The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

  The mid evening journey was relatively painless by London standards. Zooming through Westminster, Knightsbridge and Kensington, crossing the river at Chiswick and cruising into Richmond. Mary blanched at the fare clocking up on the digital panel, peeling the fifty-pound notes from the remaining roll and handing it to the ecstatic driver.

  Walking the last few streets to the cul-de-sac, it occurred to Mary that Connie might have accompanied Dan to the hospital on the South Coast. She had paid a substantial amount of her limited cash to travel to a hide-out that she would be unable to enter.

  From the roadside, Mary could see the porch lit at the front of the large Georgian styled house. Lifting the latch of the side gate, she stepped onto the paved driveway, triggering the sensors on the blinding floodlights. Mary rushed to the front door, rang the bell and waited. She rang again, but there was no answer.

  The lights must be on an automatic timer, or Connie’s local housekeeper switched them on. Either way, I’m stuck. She might not be with Dan, so messaging him won’t help. He’d have to use his tapped mobile phone to ask her if there is a way to get in.

  Mary looked for doormats and plant pots, anywhere a key might be hidden. Then it hit her. Connie had a spare key hidden at her Sheringham property behind the house number slates. An ingenious alcove built into the placard.

  A quick glance down the street assured her that she was alone and unwatched. Mary stood on the top-most step and reached up to the house numbers painted on slate panels. Pushing each one to the empty space at the side, she revealed the key hanging inside the tiny recess. Bingo. Let’s just hope she didn’t set the alarm, or I am in big trouble.

  Twisting the key in the lock, Mary listened out for any potential beeping noises in warning of a pending alarm, but there were none. With tired relief, Mary slammed the front door behind her and mooched into the Kitchen. Groping around in the dark, she found the main light switch, dumped her belongings and filled the kettle from a five-litre bottle of spring water.

  The pleasure of a cup of tea after enforced abstention is unsurpassed, like velvet on the tongue. Delighting in the sensation, she drank two more cups, and then booted up the computer in Connie’s office. The homepage was set to Reuters News Website. Their most up to date item, the passing of the new Mental Health Bill for the first reading in member’s chamber of parliament. “No surprise there then.” She muttered out loud.

  Next came a google search of Bernadette Feinstein, CEO of Phlaxo, and her ascension to the pharmaceutical throne. The biography was a work of art, charting her early successes at Harvard, then crossing the pond to manage an up and coming British telecoms company. Five years in Europe, stepping the corporate ladder two rungs at a time, before moving back to the US to head up a research and development team for a drugs giant in Chicago. Her final leap, to CEO of Phlaxo, made her one of the most powerful women in the west.

  Mary back-tracked to google, choosing a less staged article from the search results. The link jumped forwards to Truth Quest, devised and hosted by Jones, the dashing but devious friend of Connie’s. Jones wrote about his investigation into the shady dealings of Bernie Feinstein, and her ties with the Bilderberg Group. Uncorroborated accounts of clandestine meetings and leaked agendas relating to eugenics and tiered de-population projects.

  Hopeful that Jones had stayed true to his word, Mary dissected the article, paragraph by paragraph, seeking connections to the water additives or any hint of the associated vaccines. She read through two further interviews and another article but found no reference to either. Jones had yet again, made assertions based on little or no evidence.

  Exhausted and fretful, Mary shut down the PC and made her way up the darkened stairs to the guest room. She folded the sari and draped it over the bedroom chair, made use of the bathroom, and then settled down in the borrowed pyjamas beneath the crisp clean sheets.

  At midnight, Mary heard footsteps on the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The creaking steps drew nearer. Mary rolled out from beneath the covers. Her innards jittered in shocked alert. Glancing around in the darkness, Mary could find nothing of use to protect herself.

  The movement on the stairs halted, then resumed with a stealthier gait. On tip-toe, Mary moved soundlessly, until she stood behind the spare room door. She held her breath, running through possible scenarios inside her drowsy mind.

