by Sam Nash
THE AURORA JOURNALS
The Story of Dr. Pip Lawrence
Part Three
The Story of Dr. Pip Lawrence, is a prelude companion series to the Aurora Conspiracy series, allowing us an exciting glimpse into the history behind a remarkable family.
Part Three takes Pip and his son into the heart of London, where we discover the extent of his inheritance and new clues to the location of his grandmother’s journal. Will it be plain sailing for the Lawrences, or will those ruthless groups put them in jeopardy once again?
The four-part series will be made available to those in my readers group without charge, then released for sale shortly after. I take privacy seriously, and you can leave the group any time you wish.
Tuesday 31st July 1990 Evening
A cluster of no more than ten bubbles drifted upwards, each breaking in single file. I held my breath and squinted down into the darkest depths.
It had been too long. What if David had become trapped in his attempts to dislodge the odious gorgon and her mate? It would only take a mangled section of wreckage to ensnare his clothes. His lungs would be burning by now, squeezing the last vestige of oxygen from the pockets of air through the alveoli sacks and into his bloodstream. He would be fighting a devastating urge to inhale, kicking out at the thick green water encompassing his body.
I felt lightheaded, subconsciously neglecting to breathe in solidarity with my son. As the panic built momentum in my chest, I saw the pale oval of David’s face, taking shape beneath me. He broke the surface with a giant gasp, splashing, wheezing, coughing out the fetid air and replenishing with new.
He peered up at the crowd, singling me out with a strained shake of the head, before swimming to the corroded ladder attached to the canal wall. Doubled over and shaking from exertion, David let the water pour from his body and the oxygen feed his muscles.
“Dead…” He said, through staggered inhalations. “It’s pitch black down there. Had to grub about to find them. Must have died on impact.”
“I’m so sorry, son. I should never have let you do that. It’s just…”
“It’s fine. I understand.” He averted his gaze and I could see that he was not fine. He risked his life so that I wouldn’t risk mine, but his understanding was not that of a physician.
A woman tapped me on the shoulder. “My husband has gone to telephone for help. They shouldn’t be too long now.” She said with a piteous smile plastered across her face.
“We can’t stick around for the police.” David muttered close to my shoulder.
“Agreed.” I looked at my son’s pink and puckered face and wondered if his journey to the depths of the canal had inflicted harm. “Are you okay?” He nodded, with a forced grin, but I could see fear lurking behind his eyes. There were small bruises blooming on his neck and a set of scratches on his forearms. There was no time to question him further. I said “You get the bags from the car, I’ll go and get us ferry tickets.”
David wriggled his wet feet into his shoes, and jogged through the murmuring crowds towards the battered Renault. Fleeing the scene of an accident was the least of our worries. It would be hours before descriptions could tie us to our false documents and with any luck, we would be safely in England by then.
I scurried in the opposite direction, following signs towards the ticket office and checking the routes to board the ferry on foot. The queue was mercifully small, and all four ticket booths manned with multilingual operators. With our fares paid, I hurried to meet up with David at the entrance to the board walk. He put on his dry jacket over his wet clothes and combed his hair straight, while I fumbled in pockets for our passports.
Following an elderly couple onto the walkway, David held our bags low, shielding his soaked jeans from view. The old woman ahead, presented her passport to the customs officer, then preceded to inform him of the lovely time she’d had staying in Le Havre, even though the eggs were not cooked to her husband’s tastes at the hotel. The officer stood expressionless in response to her prattle, handing back her passport and reaching over to her mute husband for his documents.
By the time the customs chap had ushered them along onto the ferry, the queues of people were backing up behind us. We merited little more than a cursory glance of our passports, before he waved us onto the boat. “So far, so good.” I ventured.
“Don’t tempt fate. We haven’t left the dock yet,” came David’s reply. As he said it, we looked at one another, both of us registering the sound of multiple sirens arriving at the accident site.
“Do you think they will hold the ferry for enquiries?” I whispered.
“Doubtful. I switched on the hazard lights in the Renault. It wasn’t blocking the thoroughfare, and the crowd was dispersing when I left. Only the owner of the smashed caravan remained to give evidence, and the responsible parties are dead.”
I waited for David to change his clothes in the Gents, then we sat and waited for the cafeteria to open in the upper decks. It was only when I felt the lurch of movement inside my stomach, and heard the ferry horns blaring, did I begin to relax. We were underway at last.
An eight hour crossing, without the worry of being followed by the Jesuits, and no sight of Tawnie and her wealthy cronies. I pushed thoughts of any potential snags at Portsmouth with Anthony Knight’s agents from my mind. Port warnings issued from that department would not be flagged by Derek Cross’s passport.
Once fed, we made our way to the bow. David found us padded seats overlooking the port side, and together we watched as half the remaining sun burned umber through the breaking clouds. His resolute stillness, and weary look, betrayed his thoughts. Lily and her infidelities prematurely aged him. She was seldom from his mind, even in times of crisis.
