The Aurora Journals Part Three

by Sam Nash

  My food descended my oesophagus in uncomfortable lumps. Saliva ran dry as I came to terms with how close David was to death. I reached back into my memories for the moment that had stayed Knight’s hand. If I had not reined in my belligerence, would he have ordered a bullet to the back of David’s head, right then; while I sat in his office watching him make the telephone call?

  I vowed to alter the future, to preserve my son’s life, but have I done enough? What if Knight is planning another hit? Tawnie and her cabal go blundering through the world with no regard for stealth or tactics, but that is not the British way. MI6 take the word ruthless to a whole new level. If they choose to make you a target, you will never see the end coming.

  David looked at his watch. “Shall we get coffee sent to my room, it’s almost ten o’clock?”

  I was so wrapped up in my thoughts I had lost track of time. “Better make it tea or you will never sleep.”

  David had the better room between us. Spacious albeit oddly decorated. The colours did not match, to my eye, but then I am a traditionalist. These modern combinations are jarring to the aesthetic, in my opinion.

  “We could have made tea here…” David gestured to the hospitality tray.

  “I prefer proper milk. Not keen on that podded UHT stuff.” I reached around the edge of the television for the power button, and then picked channel one on the remote.

  It was the primary headline. Yesterday’s talks were not a success. All attempts to negotiate a peaceful resolution over the disputed Rumalia Oilfields failed. Economic embargoes and the blockades in the Persian Gulf, have only angered the despot, Saddam Hussein, further. He has announced to the world that he would ‘rather die, than be humiliated.’ The Americans have sent Dick Cheney to Saudi Arabia to convince them to allow usage of their facilities for ground force bases in the region. No doubt that the oil supply pipeline, running from Iraq through the Saudi territory will also be shut down.

  I watched in a fugue state, listening to the rhetoric and suppositions woven by the reporters. They have few facts to fill an entire news programme. How much is the truth, and how much is spun by politician led directives? Only Secret Intelligence Services would know the full extent of Hussein’s demands, and who knows if he has a valid argument, or whether he is truly at fault in demanding the Kuwait territories be returned to its original historical boundaries.

  What is known, is that Iraq forces have loaded chemical, or possibly biological, weapons onto military aircraft, in direct contravention of the 1925 Gas Warfare Treaty. This, I suspect, is the main reason for the British troops gruelling vaccination schedule.

  What is unforgivable, is that politicians could have foreseen this eventuality brewing, months ago. Why has it taken so long to begin the process of inoculation? A staggered and metered schedule would allow military personnel the required time to build resistance to known pathogens. I cannot say the same for the untested, experimental vaccines, if that is indeed what they are.

  The world will now wait for the Americans to decide the course of action. Their sheer numbers give them authority to dictate counter measures. I suspect that they will posture and flounce about and call Saddam’s bluff. They need the continuation of oil supplies from the region more than any of us. Who’s to tell whether they are not behind the sneaky disregard of the OPEC oil quotas that kicked off this latest middle eastern scuffle?

  The only upside to this, is that Anthony Knight’s attention will have swung far away from me. With his sight firmly on the Gulf Crisis, the Jesuits in panic for their ailing Father General, and the American elite rebuffed for the time being, we should have a clear run at Grandma Phebe’s journal.

  I left my son’s room in a mildly optimistic state. If my name is used in conjunction with the Gulf vaccines, at least I can now afford the best solicitors and barristers to help me prove my case. Knight and his assistants may have taken my paper evidence at that presentation, but I have all the test results backed up on floppy disc. I must remember to move the disc to a more secure location when I get home.

  Thursday 2nd August 1990

  Well rested, fed, and feeling better than I had done in days, we set out across the Northamptonshire countryside towards the motorway. David stayed quiet for the first hour or so of our journey, possibly because he received no answer from his early morning telephone call to his wife. I tried to raise his spirits, starting conversations that withered and died within a few short answers.

