by Sam Nash
Stay true, my love, and keep your own counsel. Knowledge of the future is too seductive for those who cannot see the consequences.
You will always be in my heart and mind.
With sincerest love,
Phebe.
I read the letter through twice, and, upon hearing David’s bedroom door squeaking, I bundled the parchment and journal back into its tin. He tapped lightly on my door and entered.
“Aren’t you ready yet? We have to go. That farmer would have called the police by now. They’ll be on the lookout for the Ford.” He gathered up the bin bag of clothes and wafted his hands at me, chivvying me along.
“Yes, I know. Sorry. I am not used to all this cloak and dagger stuff.” I scooped up my toiletries and pushed them into my travel bag. Donning clean clothes over damp skin, I scanned the room for stray evidence, and then followed David into the hallway. Instead of heading for the stairs, he turned and went to the end of the corridor and opened a window.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, aware how sound carries in hotels in the dead of night. He didn’t answer, but fed the bin bag through the gap, letting it fall to the tarmac of the car park below. Before I could question his actions, David grabbed my arm and marched me to the night porters desk at reception.
“You sort the bill, I’ll put our stuff in the car.” He said, handing me a roll of twenty pound notes.
I did as he commanded, giving the porter a generous tip, and then hurrying to the car park. I stood for a minute under the porch light, looking out for the little red car. An engine roared into life, deeper and more powerful than I remembered. The headlights dazzled me as they drew closer, until a dark grey Vauxhall stopped in front of the steps. The automatic window lowered.
“Get in, old man. What are you waiting for?”
“David?” I stumbled inside the broad family car and adjusted my seat belt. His efficiency was deeply perturbing. As my thoughts caught up with his sensible actions, I added theft, to our growing list of crimes. “The rubbish sacks?”
“In the boot.”
“And our fingerprints on the Ford?”
“Yours are not in the system.”
“What about yours?”
“I don’t have fingerprints. Specialist fluid dispensed by Six and applied once a month.”
There was no answer that I could form to that. I glanced over my shoulder at the tin box laying on the back seat next to the flashlight and my travel bag. Before we left the street lit village of Sedgewell, I reached back and grasped the tin to my chest. This hard won prize would never leave my possession ever again.
As we picked our way in the darkness through the narrow country lanes, Phebe’s words came back to me. “Look to a man called Jenkins.” I knew precisely who my grandmother was referring to; I had his contact details etched into a steel card in my wallet. He was the thin man in Whitehall, charged with all the personal dealings for Anthony Knight, Secretary of Defence. How could someone so close to my nemesis be trusted to help us? And yet, thus far, everything Phebe had set in place all those years ago has played out to this very point.
I wriggled my wallet from my pocket and sorted through my cards. His was conspicuous and unyielding; it neither bent nor folded. Under torchlight, I read the embossed words. Call day or night, I am at your service. Jenkins, and then a series of telephones numbers, including one for a confidential answering service.
Trust is a peculiar and ephemeral social construct. I had made erroneous assumptions regarding the solicitor Mr Bunyan, based on little more than inferred ties to Anthony Knight. Yet, his family have built generations of trust with mine. Could it be that Jenkins contacted Bunyan on my behalf? I related my theories to David as we drove through the foothills of the lake district in the small hours of the morning.
“Does Phebe make mention of which words would incriminate Knight in her letter?” David asked.
“No, but if anyone could dish the dirt on him, it would be his closest Private Secretary.”
We both stared in ponderous thought, into the headlight illumination of the road ahead. I still had no ammunition with which to end this entire debacle. My son remained a target as a result of leaving his mission, and I continued to face indentured servitude to a political weasel.
“What about inside the journal itself, is there an entry that mentions Anthony Knight directly?” David enquired, gesturing for me to continue the search. Juggling the torch, I unpacked the treasured diary. With it open across my lap, I scanned through the first few pages, its radical contents inflaming my senses. These documented visions made for uncomfortable reading, and would require further contemplation and research, but none appeared to be of use to our current situation.
“I think we have to trust Phebe, and call Jenkins. There can be no harm in speaking to him at this stage. Knight already knows of our whereabouts. He will be expecting my capitulation in order to save the rest of my family. It won’t be long until he discovers that you are still alive too.”
“If you think it best. Will you wait until morning at least? You could call from Lily’s hideout in Wales.”
“No, the card says day or night, let’s catch him off guard.”
We pulled over in a tiny village which still had a working telephone in an old fashioned red box. David kept the car running, while I carried a handful of change into the booth. I waited for a moment with the receiver in my hand, poised to dial. What was I going to say? Hi there, I don’t suppose you could, you know, commit treason to get my son out of contract killing? All I could do was hope that Phebe would never steer me further into trouble. The trust of familial blood.
I punched in the number for night hours from the metal card and unconsciously crossed my fingers. It rang three times before I heard him answer.
“Hello?” I said, my voice shaky and weak.
“Hello. Who is this please?”
“It’s…er… Dr Phillip Lawrence.”
“My Lord, I was hoping you would make contact. Can you get to London?”