I basked in his company, despite his silence. Long had it been since I had the treat of time alone with my son. In his youth, I was busy forging new paths in the immunology field, mistaking empire building for providing for my family. My dear Minnie enjoyed the lion’s share of David’s time, and he hers. If only I had come to my senses sooner. I missed all the important milestones of his life, as he seems set to repeat with his daughter.
The dim cabin lights flickered on, bathing us all in an unhealthy orange glow. David cuffed his sleeve across his face and sniffed. As much as I wanted to melt into an uncomfortable sleep, I knew that I needed to occupy his mind. Dwelling exacerbates pain. Real and imagined slights grow in the dark if left unchecked.
I chose a less incendiary subject to begin our long night. “You know, I met him once. Nice fella, not too bright though. A bizarre encounter on the train to Cheltenham.” I said, my vague approach intended to provoke enquiry.
“Who?” David took the bait, as was my hope.
“Derek Cross. It was years ago now. We were young men in a post war Britain. The immediate danger had passed but government were still twitchy, especially about the chilly threats from the Soviets. Lots of the Signal Intelligence Officers from Bletchley Park and Beaumanor Hall were drafted to Cheltenham. Formed the central GCHQ over there. I suspect Derek was sent to prepare him for deep undercover work.”
“Didn’t prepare him enough, it would seem.” David shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. He was diverted.
“No, but then who could have foreseen betrayal on such a scale. He must have used his spy craft well enough to uncover an entire ring of double agents, feeding our intel to the Ruskies.” I had forgotten how intense David’s focus could be. Even as a boy, he could listen to me reading entire storybooks, without a glimmer of a yawn or hope of him drifting off to sleep, such was his concentration. I tried not to smile, but I could not stop myself.
“How did the stor
y leak, if they killed him over there?”
“Apparently, one of the agents went on a massive guilt trip, particularly since there was so little left of Derek’s body to repatriate, that a burial was not possible. This agent travelled to Newhaven and tried to give Derek’s widow money. She kicked up such a stink that the newly formed MI6 couldn’t keep a lid on it, especially while they were trying to round up the perpetrators. She gave an exclusive interview to the Brighton Tribune and it was later picked up by the national papers.”
The ferry rocked as it passed through the wake from a larger ship, then eased into a less turbulent slipstream. I glanced about me. A few passengers hunkered down in their seats, resting their heads against loved one’s shoulders, their overcoats serving as blankets while they slept. Others leaned against windows, peering out over a darkened sea.
Opposite David and I, a close-knit family with two teenage children. From their alert expressions, I knew they had been listening to my tale. The boy looked horrified, but the girl wore a glazed wide eyed stare. It was clear that her mind had strayed into an imagined mission of her own. A wild fantasy of action and adventure, where only she could save the day. My heart rejoiced at her silent aspirations.
“What were you doing on a train to Cheltenham?” David said, breaking my chain of thought. He is a sharp one. With so many ears tracking our conversation, I had to be economical with the truth.
“Oh, um… I was invited for an interview. I still hadn’t fully decided on medicine as a career path at that time.” David raised an eyebrow. I would not be goaded. “Keeping my options open, you know how it is.” He dipped his chin to his chest, with that wry smile of knowing that says, there is more to this than you are letting on, old man, but he didn’t push me.
The gentle rocking of the boat had a soporific effect on us. The adrenalin rush of the accident finally receding from our exhausted bones, we slipped in our seats by gradual increments, and then slept.
Wednesday 1st August 1990
There are massive aeroplanes taxiing across the asphalt, pulling into to sleek modern terminals to unload their passengers. So many wheeled cabin bags and shuffling people, heads bowed over small hand-held devices, not looking where they are going. Streams of rushing travellers, coursing past uniformed officers with backs held straight against the weight of their guns. Flat TV monitors, mounted in a massive mosaic above the concourse, displaying reams of flight data and the insignia: JFK.
An ungainly man in a trench coat with no luggage, passes through the section labelled ‘Nothing to Declare’. Beyond the passageway, a young woman in her mid-twenties waits for him. She brushes her thick auburn hair back over her shoulder and extends her hand in greeting. Something about her mannerisms seem familiar. Her graceful neck, the endearing tilt of her head, the unmasked freckles over her nose. Her apparel says Smart New Yorker, but her elegance smacks of an English rose.
There are a few moments of inaudible conversation, before he digs into his coat pocket and retrieves a plastic stick, no larger than a pack of chewing gum. That’s when I see his missing little finger. Its gnarly stump wriggling mid-air as he hands her the plastic item. She takes it from him, and presses her finger to her ear, speaking words I cannot hear.
The four-fingered man takes out another device, its steel casing and glassy sheen reflects the artificial light. With a touch of the thumb, it springs into life, displaying moving images on its screen. With rapid swipes, he interacts with its glyphs and visible characters, then forms a broad, satisfied smile. Presented across the screen is an astronomical number, preceded with the symbol for pound sterling. Transactions concluded, they dissolve into the crowds once more, before the vision fades from view.
I roused myself into full consciousness, unsteady and forgetful of our location. As my mind adjusted to the surroundings, I deduced that it is in fact still the middle of the night, that I am with my son half way across the English Channel, and that I have experienced another strange premonition of the distant future. One where people hold computers in their hands, televisions are flat and aeroplanes are the size of cruise liners.
