She learned that home-grown terrorists from the same cell that had carried out the June 2007 bombings in London were tasked with infiltrating the ship. It was a long and difficult assignment. On a passenger vessel the size of Britannia there are more than 1,200 crew members in 120 job classifications. It took three years to get four men, all radical Muslims, all skilled bomb makers, and all would-be martyrs with a deep hatred for the invaders of Iraq and Afghanistan, to find employment on RMS Britannia and smuggle aboard enough explosives in minute quantities and stockpile it. The last to be hired was Harry Karim, a detonations expert.
My working title is The Commodore's Cufflinks, which is the name aboard Britannia for the twin replacement propellers the ship carries in case of loss or damage. Each prop is taller than a man and weighs almost two tons, their blades as sharp as knives. They are bolted to a forward area of deck seven, out of bounds to passengers, and are checked daily by one of the junior officers from the engine room.
And that man is Harry Karim.
During the massive explosion that is planned to sink RMS Britannia, topple the Statue of Liberty and kill and maim thousands on ship and shore, al-Qaeda's explosives experts have a special role for the commodore's cufflinks. A bomb attached to the base will shear the bolts and lift the propellers clear of their mount. A second bomb, infinitely more powerful, timed to go off three-hundredths-of-a-second later, will send the propellers careening like pinwheels through the ship, slicing through steel decks like cans of tuna, ripping through the bowels of it, destroying everything and everyone in their path.
So far so good, I am thinking. I have a plot, the main characters, a love interest and the beginnings of a heart rending emotional trauma that will end in recrimination and heartbreak.
I asked Jen for her opinion. In school, she was the one who checked my homework. Jen looked over my outline and pulled a disapproving face. I have made two and two equal five.
"It doesn't add up," she tells me. "If Harry is a suicide bomber, why on earth would he risk everything by having an affair with a passenger?"
"He's horny."
"Seriously, Cat, it's a bit of a stretch."
"Not really. His work is done. The bombs are made, primed, and will explode with devastating results. Martyrdom awaits. If he is going to go out with a bang, he may as well go out with a bang. Also, he's feeling good. He can afford to relax. And what sort of a threat is Rachel, anyway? As far as he is concerned she's just another white girl looking to get laid."
"Okay, but you'll have to ditch the spanking."
"Oh, come on Jen. That's my favorite part. I can sell it to Pandora, I'm sure I can." I gave her that admonishing look I used to give her at school, like she was going to get it later. She ignored me.
"Pandora will never buy it. I've read a lot of their books. Everyone in their novels has both feet on the floor. "
"Rachel has both feet on the floor."
"Yes but he doesn't, he's on her bed – and what's with the hairbrush. You don't think that's a bit obvious?"
"He was outside on the balcony. It was windy. Naturally he wants to brush his hair."
"Give him a comb."
We laughed.
"Okay, okay, I'll get rid of it. Can he use his hand?'
"If you think you can make it work, but you'll have to find a more plausible way to get her over his knee than him saying, 'I believe you know what's expected of you.' Sounds like something Nelson said before the battle of Trafalgar."
"Is there anything about it you do like?"
"Don't get me wrong, sweetie, I love it. I think the plot is fantastic. The part about the cufflinks is terrifying. If they ever make a movie, can you imagine the special effects involved as those things rip the ship apart."
"Mmmm…"
"But it doesn't happen, does it?"
"What doesn't happen?"
"Any of it, the explosions, the rampaging cufflinks, any of it."
"How do you know?"
"Because somehow, you've got to come up with a happy ending. Pandoras always have a happy ending. Rachel has somehow got to expose the plot, save the ship, save Manhattan, and save her relationship with Harry."
"Don't worry, I've got it all worked out."
"Are you going to share it with me?"
I couldn't see any reason not to, although I was not anxious to subject my plot line to additional Jen Emerson scrutiny.