  I switched on the radio; the early show made my head spin. Saddam’s troops have invaded Kuwait City. Their night raids hit some of the most critical civilian areas in their attempts to secure control. Aging missiles and tanks, charged through suburbs, killing and maiming everything in their path. David and I looked at one another. What could we say? This was hardly unexpected.

  I felt numbed by the news, but I needed to concentrate as we hit the usual M1 – M6 congestion at Crick. By mid-morning, we sailed by Coventry and stopped for a break after a heavy traffic patch near Birmingham. Three and a half hours of fields and quarries, urban pockets, city outskirts and ugly power stations, until our route snaked around the edges of Morecombe Bay. A quick stop to refuel and grab a sandwich, and David was back in the driver’s seat for the last leg of our journey.

  After the speed of the motorways, you forget how frustrating the A roads can be. Caravans and horseboxes, tractors and haulage trucks, all blocking our passage. Our route hugged the coastline and avoided the more mountainous tourist regions, and yet still took us another two hours of tedium before we reached our destination.

  The approach to Sedgewell was spectacular. Immense green mountains in the distance to our right, the Irish sea to our left. All around us were branching deltas of rivers and streams, curling through wooded glades and pristine farmland. The closer we drew to Sedgewell, the less developed the villages became. Tiny stone cottages arranged in nonsensical patterns, dating back hundreds of years.

  We passed a large area of woodland and, where the landscape flattened out, we could see that cursed mass of concrete and metal. The spreading blight of the British coastlines; the nuclear power plant. I had not imagined the site to be so large. It covered miles of the area, not mere acres. Our ancestral grounds, decimated by the unholiest of canker sores. A lesion amid such beauty.

  I understand the need for energy supplies, but this too was built under a government fallacy. Its origins lay within a series of lies, fed to the British people, promising virtually free energy after its construction. The reality was far more sinister. This site was built to produce material for nuclear weapons. What other lies will be uncovered when the Thirty-Year Rule runs its course.

  We approached Sedgewell village from the south. The photocopy did not do this place justice. There were more little cottages and larger houses than was marked on the map. We followed the meander in the road, past a decent looking pub, a red stone church, along a high street and passed what was once an oddly shaped gatehouse marking the start of a stately driveway.

  David pulled the car into the drive. We met with no resistance at the tiny cross-shaped gatehouse, so on we went. The road took us through dense forest, which stopped abruptly so close to the main house as to be alarming. I took a long look at the grand frontage, the sweeping drive and car parks.

  “This is Victorian.” I said, analysing the architrave and window styles. “And a hotel.”

  “I’m guessing that the Sedgewell Estate was in our family for centuries prior to its sale?” David asked, stopping the Ford near to the front entrance.

  “I couldn’t say, but I doubt that the seventh earl, Great Uncle Sedgewell…whatever his name was, paid for it to be built. From the auction there were tithe cottages, farms, land and all sorts attached to the estate. It must have been established for hundreds of years.”

  “So, we can rule this out as a possibility?”

  “Let’s call it, unlikely.”

  David yanked up the handbrake and wriggled h
is hand into his back pocket, pulling out the photocopied Ordnance Survey map sections. With a pen from the dashboard, he drew a cross over the encircled building. Leaving the engine idling, he unclipped his seat belt and opened the car door.

  “I’ll ask at reception, just to be sure.”

  I watched his scuffling jog into the building, wound down the passenger window and breathed in the fresh air. Just the faintest hint of salt in the breeze. It really is an attractive part of the world.

  After a couple of minutes, David reappeared. “Nope, definitely not part of the estate. It was a girl’s school from the eighteen-eighties and a hotel from the nineteen-sixties onwards. The receptionist pointed me to an old photo on the wall with the history written within the frame.”

  “One down, two to go.”

  “Yep.” We did a circuit of the car park and returned to the main road. David looked both ways at the drive entrance. “Left or right?”