  In one swift moment, the door swung open, light flooded the room and a blonde woman ran in yelling expletive warnings in quick-fire French. She turned all around, brandishing a taser gun and threatening thin air.

  “Oh, thank God…”

  “Merde!” Connie yelled, spinning round to face Mary as she appeared from her hiding place. “You scared the shit out of me. I could have tasered you.”

  “You didn’t do my health much good either.”

  Connie dropped the taser to the floor and hugged Mary. It was not a casual Gallic greeting, but a bear hug of some duration.

  “I am so relieved that you are okay.” Connie said, when she finally released Mary from her grip.

  “And I you.” Mary took in the snow-white skin of the French lady before her. “There is not a mark on you. How did you survive the car crash unscathed?”

  “I had a few bruises, but I heal quickly. Will you take a nightcap with me, or are you too tired? Would you rather we catch up in the morning? Only I must return to the Houses of Parliament, first thing.” Without allowing Mary time to answer, Connie led her down the stairs. “I waited for the late sitting to finish in chambers. It was my intention to catch the Minister for the Environment. I thought that if I could trip her up and get her to confess her knowledge of the water additive, it would open a path to recording an exposé interview.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No, she would not talk with me. No comment, no comment, etcetera. I will try again in the morning.” They reached the kitchen and Connie gave Mary another hug. There were heavy tears welling up in her lower lids. “Mary, I am so sorry for your losses. I cannot imagine how you are feeling right now. Dan said that you were…being brave.”

  “Thank you, but please don’t be kind to me, Connie. I cannot afford to fall apart now.”

  “Oui. There is much to do. We shall remain centred, yes?” She held Mary firmly by the shoulders. Was this Connie’s version of the British stiff upper-lip? Mary smiled. There was still a lot to be grateful for, Connie’s unending generosity and compassion for one.

  “Much to do? Have you thought of a way to end this terrible fiasco?”

  “Ah, not exactly, no, but I have contacts in France. French journalists are not bound by the same government restriction as they are here. I can make a few calls in the morning. There will most certainly be a keen editor who will pay for your story, maybe even more than my British editor was offering.”

  Mary sighed. The solution only extended to saving her own hide. The most vulnerable in society would remain at risk. If she fled the country, would she be able to live with her conscience knowing that she did nothing to prevent further deaths? How could she be sure that she would be portrayed accurately in French newspapers? Editors the world over are under the same pressures as Jones to release sensational stories. Fame is illusory, and something Mary wished to avoid.

  “I’ll think about it, Connie, but right now, I must get some sleep. I’m knackered.”

  “Of course. Sleep well, mon ami.”

  Mary yawned and started back towards her room.

  “Ah, Mary, wait. I shall be leaving early in the morning.” Connie hastened to her study, opened the bottom drawer of her desk and took out a burner phone, still in its plastic packaging. “Here, take this and text me the number in the morning. I will leave you some more cash on the breakfast table before I go.”

  “Connie, I can’t take any more of your money. You have given me so much already, I shall never be able to pay you back.”

  “Acht, nonsense. Money is not a problem. Keep it. I have a great deal more
, I assure you.”

  With heartfelt thanks, Mary climbed the stairs to bed. It was difficult not to feel the cogs of pessimism clunking around inside her head. Each turn of the gears, driving another cog in a cyclical motion of despair. She was the tiniest part, at the heart of the entire mechanism. Without her, there would be no need for the water additive. The profusion of liver damaged elders and miscarried babies would cease. The Christian faithful would simmer quietly against science, and her beloved grandfather would still be alive.

  Mary pushed her sorrow down to the space her baby had occupied. How many other factors in her life transpired as a result of her gifts? Was her initial meeting with Parth really sheer luck, or orchestrated behind the scenes? How long had Yelena been monitoring her? Was Parth instructed to marry her as part of his government contract? That possibility would certainly explain his extreme attentiveness. How else could he keep her under such close scrutiny. There were no lengths to which he would not go to secure scientific notoriety. In the silence of Connie’s spare room, Mary cried herself to sleep.

