The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

  Her morning ruined, Mary spent the rest of the day sifting through tiny, anaesthetised fruit flies with a paintbrush and a hand lens. She intended to expose a target group of insects to metallic compound variations before pairing them in specified groupings to mate, but her mind just could not focus. Her mental wanderings resulted in allowing an unidentified rogue male to spend a pleasant hour or two with her segregated females, rendering the trial invalid. By 4.30pm Mary felt dizzy from inhaling too much chloroform and called it a day. She collected her rucksack and walked to the university main entrance to wait at the bus stop.

  The first bus she hailed did not stop, its steamy windows transforming the standing crowd of passengers to a shadowy amorphous mass as it drove by. I wonder what Grampy would like to eat for dinner. Her mind darted to the contents of the freezer compartments in her kitchen. Hmm, nothing very exciting in there. Maybe we can get a take-away. The next bus did stop. She waited in the queue to board, staring at the enormous teeth of the blonde woman on the advertising banner. It read: ‘For the whitest, brightest smile, choose Fluorodyle’. A large slug of blue toothpaste balanced on a branded brush next to the woman’s mouth. No one has teeth as white as that naturally. I wonder how many hours some poor graphic designer spent, airbrushing those tombstones?

  Mary boarded the bus and dropped the coins into the automated ticket dispenser. Hanging onto the steel pole next to a folded baby buggy, she studied a young lad sitting with his mother, pulling at a tear in the seat material. It’s okay for you, little boy. You haven’t got an ex-husband intent on getting you locked up for being a threat to national security. You can vandalise buses to your heart’s content. No one will be watching your every move ready to lock you away for the good of the people.

  Hopping off the bus outside the supermarket, Mary zipped up her parka jacket and pulled her mobile phone from her rucksack. Dialling the landline for her own house, she waited ten rings for her grandfather to answer. It redirected her call to an answering service. She hung up. Mary dialled his mobile number and was immediately informed that the phone was switched off. Right-oh, Grampy. Take away it is. I bet he’s asleep on the couch.

  It started to drizzle. Mary pulled up the hood of her coat and trudged the half mile from the shopping precinct to her house. The Volvo was on the drive. She turned the key in the Yale lock and opened the front door, calling to her grandfather and sliding the rucksack from her shoulders. “Grampy? Where are you?” Wandering through the hall to the kitchen, Mary saw a pile of shopping bags bunched on the worktop and the door through to the garage swinging wide open.

  “Just a minute, be right there. Don’t come through, stay in the kitchen.” The old man ordered, bursting into the kitchen cleaning oil from his hands with a rag.

  “What on earth are you up to? What’s in all these bags? You hate shopping.” Mary pulled a carrier bag open and tried to poke her nose in. He smacked the back of her hand, letting out a warning bleat, to stay out. Squeezing a dollop of washing up liquid into his hands, he rubbed at the oil stains soaking into the creases of his skin.

  “Come on, Gramps, what’s going on?’

  “I just wanted to help you get back on your feet after all that unpleasantness you went through a few weeks back.” He rinsed the soap off and dried his hands. The plastic bags shielded the more exclusive coated cardboard bag in the centre. Pip located the plaited fabric handles and lifted it over to his granddaughter. “It’s as close as I could get to your old satchel.”

  “Oh Grampy, you didn’t. Thank you ever so much. I have felt lost without it. Bless you.” Mary pulled the leather bag out and unwrapped it from the tissue paper. “It’s perfect.” She pecked him on the cheek. “An early birthday present, I am spoiled.”

  “There’s more.” Pip rummaged amongst the shopping and produced a plastic duffel bag, the silvered logo foretelling the expense of the contents. “Parth took his laptop and other gadgets with him. I thought you might need a tablet to access your broadband connection.”

  “This is too much. Really, Grampy, these cost a fortune.” Mary held the carrier aloft, offering it to Pip to return.

  “I can’t take my money with me when I do finally drop off my perch. Who else can I spend it on, but you and Dan?” He pushed the item back in her direction. She flung an arm around him, nuzzling her face into his neck. He grinned. “Ah, go on with you, girl.”