“I erm….”
“I will arrange for a package to be left at customer services, Euston Station. Whose name shall I use for its collection?”
My brain solidified. Far from catching Jenkins off guard, he was fully prepared for this eventuality. Was it a trap? “Derek Cross.” I babbled, without thinking. “What is it that I am to collect?”
“Not over the phone, my lord. You never know. Let’s just say it is of great importance, and I suggest that you confront AK with it in person.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. I am always at your service, my lord.”
“Please don’t call me that. It’s just Phillip.”
“As you wish, sir. There is one other thing…”
“Yes?”
“He knows Mary’s location…”
The panic was instantaneous. I hung up and rushed to the car. Looking into the dewy, exhausted eyes of my son, I held back. If I told him that Knight had Mary in his sights, he would do something reckless and endanger himself. With a few restorative deep breaths, I said; “Did you manage to get in touch with Lily and Mary at all today?”
“No, why?” He looked at me with such intensity it was like a searing fire was raging inside. “Has something happened? What did Jenkins say?”
That was a stupid thing to blurt out. I needed to be smarter, think carefully before responding. “Jenkins is arranging for a parcel containing crucial information for me in London. If you drop me off at the nearest train station, you can be with your family in Wales, while I sort this mess out.”
I got into the car beside him and buckled up. It took a few miles of reassuring words, and the reading of distracting and disturbing passages from the journal, but eventually David settled down and agreed. A minor alteration to our intended route, had us aiming for central Manchester.
Phebe’s Journal kept me fully occupied, while David brooded. The more
vision accounts I read, the more certain I was that obscurity was Phebe’s best decision. Her descriptions of the future were not minor inconveniences to individuals, but enormous, potentially catastrophic events, likely to affect the whole of civilisation.
I thought about how best to assure the safety of those I love. Given the magnitude of wealth, and the title bestowed upon me, anonymity would no longer be assured. My entire family would endure the media spotlight, particularly with the unusual circumstances of the abeyance. I could not have my darling little granddaughter a target for every despicable gold digger and malevolent group this twisted world has to offer.
I broached the subject with David. “We have done nothing but attract the worst kind of attention to our family throughout all of this.” He glanced aside at me and nodded, returning his focus to the road. I continued. “This is no kind of life for Mary. Constantly on the run, at the mercy of despicable organisations and power crazed despots.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not sure, yet. Have you already told Lily about the earldom, and the money?”
“No, I figured that it was not my place to tell her.”
“Good. I think we should keep it that way. I mean no disrespect, son, but I don’t think she could keep a lid on her activities if she thought she had access to such riches. She may as well paint a bulls-eye on Mary’s back.”
He looked hurt and ashamed. It was as if this was the first time I had confirmed my opinions of his choice of wife. His love for her was without doubt, wholly incomprehensible, but even he admitted to issues of trust. He swallowed hard.
“If you think that is best.”
“I do. Tell no one. I will never use the title, and we will only use the money for emergencies. If we can keep Mary calm, settled and content… have a normal upbringing, she may never manifest her true abilities. That alone, will render her useless to the British government, or any other foul group with malicious intent.” I could see David struggle with this command. A deliberate lie of this magnitude could shatter his marriage entirely if it ever came to light. “Still,” I said. “One problem at a time. I have yet to confront Knight, assuming that Jenkins is as good as his word.”
I sounded confident, but inside I was a seething mass of terror. My guts were tangling themselves in painful constrictions, but now more than ever I needed to be strong. I had no other cards to play. If Jenkins’ information turned out useless, I would have no other choice but to comply to all of the Defence Secretary’s wishes. At least then, he could provide protection for my loved ones, but all my efforts would be for nought.
I read on through the journal in silence, peering up over the dashboard periodically, to assess our progress towards the city. If Phebe’s accounts were as accurate as I believe them to be, no amount of money or status could protect us. Her vision of the future is terrifying.
As dawn broke, I discarded the torch, and read by the strengthening rays. I came upon an entry regarding a British conflict with Argentina, over a small group of islands in the South Atlantic. Phebe’s predicted dates and descriptions struck a chord in my mind. Firstly, because the conflict was in my past, but her future. She must have known that I had no way to influence events, and yet still she recorded it for my benefit. Secondly, the details within her vision, were not those I recalled from news reports. This was entirely new information, which only those in the military or the MoD would be privy to.
On the following page, Phebe listed some highly familiar names. Those whom I know to have had direct involvement in the War Council during the Falklands Crisis. I read on, eager to understand the full extent of their interests. Although military intervention seemed unavoidable at the time, the motives for liberating the inhabitants from Argentinian invaders appeared to be nothing less than altruistic. Phebe’s account suggests quite the opposite.
Her revelation is not really surprising. It is rare for a nation to stump up funds for war unless the land is worth more than it costs to save. If Phebe’s journal is anything to go by, these small rocks in the South Atlantic, could not only yield vast mineral wealth, but could also become central to a future global catastrophe. At the end of this journal entry, she wrote in bold capitals – ‘YOU MUST RETAIN PHEBE’S BANE.”