  “Left.” I said. “We know roughly what is back the way we came. Let’s see what is closer to the power station.”

  We forked off the main drag, following the signs to the nuclear power plant. The tree lined road, hid the monstrosity that lay beyond. Our attention was so drawn to the station that we almost missed the entrance into our next large house.

  It turned out to be another hotel, but of much older construction. It was a strange mix of styles, which looked to me, more like a grain mill attached to some kind of ancient tower. Not like a country house at all. David offered to repeat his investigative techniques. My legs needed a good stretch and a visit to the men’s room was in order. After a quick debate, we decided to check in and see what information could be gleaned from the staff.

  I have to say, it is a stunning place. Mainly set up for corporate events and weddings but still, most comfortable. A nice young lady served us with afternoon tea in a sunny area of the lounge. Clotted cream, raspberry jam and fresh baked scones. David turned his nose up at the tea, and ordered a latte, leaving the entire pot of Assam for me. And by Christ, I needed that.

  With the photocopies smoothed out on our table, I could see the village layout clearly. We sat at the furthest edges of the parish, within sight of the power station. The other hotel was more central and the last large building we planned on inspecting, I estimated to be at least two miles from the village in a north easterly direction.

  The young waitress brought more cold milk in a china jug. I took the opportunity to grill her.

  “Erm…miss? Can you tell me when this lovely old place became a hotel?” She looked at me as though I had grown two heads.

  “Not really…” Her accent northern, but more Manchester than Cumbria. “I only moved here a couple of years ago. You want me to ask the manager?”

  “Would it be possible to speak with the manager directly? Only, I am writing a book about the area, and I want to get my facts straight.” I said, looking up with my best and most harmless smile.

  She nodded, and said she would find out if he was available. When she had gone from our table, David said; “You are getting pretty good at charming assets yourself. Are you sure you are not an undercover agent?”

  The manager was a willowy fellow with the lingering smell of antiseptic about him. He bent over our table with the kind of humility you would expect from a serf, two hundred years ago.

  “Is, is… there a problem, sir?” He stammered.

  “No, not at all, everything is perfect, thank you. I was wondering what you can tell me about the history of this place?”

  “Ah…um… that is somewhat uncertain, sir. According to the deeds, it dates back to at least the sixteenth century, but the original purpose of the building remains unknown. It did, at some point belong to the Abbey. There is a tithe barn over at…um… although the Pele Tower is much older… some say it was a fortification against Scottish raiders… so you see…” He trailed off, neglecting to complete the remaining sentences.

  “You mentioned, the Abbey?”

  “Cistercian, I believe, I could be wrong. Ruins now of course… the attached house is still habitable though. Quite fine…”

  I thanked the man, who shuffled away still bent in the middle, as though it would take an act of God to straighten his spine.

  David pushed his chair out from the table, laying his napkin down across his plate. “Shall we go and take a look then?” He said, keen to complete our mission and return to patch up his broken family.

  “Sounds like this attached house is still lived in. Shouldn’t we think this through first? We can’t just go bowling up there uninvited.”

  “It’s not far. We can go and see what we are up against first. It might all be abandoned, we won’t know until we take a look.” He drew out the car keys from his pocket, hurrying me to my feet.

  “Fine, but if we end up in a local police station for trespass, we will have a hell of a time explaining this one.”

  David drove us back through the village, turning off at the church. Within a few hundred metres, the houses thinned out and the narrow road became narrower still. Passing cars missed us and the dry-stone walls by a fraction, making me tense my legs and shoulders at each approach. From the photocopy, I directed my son to take us down a small lane, signposted with a warning of a dead end. With a drastic reduction in speed, we edged our way through the copses and over streams.

  If it hadn’t been for David’s keen eyes, we would have missed the entrance altogether. A semi-circular low wall, buttressed with high pillars, and capped with spherical stones, announced the driveway. Everything was overgrown and unkempt. The drive itself, little more than cart track, leading up to a bank of tall conifer trees. We stopped in the entrance.