  “You bought some groceries too?” Mary delved into the closest supermarket bag. “Bread, scones, milk…organic decaf tea? Aloe Vera fluoride free toothpaste?” She scrunched up her nose and peered at Pip, puzzled. He said nothing, handing her a paper pharmacy bag instead. Mary took it, with some apprehension, and looked inside. She gasped, her mouth hung open and heat rushed to her cheeks. “A pregnancy test? Really, Gramps?”

  “Think about it, sweetie pie. You have all the symptoms and I was a GP for a very long time.”

  Chapter Three

  Mary thanked her grandfather for his kindness, assuring him that stress was upsetting her stomach, then shoved a fan of take away menus beneath his nose for consideration. Pip recognised the subterfuge and let the matter of her potential pregnancy drop. He sat on a kitchen stool as she stowed the groceries away, wittering incessantly on the banal to diffuse the tension. They ordered pizza in the end, requesting delivery from a local branch, which took just twenty-five minutes to arrive.

  It was after they had eaten, when Mary carried the pizza box through to the garage for recycling, that she discovered another surprise. “Grampy… what have you done?” She yelled through to the kitchen, where Pip was feeding the dishwasher with dirty plates. He shuffled through the adjoining door, standing on the step in his slippers. Leaning against the garage wall was a brand new Pashley Princess Classic bicycle, with full mud guards, chain guard and a front basket and panniers. He stood by, as his granddaughter buckled under the weight of pretence that had kept her from falling apart. Whether the tears fell as a result of hormones or post-traumatic stress, Dr Pip Lawrence was there to catch them.

  ***

  The day had been a hectic one for Pip, who insisted on switching the TV over to Question Time, then promptly fell asleep in the armchair. Mary lowered the volume and quietly removed the packaging from the tablet computer. Pressing the power button, she waited for the fruit logo to disappear and followed the setup instructions. Her mobile chimed, juddering on the arm of the sofa. A message from Yelena:

  It’s not good news. Come to my office first thing in the morning. Y. x

  Mary’s innards did a back flip, then continued to flutter. Images of the torment that she endured at the hands of an organised group of Soviet militia flickered through her mind. She pulled her focus back to the present. There was no way Mary would sleep with a nameless threat hanging over her. Grabbing her phone, she sneaked out of the lounge and into the study and called Yelena.

  “It’s me. Can you tell me now, please?” There was a long pause, an electrical hum thrummed into her eardrum, and then the breathy noise of Yelena hurrying through creaking doors.

  “They are insisting that you and Parth come to Ditchley and present your findings.” The timbre of Yelena’s voice was unsettling. She was rattled.

  “What’s Ditchley?” Mary’s intonation matched the gravity of her friend’s. She held her breath waiting for the answer.

  There was a slight tremor in Yelena’s response. “Look it up. I have to go.” The line went dead, clicked twice and then returned to the dialling tone. Are they listening to our calls? It’s all happening again… Mary hurried back to the lounge and retrieved her new tablet computer. Flipping open the cover, it sprang into life with a jingle, waking Pip from his nap. She touched the icon that would allow her to browse the internet and waited.

  “Grampy, have you ever heard of Ditchley?” The browser window opened, and she typed in the search bar. The first entry on the search engine list – The Ditchley Foundation.

  “Yes, my love.” He pressed his deadened brow and cheek with
his palm and stretched. “It’s in Oxfordshire. A beautiful estate.” He yawned, and then looked at his granddaughter’s anxious frown. “What’s the matter, sweetie pie?”

  Mary’s mobile pinged again.

  Change of plan. Start Packing. A car will pick you up at 9am. Y

  No friendly kiss as a sign off. This was serious.

  “Mary? What is it?” Pip struggled to his feet, pacing the lounge to her side.

  “Parth and I have to go there in the morning.” She looked at the foundation’s home page. It looked stunning. An imposing mansion of huge proportions surrounded by parkland that could rival any belonging to royalty. “What happens there?” She thought it looked too stately to be threatening – too Jane Austen.