I told her that what happened over three days was that Rachel, with the clock ticking, gradually put the pieces together. When Harry asked her why she spent so much time at her computer she explained she was already on the payroll in New York and was expected to put in a day's work. She was terribly torn between her feelings for him and the horror of what he was apparently planning. In truth, she was trying to exonerate him, not incriminate him. But until she was certain of her information she couldn't go to the Captain.
"But she did go," said Jen. "And the rest of it, as they say, is history. The ship was saved. Manhattan survived and the Gang of Four was busted. Nice one, Catherine."
"You approve? I can't believe it."
"Actually, I think I do. Except there was no happy ending for Rachel, which Pandora will not like. And what happened to Harry? Shipped him off to Guantanamo, I hope."
"Not exactly" I paused to make sure I had her full attention. "You see, it wasn't a gang of four that infiltrated the good ship Britannia, it was a gang of three. Turned out Harry was a British spy. It took him five years to infiltrate al-Qaeda's U.K. network to the point where they trusted him with an assignment like blowing up Britannia. Before the others found out they'd been betrayed, they were already in the brig, arrested by agents of U.S. Homeland Security before the ship even reached New York."
Jen clapped her hands in mock approval.
"Well that explains one thing?" she said.
"Which is?"
"Why your man Harry couldn't keep it in his trousers. He was a Pakistani James Bond. Who else was he bonking on Britannia?"
We both had a good laugh at that.
Twelve thousand miles away in London, George Aloysius Brown was similarly the object of amusement.
"He's called what?"
"Not 'What', he's called 'Whom'. His name is Doctor Whom."
"George, are you aware that there's already a Doctor Who? You know, the BBC TV series, huge hit, been running for decades."
"Of course, I am. I'm a huge fan. I just think the writers got it wrong, that's all. It shouldn't be Doctor Who, it should be Doctor Whom, as in 'The Doctor is whom?'
"George, he may be grammatically correct, but don't you think you'll be accused of plagiarism? 'Doctor Who, Doctor Whom'. Sorry, it won't wash, George You'll have to come up with a different name."
George smiled and raised his glass to the members of his editorial advisory committee. They were ganging up on him, three against one. This was great. During his time as a career civil servant he had sat through thousands of committee meetings, but never before one of his own selection consisting of two dominatrix and a librarian with a sideline of entertaining assertive older gentlemen.
"Think of this way," he said, defensively. "Being accused by the BBC of plagiarism might not be a bad thing. Think of the publicity. Sort of David versus Goliath. Could boost book sales, what do you think?"
But the committee would not be swayed.
"Okay, okay," George conceded, "you're probably right. I'll call him the Professor, or the Admiral, or the Bylaw Enforcement Officer. Whatever. I'll come up with another name. I'll just call him Dr. Whom for now. Okay. Meanwhile, I'll get a round in and tell you what the good Doctor has been up to."
At a corner booth in a cosy little pub in Turnham Green, the first editorial advisory committee of the George Aloysius Brown author support group was called to order at 6:15 p.m.
Present was Joanne Goodfellow, assistant librarian research and online services at Brixton public library, Solace Miseria and Connie Watson, trainee dominatrix at London's Donatien Club.<
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The deal was they would critique, encourage and, if necessary, heap scorn and ridicule on the author in his bid to be the first of his creative writing class to have a novel published. In return for their assistance George would buy the drinks and a curry dinner afterwards at the Indian restaurant across the road.
"First of all, George, where has your research taken you so far?" asked Joanne. "You came to consult me, and that was good, and I know you met these lovely ladies at their place of employment, but what else have you been up to?"
George took a sip of his beer and leaned forward conspiratorially. At the next table there were two elderly women sipping sherry and he didn't want to alarm them.
"Well," he said, "I had telephone sex with a woman from Islington and I almost got a role in a porn flick at a studio on the Jamaica Road."
The women looked at each other, incredulously. George was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"Which came first?" asked Connie.
"You mean, 'Who came first?'" said Solace.
"Shouldn't that be 'Whom came first?'" said Joanne.
This started them laughing until their eyes watered.