  “What do you think?” I said, steeling myself for his answer. I knew that he would favour any kind of shortcut to expedite his return to Lily, even if that meant something illegal.

  “I think we should go on foot from here. It’s so quiet, the engine noises would be detected if we drive on.”

  I agreed, with reluctance. We tucked the car close to the wall, and were no more than a hundred metres down the track when the sky deposited a heavy shower down on us. Soaked through, we battled on, sneaking past occupied barn conversions and farm workers about their business, until we reached a thicket of shrubs and deciduous trees.

  The abbey ruin lay stretched out before us, to the left. The remains of a cloister ran directly from the shrubs to what would once have been a vast bell tower. Its imposing arches mirrored by the lesser naves and windowless apertures in the monk’s quarters. What a sight it must have once been.

  Attached to the far end of the ruin, lay the main house. A peculiar assortment of buildings, added at different times throughout its chequered history, until it became the hotchpotch of a stately home before us.

  Our position was exposed. David grabbed hold of my shirt, tugging me backwards into the depression in the ground that enclosed the shrubs. Afforded with generous cover, we picked our way through thickets and brambles to the start of the cloister, and crouched down.

  “Well? Any ideas, old man?”

  “Let me think for a minute, won’t you?” I peered at the three story frontage of the main house, and noticed that some of the upper windows were open, the curtains blowing in with the squall. I stood up, and inched around the gully, leaning against the stone of an outbuilding for support. “Someone is at home, that’s for sure. I don’t think it wise to knock on the door and ask permission to go grubbing around their whole house looking for the sealed tin, do you?”

  David shook his head. “I hadn’t banked on the place being so big. It could take weeks of hunting, before we found Phebe’s Journal. She must have left us some way to figure out exactly where to look.”

  I backtracked through the undergrowth. “At least we know what we are up against. Let’s go to the hotel and clean up. These brambles are ripping my ankles to shreds.”

  Our retreat was noticed. A farmer on a quad bike,
with a border collie balancing on the back, watched us returning to the Ford. He stopped in the middle of the track, and stood up on the footplates of his vehicle. A lone sentry at the castle walls. I have no doubt that he would report his discovery back to the landowner, making our mission all the more dangerous.

  We took off our shoes at reception, and carried them through the vestibule, a gesture noted and appreciated by the receptionist. Other intrepid hikers followed suit, leaving a veritable stack of walking boots, raincoats and windbreakers to dry off in the porchway. The rain, it seems, had set in for the rest of the evening.

  David followed me into my room and collapsed onto the end of the bed. I could see a smear of blood on his grey socks. “How bad are the scratches on your legs?” I asked, heading to the en-suite to wash my hands.

  “They’re okay. Don’t fuss.”

  I turned to face him through the open bathroom door, drying my hands on a towel. “Let me see.” Like mine, his ankles bore the red welts of bramble slashes. David pulled up his trouser leg to reveal a much deeper cut, that oozed blood into the black fabric of his jeans.

  “I tripped over some half-buried rocks in that gully. It’ll be alright.”

  “Take your trousers off and rinse down in the shower. I’ll nip to reception and ask if they have a first aid kit.” I left my son to carry out my orders, and descended the stairs in my socks. No one was at reception. I waited for a moment, and then tentatively rang the bell. At first, no one came, but then I saw the shadow of someone stirring in the office behind reception. A window of sorts, coated in strips of mirrored glass which allowed a partial view into the room.

  I waited again, but no one came to my assistance. My hand hovered over the desk bell once more, but the manager appeared in the doorway to his office.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “My apologies for disturbing you again, Mr…um…?”

  “Wendle, no trouble at all, sir.”

  “My son tripped on our walk and has a nasty cut on his leg. Do you have a first aid kit that I could borrow, please? I am more than happy to pay for what I use.”