This vision seemed so far in the future as to be unrelated to me or my family, and yet it lingered in my mind, preventing me from obtaining any further sleep. As intriguing as the forthcoming inventions might be, the aspect that disturbed me the most was the auburn haired young lady with her graceful charm.
Grandma Phebe would be able to link it to critical events, with the strength and precision of her gift, but alas, I cannot. The best I can do is to document all that I see, and hope that one day it will finally make sense to me. At present, I must concentrate on locating her sealed tin, containing the solution to our current predicament.
I spent the rest of the journey fretting over our landing, wondering if Anthony Knight knew of our whereabouts and had dispatched agents to intercept us. I saw enough of that secret bunker at Whitehall to know that their investment in surveillance equipment was substantial, and set to increase exponentially. The mind boggles at how fast technology changes. What if the French system of satellite tracking trains is adapted to track people? Perhaps George Orwell had the same abilities as Phebe and I, but simply got the date wrong. So long, personal freedom. You shall be missed.
Dawn broke on the starboard side of the ferry. Few were awake in our section of the lounge cabin to watch the feeble rays creep above the horizon. David twitched in his sleep. I pulled his jacket gently over his shoulder, and as I did this, the ticket stub for the Museé D’Orsay fell out onto the floor. Reaching down, I plucked it from the carpet and brushed the dirt and fluff from its surface.
Five years without my Minnie. Five years of one pot dinners and cold sheets, of echoing hallways and solitary crosswords. Her clothes still hung in the wardrobe, her jewellery on her vanity unit. Another task I could not face. I traced my finger across the lettering on the ticket, and caught David watching me.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?” I said, drawing my thoughts away from maudlin tendencies.
“This chair did – stiff back.” He groaned and stretched, then took note of the ticket stub. “You were thinking about mum?”
I nodded. “She missed this by a whisker.”
“What was it about that Claudel sculpture that appealed to her so much? I know it is a stunning piece, but so are many others. Why this one?”
I thought long and hard about my answer. Of how Claudel battled against a tempestuous love triangle, with the infamous Rodin and the other woman in his life. How she went on to influence his life and work, often to the point of allowing him to take credit for her own creations. And how ultimately futile her quest became. Why did my Minnie love this story so? Perhaps she felt the tide shifting towards recognition for the greatest women in history. Maybe she decried the treatment Claudel endured at the hands of her own family members. Perhaps she simply saw the brilliance of the artwork.
It was more likely that Minnie felt a rapport with Claudel and her plight. Rodin could not bear to risk his reputation and standing within his extensive circle of art critics by leaving his wife for a younger, more exuberant lover. I considered how this answer might be perceived by David. The natural conclusions that he might draw and how it could affect his opinion of me.
“She studied this particular sculptress for her arts degree. It happened to be her favourite, that’s all.” I stared down at the ticket, but I could feel his glare burning the side of my face. However the situation was viewed, David would paint me as the villain. That was something I could not bear.
The wind picked up, making our approach into Portsmouth harbour a slow steady crawl across choppy waters. The lounges cleared of families and truckers, making a mad dash to their vehicles in the ships underbelly. David and I sauntered towards the covered gangplank, aware of how much had been left unsaid.
In a bid to break the silence, I channelled our attention to our next obstacle. “How do you suggest that we get to London from here at six in the morni
ng, when nothing is open?”
“What’s in London? Surely we’d be better going to get Lily and Mary first?” David shot me a look that could liquify steel.
“As much as it hurts you for them to be with this man, they are safe there. We are not. We don’t want to take danger with us to their door, do we?” I watched him as he assimilated and tried to make peace with this information. At length, he nodded his consent. I continued. “I recall from the abeyance documents that the bank box was in London. We can call Wildman for the details when we get there. What do you recommend… a taxi to the train station?”
David pondered for a moment, and then said, “I’d rather we hired another car to be honest, Dad. At least then we can come and go as we please without running into the authorities at every turn. Remember that my division will be on the lookout for me, and I imagine that sanctions for leaving my mission will be heavy. They would have left Jeddah by now.” The past week had taken a toll on my son. He looked haggard, and I could see a blood vessel throbbing in his temple. The consequences of defying MI6 would require careful management, and soon.
“Okay, if you think that is best, but we will have to wait somewhere less conspicuous than one of the largest ports in Britain for the hire companies to open.”
We by-passed the main terminal and walked around the edge of the building to the taxi rank, and then asked the driver to help us find a café near to a car hire firm. Within half an hour, we were sitting down to a MacDonald’s egg MacMuffin each, reading the tabloid newspapers, within sight of a rental company. The talks in Jeddah were not a success. The Kuwaitis would not bow to Saddam’s demands.
David scoffed his food and then left his coffee to cool, while he nipped outside to a payphone to make a call to Wales. I peeled the bacon from the bread and dissected the excess rind, before savouring its salty sweetness. Even cheap nasty bacon is welcome after so long an abstinence.