"I quite like the idea of phone sex, don't you Sol," said Connie when the mirth subsided. "Unfortunately, it's not really an option in our line, is it? I can't imagine phoning a customer on his mobile to tell him I'm wrapping him bollock-naked in cling wrap and beating him silly with a rubber truncheon."
"Wouldn't work, would it?" said Solace. "I know, how about email sex, or fax sex, that might work for us. You know. Offer to humiliate 'em in writing."
This promoted another bout of the giggles and George had to call for order. He noticed that the neighbors were inclining their ears in their direction and one of them was twiddling with her hearing aid.
"Tell us about the movie," said Joanne. "I don't mean to offend, but I can't imagine what role you might play in a porn flic."
"Then allow me to enlighten you," George said, feeling slightly aggrieved.
He told them about Eldercare Video Productions Inc. and Gimble Hemmings and Gerontological Positive Reinforcement, explained to them, as he understood it, the changing demographics of the business and, lowering his voice to a whisper, he told them about his role in The Bird and The Bush and the sizzling amateur spanking footage filmed on the banks of the River Cam.
"Wow," said Joanne. "I'd like to see that. Are you sure they were amateurs? I could tell you in five seconds if they weren't."
"Looked authentic to me," George said. "The way he got her excited, reciting poetry to her. The way she reacted, her enthusiasm, she even threw in a bit of poetry of her own. She absolutely wanted it, you can't fake that – and anyway I met the woman who filmed it. She's a bird watcher." He paused. Making people laugh is all in the timing, and George delivered the punch line like a pro.
"She wasn't looking for a spanking. She was looking for the blue winged marbled flycatcher."
"You're kidding," said Connie, when the laughter subsided. "Bird watching, was she, and looks what shows up in the viewfinder. Hell, I never get that lucky. Same old, same old, where we work, although we did get some new torture equipment in this week, didn't we Sol?"
"We did, and you know what, demand from the members is huge. There's already a waiting list a mile long. The Rather Reverend Marvin Bottomly of the Church of Eternal Longing in Gillingham, you know, the nerdy one, offered me the entire contents of last Sunday's collection if I would move his name to the top of the list."
"He didn't?" said Connie.
"He did," said Solace.
"And did you?"
"I don't think two quid is going to do it."
This got them going again, George too, although inwardly he shivered at the memory of the dungeon.
He felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Excuse us for interrupting," came a voice from the adjacent table. "We couldn't help overhearing. Exactly what sort of equipment are we talking about here?"
That was a conversation stopper, but Connie was the first to react.
"You've probably got one at home, dear," she said, sweetly. "It's sort of like a vacuum cleaner, only instead of...Ouch! Sol, what are you doing?"
"Too much information," admonished Solace who had kicked her friend under the table.
"Ladies, Ladies," said George. "Can we get back to business, please? Not you, madam, if you don't mind, this is a private meeting."
"Disgusting is what it is, if you ask me." The ladies snorted derisively and turned their attention back to their sherry.
"Anyway, in my book," continued George, and he explained to them the whole concept, how Doctor Whom would roam through time and space having sexual encounters with famous women in history.
"Mmm…Could work," said Joanne. "I can definitely see the possibilities. Who's on the list of suitors?"
"Catherine de Medici, Cleopatra, Wallis Simpson...
"Wallis Simpson!" said Solace, incredulously. "The former Duchess of Windsor? I don't think that would go down to well at Buck House. Edward V111 gave up the throne to marry her didn't he? The sex must have been fantastic."
"He did," confirmed George. "But what she probably didn't tell him was that she learned at least some of what she knew about pleasuring men in a brothel in Beijing."
Golly. The woman looked at each other and at George with new respect. This could be more interesting than they thought.
"We'll come back to that," said Joanne. "Who else is on the list?"
"Josephine, I'm dying to find out if what they say about Napoleon is true."
"And what might that be?" Connie asked.
George lowered his voice to a whisper. "That the Emperor gave her strict instructions not to wash her privates for at least a week before he was due to return from battle."
"That's probably true, at least there's a lot of anecdotal evidence to support it," said Joanne. "Although I doubt if he was hungry for muffin after the duffin' he got at Waterloo."