A shiver coursed through my spine. This was an unequivocal command from my grandmother. A warning with regards to the importance of the inherited mine that David and I visited near Egremont. I read on at speed and in a heightened state of anxiety.
As we reached the Northern Quarter of Manchester City, I packed the journal back into its tin box, and forced it inside my travel bag. David directed me to the location of my fake passport, which he had hidden in a jacket pocket. The early hour allowed us quick passage through light traffic towards Manchester Piccadilly Station. We filtered off the A6 to the drop off area and I hopped out.
“Take care, old man. Have you got enough money on you?”
I patted my pocket containing his roll of twenties and nodded. “Listen. When you find Lily and Mary, don’t stay there. Take them somewhere safe – somewhere that no one could ever find out about.”
His face darkened. “He knows where they are doesn’t he? Knight has made threats…”
“No, not threats, not yet at least. Jenkins warned me that Knight has found them. Get them to safety… well you know how best to protect them.” I went to shut the car door, until he shouted:
“How can I contact you?”
“If all goes to plan and I can disarm Knight, I will go home.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
I shrugged. “Drive carefully, son.”
With a heavy heart, I grabbed my bag and hurried into the station. My dislike for coffee aside, I bought two travel cups of the precious caffeine, an early edition of The Independent newspaper, and boarded the intercity fast train to Euston Station, London.
My body fought against a harrowing mixture of stimulants, natural endorphins and the need for sleep. With a forward facing table seat, I put my bag on the Formica counter, and rested my head on the nylon folds. Resisting the urge to drift into slumber, I closed my eyes and contemplated the different paths my future might take, until I felt my brain might overload.
A part of me wondered whether I could be of more use within the political machine that is our British Government. To maintain the appearance of compliance with Knight’s directives, but to use the seat in the House of Lords to steer events away from Phebe’s predictions. The committees and panels afforded to me would place me in the heart of policy making, allowing opportunities to right the wrongs of the past.
But how many years would I have to serve in order to see Phebe’s future come to pass? How many principles would I have to break in order to comply with Knight’s squalid demands? I would have to give up my medical practice – my partnership with Wildman. Would I ever have time for David and Mary? There must be a better way. One that gives me leverage to control my own destiny. I have to believe that Phebe would protect my interests and never sell me out to a social climbing low life in Whitehall.
I glanced up at the few passengers on the early train around me. Was I still under surveillance? Had the Jesuits deployed a new team to prevent me from reaching my final destination? How on earth was I to stop their onslaught? Sleep deprivation made me paranoid. I felt like everyone in the carriage was monitoring me. I was teetering on a full mental breakdown.
Employing advice I give to patients of a nervous disposition, I concentrated on my breathing. Slow breaths, counted in and out of my stressed lungs. The dizzying hypoxic state lessened with a reduction in ventilation rate. Before I knew what was happening, I had dozed off.
The jerking motion of the carriage pulling into Euston woke me. I pawed at my travel bag, in fear that I had lost possession of the tin box containing the journal. Its firm edges reassured me of its presence. Not that anyone could have removed it without waking me.
A quick pit stop to urinate and
splash water on my face, and I was ready to do battle. I never have admired Euston Station. It does not have the elegance of other buildings, like St. Pancras. Its architecture reminds me of a multi-story car park; utilitarian concrete in repeated rectangles. Low gloomy ceilings and electric buggies ferrying suitcases and old ladies to the exits.
The main concourse was heaving with commuters. Jostling, barging and scurrying in all directions at once. My head spun. I looked about me for signs to customer services but found only a circular desk, sitting in the midst of chaos like a volcanic island. I waited for the lady behind the counter to finish a telephone call and asked for directions.
Calming the jitter inside me, I made my way to the main ticket office, turning sharp right inside the doorway. There I found my destination. A single chap manned the desk. While I waited for my turn in the queue, I dug out the fake passport. The enclosed space and numerous bodies rendered me a sweaty mess. Of all the days for Mother Nature to declare summer, she had to pick today.
The woman in front of me left, allowing me to step to the front.
“How may I help you, sir?” It was a flat toned delivery. Apathy lurked behind his smile.
“I believe a parcel has been left for me.” I said, trying my best not to appear nervous or suspicious, imagining peril with every passing stranger. I pushed the open passport across the desk at him. He leaned forward, squinting at the name, and then reached behind the counter for a padded envelope. Shoving the package and passport back at me, he looked beyond my shoulder at the person behind me and said;
“How may I help you, madam?”
I thought at the time how difficult it must be to remain civil under such circumstances, but then basic manners appear to be a foreign concept to many. I made a point of thanking him, in a loud and exaggerated voice before I stepped away.
Back among the crowds, I glanced about me for a safe haven, where I could examine the contents of Jenkin’s parcel. Above one end of the concourse, a café seating area hovered on a mezzanine. I found the stairwell and launched myself up the steps two at a time. With a pot of tea and a bite to eat, I settled above the bustle in a quiet corner of the café and ripped the jiffy bag open.