  “It’s a kind of conference centre for very important people.” Pip leaned over her tablet, squinting at the screen. Mary positioned her thumb over the tablet’s camera, craning her neck to the side of the device to find the microphone.

  “So, anyone can hire it out, it’s just a posh venue?” Mary whispered, still looking for the mic outlet. She tapped through the website, skim reading and absorbing the panoramic views of the grounds and state rooms.

  “I suppose so, when the government aren’t using it. I really wouldn’t know, love. What does it say on their homepage?” Pip reached down and touched the logo, taking them back to the first explanatory paragraphs of the site. It said:

  The Ditchley Foundation brings together global pioneers and experts to help inform policy on the chief international topics of our era. The magnificent rural grounds allow for new understanding, fresh thinking, and better problem solving, in a discreet and informal setting.

  “This is where politicians invite scientists and experts in their fields, before deciding international policies?” The pictures looked benign enough. The eighteenth-century décor looped in their own slideshow across her screen. Images of Winston Churchill inspecting the troops decamped outside the west wing during the Second World War. More of noblemen and women basking in the monochrome gardens with politicians of the day.

  Pip’s intense glare bored into Mary’s forehead. “What has Parth done now?” The baritone cadence sent a chill through her body. Her bottom lip hung open, poised in readiness for an account of Parth’s experiments, conducted that morning.

  Pip listened to the details of her story with a sombre expression fixed across his face. She waited patiently for his response, with a vague hope that he would have a solution to her problem.

  “Can’t you play down your abilities while you are there? Feign incapacity?” Pip began wandering up and down the lounge, one fist rested on his hip, the other rubbing his scalp.

  Mary shook her head. “The Prime Minister is updated weekly regarding my capabilities. I don’t think I could pull the wool over her eyes after the Alaskan incident.” She powered down her tablet and placed it on the coffee table, folding her legs up onto the sofa.

  “He had to poke the bear, didn’t he? That bloody man, couldn’t leave it alone.” Pip’s nose whistled as he inhaled a deep breath. Mary could see the old man’s anxiety festering like an open sore.

  “It could be all smoke and mirrors. You know, like being called to the principal’s office for a stern telling off. Parth will get his wrists slapped and I will get a formal warning.” She smiled as cheerfully as she could muster. It failed to rouse Pip from the sense of foreboding brewing in the arcane recesses of his mind.

  It was late. Mary left Pip brooding in the sitting room and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The presents Pip had bought for her rested on the bed. She dragged a chair over to the fitted wardrobes and stood on it to reach up into the storage area above her clothes. Yanking down a small rigid suitcase, she considered what to pack. Grabbing a few items that had not seen light of day since her last holiday abroad with Parth, Mary folded neat piles of linen trousers and shirts and stacked them on the bed. Next, she emptied her top drawer in search of respectable underwear and tucked them into the corners of the case.

  Mary hurried into the en-suite and searched for her washbag. She opened the cupboard and hesitated in front of a box of tampons. Oh Christ, Grampy could be right. When was my last period? She walked back to the bedroom and sat down on the divan next to the shopping. The pharmacy bag lay next to her thigh, taunting her. Surely not. Parth and I … we hadn’t for ages… except for that time in the shower… oh God. She closed her eyes, shutting out the possibility. I can’t face that now. Opening her lids, she grabbed the paper bag and threw it into the suitcase, then shoved the stack of clothes on top.

  Packed, washed and ready for sleep, Mary sat on her side of the bed, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. It had dulled over the years, scuffed with continuous wearing. How shiny and untarnished it was on the day Parth slipped it onto her hand. She eased it over her knuckle and exhaled, before shutting it in the drawer of her bedside cabinet and switching off the light.

  ***

  It was 9am. Mary could see Parth in the backseat of the black Lexus from the lounge window when the driver knocked on the front door. Pip greeted him with Mary’s suitcase, and then turned to wish his granddaughter all the luck in the world. “I’ll straighten things up here then head back to Brighton this afternoon. Call if you need me.” Pip kissed her forehead and handed her the new satchel from the hall table.

