had been turned into a vault, the contents of which would have had the Boss pulsate with orgasmic glee.

  The chances of the Boss finding the cave were very slim. There was more chance of God having a bit of a sledging outing in Hedes.

  The Boss got bored of walking around and slumped back into the leather throne feeling distinctly annoyed. Things were not going as planned. After a while Peter joined him, leaving the labourers to do their jobs.

  ‘It doesn’t look good boss.’ Said Peter.

  ‘Hmm!’ grunted the Boss nodding dejectedly, clearly disgruntled by the whole affair. He had hoped against hope that some sliver of a lead would reveal itself. Shoop was gone… again. The Boss’ team had lost them in Singapore, the only hope had been that Carl would be able to give them some answers but he’d miraculously recovered from his shooting and bolted before anyone could stop him. Raiding Shoop’s lair was bringing the Boss closer to the end of his list of possible courses of action. His options were running out. Defeat was looking more and more likely but he still had a couple of aces up his sleeve. The hypnotic power of Cat could still turn things around. If her words had wormed their way into Jim’s mind effectively, which was very likely, then there was still a chance that things could turn around, and then there was The Boss’ superior. The man that only he knew about
who sat in the shadows and moved his people in ways that couldn’t be seen or known by any other than the Boss himself. He referred to him simply as Sir. He knew very little of him, just that he wielded exceptional power, more even than the Boss could ever hope to muster in his lifetime. He had never seen him, never met him and was only contacted by him via a small communication device that had been built into his ear. The Boss knew little of his motives. He only knew that there was a secret battle going on, somewhere below even his vision and when it was over, The Boss would be more powerful than he had previously imagined possible. There was the distinct chance that this man knew more of the movements of Shoop and his cohorts than he let on. The Boss didn’t ask questions though, he just did his job and waited for the day to come when his shadowy superior came forward and revealed himself. Once revealed, The Boss could see about usurping him.

  ‘There’s still the matter of that aeroplane that darted into radar range just outside Singapore.’ Said Peter.

  ‘I’ve got someone looking into that but it’s a long shot,’ grunted the Boss, wincing as he sipped on his brandy, ‘I hate waiting, I should never have let Shoop live so long damn it!’

  Peter tried to repress the urge to say “I told you so” but the sentiment was clearly visible on his smug, traitorous features.

  The Boss saw the look, ‘don’t give me that shit Peter! I had my reasons.’ Peter feigned a surprised reaction at the Bosses words but then realised that denying his thoughts was futile and shrugged, ‘You don’t need to know everything Peter,’ The Boss’ pale clammy face contorted in anger, Peter felt a very distinct pang of fear, ‘Some of the knowledge that I’m privy to would make you want to slit your own throat in terror, so don’t for a second think that you’re wiser than me in these matters!’ The Boss spat as he spoke, anger at Peter’s insubordination spattering the air. Peter forced himself to remember his place and bowed his head. He had witnessed just how horrific The Boss’ wrath could be and in no hurry to endure it.

  ‘I’m sorry sir, please forgive my ignorance, I do but serve.’ He said.

  ‘That’s more like it.’ The Boss’ features softened a little but he remained fearsome, ‘You’ve got a lot of potential Peter but cross me and you’ll spend the rest of your days in a thick cloud of pained screams!’

  ‘I seek only to learn from you sir.’ Peter’s ambitions bubbled under the surface of every word and The Boss picked up every traitorous tone. He let it slide though. Peter was his one and only protégé, there was no one else who had appeared capable enough to carry on The Boss’ work once he’d usurped his dark superior, the man he called “Sir”. The Boss had invested a lot of time in Peter and wasn’t ready to write his efforts off just yet. He knew a threat when he saw one and Peter was definitely capable of mutiny, ironically, his sneakiness was part of what made him such a qualified heir to the throne. The trick was to dangle the carrot of more power just beyond Peter’s sight. The hunger for more would prevent him from making any rebellious moves.

  Peter was hungry for power. He was young and ambitious but most dangerous of all was his lack of patience. He wanted the world and wanted it now. If the Boss made the slightest mistake then Peter would turn it to his advantage in the blink of an eye.

  The search for a lead continued well into the night, every minute that was spend trying to find Shoop took the Boss further from his goals. He sat despondent, impotent and angry. Fuming away in the face of all the wasted time but still not ready to give up as he had nothing better to do. Better to be seen to be active than idle.

  A noise came from the hallway. Dull thumps, indiscernible raised voices and muffled scrambling. Peter and the Boss turned their attention to the entrance of the library, faces curled up in quizzing curiosity, ready to flee if a serious threat emerged. Anything was possible within those walls, even with the hordes of Sphere agents surrounding them. Of course, they could have fled to safer ground hours ago, but The Boss insisted on handling the search personally.