  ***

  The new day brought blue skies and a nip in the air. Autumn lurked in the north-westerly breeze. As true as her word, Connie left another roll of bank notes on the kitchen table, along with a scrawled message instructing Mary to stay as long as she wished and to take anything that she needed.

  Toast and marmalade was what she needed, plus a big pot of tea, all to herself. She switched on the television, hopping through channels with the remote. The last article of the morning news programme saw the presenters tittering and simpering with a Hollywood actor, sitting on the end of their curved couch.

  Pressing the remote buttons, Mary turned to the serious news channel. The headlines scrolled in an RSS feed at the bottom of the screen. A strip summarising a report about sexism in the workplace, unemployment statistics lowering and a special report on the legislation against cyberstalking.

  Nothing about liver damage in the elderly? No more on the overflowing maternity wards? Who is controlling the networks? This is outrageous. She picked up her teacup and plate of toast and carried them into Connie’s study. Her computer was already booted up and displaying the Reuter’s homepage.

  Mary clicked refresh. The main article taking centre stage concerned a European Union licencing decision over a new vaccine. Trading values listed a strong start for the FTSE100 and a decline for the Nikkei. She clicked through the tabs at the top of the webpage – tech, money, sport, life, commentary, nothing stood out in relation to the water crisis. Clicking the home button, the page refreshed once more. Loading slowly from the top down, it displayed a new photograph and the title – Breaking News.

  The picture was of thousands of people, marching through the centre of London, carrying banners, flags, placards and large wooden crosses. Nuns, priests, choirboys and people representing almost all nationalities, walked in silent reverence, with Dr Hugo Blom at the head of the line.

  The paragraph written below the image, cited their demands. A call for an end to Christian marginalisation and a change to British Schools’ curriculum to include a co-existence of faith and science. The acknowledgement of an intelligent design to be taught alongside teachings of Darwinism. Mary opened a new browser window and logged into her social media account. Crammed onto the news feed was a tangle of video clips, photographs and status updates relating to Hugo’s pilgrimage, shared and reposted hundreds of times.

  In a separate window, a live broadcast relayed an interview, instigated by the Huffington Post. “You seem to be suggesting that the scientific community can live in harmony with religion, Dr Blom.” The reporter shoved a microphone into his hands. His fellow pilgrims jostled at his elbow on their slow walk from Temple Church, past Somerset House and heading towards Trafalgar Square.

  “Yes, that’s right. We…” Hugo gestured to the massing crowds behind him. “We believe that our faith, our moral stance, is not just under systematic marginalisation by those in power, but is actively eradicated from schools, the workplace and in all our cultural pursuits.”

  “Can you give us examples, Hugo?”

  “Of course. Take this lovely, hardworking lady for instance.” Hugo touched the shoulder of the woman to his left. It was the same sneering nurse who had given Mary an uneasy feeling in the hospital. Her head bobbed into the camera frame, this time in civilian clothes with her sneer transformed into a pious look of innocence. “This diligent lady,” Hugo continued. “Who often stays long after her nursing shift has ended tending the sick, has received three formal reprimands for wearing her crucifix above the neckline of her uniform. The administration declared that it was to avoid contentious issues of faith between colleagues and among the patients.”

  “Have Muslim, Jewish or Hindu nurses been similarly warned about displaying religious iconography?” The astute reporter fired back.

  “Well, yes, but that is not my point. The point is that faith, in a supposedly Christian country, has to be practised in secret to avoid censure. Schools have dropped prayers in assemblies for fear of offending minority cultures. Vicars are no longer welcome at the bedside of the sick. Catholic adoption agencies have all been closed. Flight attendants sacked for wearing the cross. Schools teach four hours of science for every half hour of religious studies. Is it any wonder why the moral fabric of society is eroding into chaos?”