  The driver took the case to the car and opened a rear door for Mary. She gave him a half smile and let herself into the front passenger seat instead. Slightly puzzled, the driver closed the door, opened the boot and tucked her case next to Parth’s luggage, before returning to the driver’s seat. He looked pointedly at Mary. “Good morning, madam. I’m Thomas. Our journey should take just over an hour and a half, barring traffic issues. Please tell me if you require a comfort stop along the way and I will endeavour to oblige.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. You are most kind.” She put her satchel in the foot well and fastened her seat belt.

  “Morning, Mary. You look very nice today.” Parth leaned forward, resting his hand on the shoulder of her seat.

  Mary stopped herself from turning around to face him. He compounds one problem on top of another and expects me to remain civil. I could throttle him. “Good morning, Parth. Thomas, could we have the radio on, please?” The driver switched on the stereo and allowed Mary to control the station and volume, blotting out all sounds emanating from the back seat. She spent the remainder of their journey staring at the passing scenery and mulling over the conflicting emotions that accompanied her mounting problems.

  The long drive leading to the mansion approached from the right of the building, past gatehouses and sweeping in an arc through gated railings up to the grand entrance. Thomas jogged around the front of the car to open Mary’s door. The scent of sweet cut hay mingled with the wild flower aromas from the meadow near the lake. Mary breathed in the centuries of history, the fine symmetry of the architecture and the pervasive statues and was overwhelmed. She thanked Thomas, shaking his hand and wishing him safe travels and left Parth trailing after her up the stone steps to the oaken door. A porter dashed outside and retrieved their luggage, gesturing for them to enter the fine hall.

  Taking in the grandeur, Mary spied a glimpse of a vast conference table set up in a room to the left. A great oval shape, comprised of covered tables, each place setting laid with jotting pads and crystal water carafes. Attendees clothed in the garb of every nationality, clutched their portfolios to their chests and filed into the room sporting the most earnest of expressions. A stark pang of indigestion gripped Mary’s chest, at the thought of showcasing her abilities to such a prestigious audience.

  Yelena stood next to an antique table in the centre of the entrance hall. She was wearing yesterday’s crumpled suit and her hair had caught up in a tuft at the back. With no time for pleasantries, she ushered them through the hall and towards the east wing, peering over her shoulder at the armed escort of men following in their wake. Flinging open a dark stained door, Yelena str
ode into the oppressive Velvet Room.

  Mary and Parth shuffled in beside her and stood in front of a circular table occupied by three glowering dignitaries. The woman in the middle with the sharp glare and oversized pearls, pursed her lips. She needed no introduction. “So, this is her, is it?” The Prime Minister cocked her head towards Mary but addressed Yelena.

  “Yes, ma’am. This is Dr Parth and Mary Arora.” Yelena bowed her head in respect to her authority. Mary opened her mouth and inhaled, ready to challenge the insinuation that Parth and she were still a couple, but then decided against it. There was a protracted spell of silence while the Prime Minister reinforced her dominance and eyeballed the pair of them. Yelena cleared her throat, prompting the politician to continue the dialogue.

  “This is the woman who foiled the attack on Stoneghost in July? She doesn’t look much of a threat.” The politician folded her arms across her chest and leaned back.

  “I’m no threat at all, ma’am. I’m just a student.” Mary said in a whisper, hoisting the strap of her satchel higher on her shoulder.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” She shot Mary a scathing scowl before returning her attention to Yelena. “And you say there could be more like her in this country or elsewhere?”

  Parth stepped forward, flashing his teeth with his most charming smile. “It is possible ma’am. I have made great progress in processing data from UK brain scans in conjunction with statistics from the National DNA database…”

  “It’s one of our running defence contracts.” The man on the left of the Prime Minister interrupted, holding his gaze on Mary. “Believe me, ma’am, this woman is dangerous.” The Secretary of State for Defence blinked rapidly, masking a muscle twitch triggered by his sparse recollection of their last meeting.

  Yelena stepped closer to the table. “As I have said, many times before, Mary is a national asset. Her skillset is like no other. She has already agreed to assist the Secret Intelligence Service, whenever the need arises.”