  The ruckus crept closer, getting louder as it approached, some agents stopped their work in the library and instinctively moved toward the door, stepping between whatever the noise was and The Boss. A voice became audible.

  ‘Must….. mumble …… see him!’

  There were more fumbling and scrambling noises and then a man, retched, bandaged, broken and exhausted sprawled through the door and flopped at the feet of the Sphere agents. A mass of guns instantly trained themselves on his head and vital organs but the Boss recognised the man through his bandages and the multitude of bruises that made his skin look less fleshy but more purple and yellow, he looked like he’d gone over Niagara Falls in a sack of hammers.

  ‘Stain? Justin Stain is that you?’

  The man attempted to drag himself up off the floor without much success; he’d clearly used every ounce of his strength in him to battle his way into the library past the guards at the entrance.

  ‘He’s not a threat you morons!’ bellowed the Boss as some of his less intelligent men went to strong arm him out of the building, ‘bring him here, fetch him a drink, something strong!’

  The goons plopped him on a couch, he was not looking very good at all.

  He’d woken up in a hospital amongst pandemonium. His memory was hazy at best and couldn’t remember what had happened to him to get him where he was. He couldn’t even remember much of who he was and trying to figure out what to do didn’t prove easy. He did have the urge to leave though. The sense of impending doom was very real and bothered him immensely. He decided that getting dressed and trying to get outside would be a good place to start. He appeared to be sharing a room with an unconscious man so he stole his clothes, which proved to be a good deal too small for him, and headed out into the screams and panicked bustle of the corridor limping horribly and wincing with pain as he discovered that he’d been shot in the knee. The knee had been put in a cast. He heard gunfire come from somewhere on his floor and there were several policemen laying around, unconscious and bleeding as people clambered over them, occasionally trampling them in a desperate bid for freedom. Lights were flickering on and off giving the scene a distinctly horrific feel.

  Downstairs, Carl was leaving the building after creating chaos and headed for the nearest motorbike dealership.

  Justin was dazed and bruised. The bruises were so deep that they hadn’t begun to show yet. Whatever had happened to him hadn’t been easy to endure and was quite glad that he couldn’t remember it. Every bone in his body squealed in pain with every shaky step that he took. His memory was rattled and twisted but he momentarily gained the where-with-all to salvage some morphine from an upturned trolley for his pain. He stumbled around in a morphine soaked stupor, desperately trying to escape the surreal hell that seemed to be unfolding about him.

  He managed to reach the outside, which was when things took a turn for the worse. He was memoryless, penniless and homeless in the streets of a city that didn’t tolerate public displays poverty. He hadn’t the slightest idea of where to go, what to do or how to salvage his wrecked mind. He was sure to be picked up by some sort of authority sooner or later and had a gut feeling that he didn’t want that to happen. He couldn’t explain it; he just didn’t think that it would be wise. His gut was all he had to go on. Of course if he’d ignored his gut then he would’ve been in Edinburgh a lot sooner, would’ve been cleaned up, fed and taken care of, but then, there’s no use crying over spilt milk now is there.

  He later figured out that his fear of being caught was a hangover from running from Shoop Winkle. The last thing that he’d experienced was a good stiff kicking from him, followed by an unreasonable amount of torture and pain. His subconscious, understandably, didn’t want anything like that happening again, which was why he couldn’t bare to be caught by anyone. He didn’t know this as he scrambled through the streets of Singapore scaring people with his appearance however; it just came automatically.

  He spent a week hiding in dark and nasty places, scrambling in bins
for food in the moist heat, dirty, sweating and stealing whenever he could, his mind in tiny pieces, his body aching and stinging. Then one day he ventured into an area that sparked a shred of a memory. It was a painful memory and it filled him with the urge to run, to get away from the place but he forced himself to stay and try to grapple the memory back into coherence. The memories were painful. Pictures flashed in his mind; a pursuit, hiding in a dark room, scrambling over rooftops, a man in a grey/brown suit and hat, pain, screams, more pain and then oblivion. The pictures were mere snippets but he knew that he had little desire to recall the entire experience.

  He ventured into a building that seemed familiar. It was dark, fetid and smelt like violence. Blood stained the floor and had gone rotten. Rats darted out of view as he fell into the room, happy to have found sanctuary, no matter how dingy and derelict the place was.

  A memory stabbed at his minds eye. He remembered hiding money under a floorboard. He found the piece of flooring that danced around his brain and ripped it up with a crowbar that happened to be lying behind a makeshift barricade of tables and chairs, the money was still there. The shear ecstasy that engulfed him couldn’t be described. He could eat, clean himself up a bit, there was even enough there for him to put himself up in a hotel of a couple of nights. The wad was so big that when he entered a hotel he could wave it in the faces of anyone who tried to kick him out to convince them that he wasn’t the vagrant that he appeared to be, just a bit roughed up. He’d won a momentary reprieve.