They all laughed.
"Good one, Joanne," said Solace. "No muffin, no nuffin."
"Who else?"
"Boadicea, Linda Lovelace…"
"Uh, uh, said Joanne. "She's still very much alive. The others are okay, you can't libel the dead, or at least I don't think you can. In any event I can help with your research if you give me the list. You'll have to be absolutely sure of historical facts if your novel is going to have any credibility."
"Know what interests me, said Connie? "Did the early humans breed with the apes, I'm talking millions of years ago. I saw it on the telly last night that we all have Neanderthal DNA in us. Do you think your Doctor Whom, whatever, could come up with the answer to that?
"Maybe. I'll put Lucy on the list," George said "Who was Lucy?" said Solace and Connie in tandem.
"The world's most famous early human ancestor," said Joanne. "Her skeletal remains were found in Ethiopia. Paleontologists estimate she lived 3.2 million years ago. What got everyone excited is that she had both ape and human characteristics. She was only three and a half feet tall and had long dangling arms, but her pelvic, spine, foot, and leg bones were all suited to walking upright."
"Are they sure she was an adult?" We have to be careful here," said Connie. "Apparently the Queen is already not amused."
"Yes, a number of factors point to Lucy being fully grown," Joanne replied. "For one thing, her wisdom teeth were very humanlike and were well used like ours are and the sections of her skull—separated in children—had grown together."
George could see the potential, primeval Africa, dinosaurs on the dusty plains of Ethiopia, a hominin in heat, a chance encounter with Dr. Whom. It could work. Evidence that homosapiens had mated with apes and changed the course of evolution. Good one.
"How are you going to handle the chapter on Catherine de Medici?" Joanne asked. I know I told you that she was notorious for personally spanking the ladies of her court, but we don't really know much more than that. There are no actual details that I know of."
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"There is now," said George. "That's the beauty of writing fiction. The Doctor will be there when she does it. He'll tell us exactly what went on."
"Have you written any of this yet?" They all wanted to know that. George had anticipated this question.
"The Medici chapter is partially written, "he told them, "but I won't have anything to show you until the first draft is complete."
Fair enough, they agreed. "Yes, but at least give us a hint," said Connie. "For example, does the Doctor find out whether it is true or not that Catherine de Medici put her ladies in waiting over her knee?"
"He does – and she did."
But the committee wasn't quite ready to buy it. "But how could he possibly have found out?" Joanne protested. "He couldn't exactly show up at the French court and watch what went on, whatever clever disguise he adopted."
"It was simpler than that." George drained his beer. "He couldn't wait to tell them. "Remember the famous banquet in 1577?"
"Of course, there are several documented references. Did you find out any more?"
"I did."
"And?"
"The Doctor was there. He saw everything. He was a fly on the wall."
They all looked at each other. "I think that's brilliant," said Connie. "Who hasn't wanted to be a fly on the wall? In fact, I think Fly On The Wall would make a perfect title for your book. 'A new blockbuster novel by George Aloysius Brown, history like you've never imagined it before.'"
George nodded happily. Not bad, he thought.
"Thank you, ladies," he said. "I think we can conclude on that positive note. I'm starving. Is anyone else hungry?"
Chapter Thirteen
How sweet the joy that time surrenders
To lovers warmed by passion's embers: How deep the sorrow when love unravels
And stills the beating wings of angels
From Afternoon on Bourke St. by CM Jones I have been dating a guy I met on Bondi Beach. I literally bumped into him while he was training with his lifeguard team, inadvertently stepping into his path as he raced towards the surf. The collision knocked me flying although I was more embarrassed than hurt. I had sand everywhere, in my bikini, under my nails, in my hair. He helped me to my feet and used a corner of his towel dampened with bottled water to get the sand out of my eyes At least now I can see. What I saw was, well, your poster-boy Australian lifeguard, tall, tanned, late-twenties, with long blonde hair, just your typical Bondi boy toy.
Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown Page 18