  They manoeuvred themselves around stationary vehicles and stopped briefly to allow the police escort to clear the way ahead. In that moment, the camera panned across the front-line. Maroon robes of bishops and black capes of the Knights of Malta stood shoulder to shoulder with the devoted. Some thumbing through their rosaries, heads bowed in prayer, others grasping their bibles as though it was a living, breathing entity.

  “And what of your assertions that Mary Arora is a dangerous element in society? Some are calling her the next messiah. What do you say to that?” The dogmatic reporter said, determined to commandeer as much airtime as possible.

  “I say that she is an abomination.”

  “Her husband says that the science is irrefutable. You tested her abilities in your lab. Doesn’t that lend credence to her case?”

  “She has an electromagnetic sensitivity. It is blasphemous for her to compare her spurious abilities to the miracles performed by our lord and saviour.”

  “Do you agree with the Prime Minister that Mary Arora should seek help? That she might be suffering from mental health issues?”

  Hugo stammered, then sifted the suggestion through his neural pathways, testing its compatibility with his plan of action. His expression altered, as though he had experienced his light bulb moment. “I do think that, yes. If you are watching this, Mary, come and explain yourself. We can arrange for you to seek help.”

  The remainder of the interview invited others of the faith to join them in their pilgrimage to Westminster Palace, culminating in a church service conducted in Westminster Abbey at three o’clock. The reporter moved up the line, obtaining sound bites from the bishops, priests, teachers and a man dressed in monastic robes, with bloodied bare feet.

  “So, there you have it…” The reporter faced the camera once again, beaming with delight. “A challenge issued to Mary Arora for her to come and meet us at Parliament Square. The faith demands an explanation. We will stay on this story right up to the church service at three pm. Will she come and defend her honour? Stay tuned viewers.”

  Great. It’s not enough that they are calling my sanity into question, now they are setting me up as a coward too. Mary finished the last bite of her breakfast, pondering on her next course of action. Her uppermost thought was to return to Sussex to lend support to her brother and his poorly adoptive mother, but local television crews might change the focus of their reports upon seeing her. That would not do at all, particularly as they are the only stations covering the story.

  Curiosity also simmered in the background regarding Parth’s recovery, but that was no longer a viable avenue for exploration. Above a
ll else, Grampy’s words resonated inside her mind. The ones issued as a warning to Yelena. Tell that two-faced back stabbing bitch at the top that if she threatens my girl, or any of my family again, I’ll unleash a shit storm that will wipe the lot of you from the face of the planet. Mary removed the brooch from her satchel. The faceted stone glinted bright shards of reflected morning light. What could Gramps possibly have to hold over the British Government? He was just a GP? And why was he so close lipped about Phebe?

  One thing was for sure, she could not hide at Connie’s house for long. There was no way of knowing whether Yelena’s techs knew her whereabouts, which meant the minister’s men would follow on shortly after. A decision had to be made. Her burner phone pinged with a text notification. It could only be from Connie, no one else knew the number. It said:

  Just spotted Alexi leaving a service entrance of Parliament buildings, wearing overalls. He got into a van and drove away. Any idea what he could be doing? Connie

  Mary responded immediately.

  No idea, but it can’t be anything good.

  She pressed send, then a wave of panic coursed through her. A recollection of his determination to bring devastation to a city in Utah, during the Alaskan affair. His mission deemed too important to worry about the deaths of many thousands of innocent people in his path. If Alexi was at the Houses of Parliament, then death and destruction would not be far behind.

  She fired off another text to Connie.

  You don’t think he could have planted a bomb, do you?

  Connie’s quick reply:

  Nothing is beyond that bastard.

  Mary again:

  Shouldn’t we warn them?

  Within seconds, Connie telephoned Mary’s burner. “What do you suggest I do? Shall I wander over to the guard and tell him that I think a known terrorist has just planted a bomb? They know I am a journalist. They would think it a ploy to disrupt their debate on the Mental Health Bill. Second reading is underway. Even if they believed me, I would be locked up and interrogated for the rest of the day.”