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Now here is a character that
knows how to take advantage of change… Brain Dead By Brennig
Jones Illegal brain
surgery... Ever had it? Nah, even if
you’re among the small number of people in the UK who have had any kind of
brain surgery, the only type you’ll have had is the standard ‘Health Service’
variety. And you’re probably
thinking that I’m mad and that there’s no such thing as illegal brain surgery. But I’ve had
it. I’ve been
strapped down, my head held fast in a binding of leather straps while a maniac
drilled holes in my unanaesthetized skull - without the benefit of any local or
general anaesthetic. But that’s how
I got it. The power. The Gift. They’d been
working on me for a while. I’d been
there for two, maybe two and a half days; it’s easy to lose track of time. They’d already
moved on from having extracted all of my teeth with a pair of pliers and they’d
broken my left leg and my right arm with pickaxe handles. Now they were digging holes in my head with
a Black & Decker, trying to get me to tell them something more revealing
than my number, rank and name. Asking
questions about the unit I was from, about our infiltration plans, what
intelligence we had and the names of my local contacts. That’s when he
must have touched something in my head.
Caused a short circuit.
Switched on a part of the human brain that normally lies dormant. One minute I
was in screaming agony - could barely see through the veil of blood that was
running down my face. The next I was in
complete control of my pain receptors. When I looked
around I could see their thoughts, their emotions. And I knew I
could control them. Control them…
and their thoughts and emotions. I don’t know
how I knew I could. And I don’t know
how I knew what to do. There were
three in the room with me. Behind me,
working on my head was the one I called ‘The Surgeon’. Standing beside me was the Grand Inquisitor,
the master interrogator. He’d enjoyed
working on me since I was captured in the desert and brought to this place.
Over by the doorway stood the Fat Guard. He alternated duty with the Thin
Guard. I didn’t know
these men, what their real jobs were, or their ranks. They’d never told me their names. Giving me information wasn’t part of their plan. But now I had something else in my head. Projected
around each of the two heads in front of me was, well, what I can only describe
as individual coronas. - containing many shades of colour, that weren’t quite
colours to my eyes. Suddenly, in
hundreds of shades that were almost like purples, blues, greens, yellows and
blacks, I could see their thoughts, their feelings and emotions, everything
revealed. In my thoughts
- and for the hundredth time - I asked The Surgeon to stop. This time he
did. The Grand
Inquisitor looked up and angrily barked some kind of a question at The Surgeon. I reached out
with my mind and ‘told’ him to shut up. He did. They stood
there, frozen, waiting for their next command. Without opening
my mouth, I invited The Surgeon to clean me up. The Grand Inquisitor waited for something else to happen or for
his next instruction to arrive. As The
Surgeon cleaned and stitched my head the Fat Guard began shifting his weight
from foot to foot. Creases appeared on
his sweaty forehead and he looked concerned at things taking an unusual turn. I ordered him
to keep still and silent. He obeyed. I ‘told’ the
Grand Inquisitor to go and find a trolley and some clean clothes. He nodded and
left the room. While he was
gone I experimented with The Surgeon and The Fat Guard. The black shades in their heads seemed to be
strictly command-orientated imperatives: Do this; Go there; Say this; Stop. I didn’t seem
to be making much progress with the purple shades. Perhaps they worked in conjunction with one of the others - or a
group of the others - or perhaps their manipulation required more subtlety than
I commanded. Christ, I
thought, this could take years to perfect. Instead of
being active I tried to be less aggressive, tried to reach out gently with my
mind and insinuate myself into their minds.
This was easier. By the time the
Grand Inquisitor came back with a hospital gurney I knew that the Fat Guard was
the equivalent of a corporal, The Surgeon was a specialist in the physical
aspects of interrogation and the Grand Inquisitor was roughly equal to a
Captain in the Army. I made them
finish cleaning me up and lift me on to the gurney. When I was comfortable I gave The Surgeon an instruction and
watched while he picked up a wickedly hooked scalpel and opened the veins on
his left wrist. After a few moments he
gave a slight sigh and collapsed onto the floor, his body emptying its warm,
sweet-smelling blood into a wide spreading pool around him. I felt nothing
for him; neither for the person he was, nor for the bag of bones he’d
become. Perhaps his drill had taken
away my emotions at the same time it gave me this power. At my command
the Grand Inquisitor and the Fat Guard wheeled me out of the cell, down the
corridor, up two floors in the lift and out of the back of the hospital. It was warm outside and the air smelled sweet.
I guessed that it was early evening, not quite dusk. There was surprisingly
little sound. Perhaps, I thought, they’ve killed everyone. My two escorts
manoeuvred me into the back of an ambulance, secured the gurney then got in the
front. We drove away from the suburb
and out into the shell-shocked district that used to be where the politicians
hung out. From what I could see through the windows the diplomatic district
didn’t look too badly beaten up. Some walls were peppered with small arms
pockmarks and there were a few holes in upper stories made by stray HE
rounds. Most of the embassies were
vacant, some looking like empty, broken shells, their former contents spilling
out into the road, the remains of computer equipment scattered along the
pavement. The four-storied, whitewashed building at the southeast corner of the
main square still flew a flag of a foreign nation, though. The front
perimeter of the building was guarded by twenty-or so heavily armed UN troops -
mostly wearing uniforms of the Republic of Ireland, I also saw a couple of
Gurkhas, thank God. Thirty metres from
the embassy a cordon of local troops had been thrown around the UN
soldiers. I guessed at forty of the
enemy there, ‘guarding’ the only independent foreign diplomatic mission still
in town. In town? Hell, in the country. At my
‘suggestion’ the Grand Inquisitor got out of the ambulance, waved his pass
around and issued orders with great authority.
The tide of desert camouflaged battle-dress parted, barricades were
moved and we were admitted forward to the UN contingent. The UN troops
were less impressed with my escorts but the rear door of the ambulance was
opened by a Gurkha corporal. I could
see his corona but decided to try the orthodox approach. “Virus Rhodes,”
I said, hoping to hell that the Gurkhas were still receiving Intel updates. He responded
with, “Jacob’s Carcass.” And I closed
my eyes with relief. “Bravo force,”
I said. Then added lamely, “I’m it.” He leapt back
from the ambulance and shouted orders in his native tongue. I don’t know
whether it was through sheer tiredness or my inability to hold off the pain any
longer, but a dark cloud began to overtake me and I lost consciousness as I
passed a thought forward to my two escorts. Three days
later I woke up in an RAF hospital back in the UK. The nursing staff
was good to me. They cared for me,
keeping my mind and body occupied so I wouldn’t have too much time to dwell on
the mission. The
intelligence bods put me through as many debriefing sessions as possible. They were detailed and obscenely
technical. I gave them a full mission
debrief, from insertion to the complete balls-up that led to our capture, but I
feigned haziness about my escape and how I came to be taken to the New Zealand
embassy. Intelligence
wanted to know why my two captors had helped me and why - once I was safe -
they’d pulled their pistols and spread their brains over the inside of the
ambulance. I shrugged, said, perhaps they’d developed a conscience. The debriefings
began to wind down and became more like reorientation and rehab sessions. After three
weeks of eating meals that varied between baby food, rice pudding, jelly, soup
and a lot of pureed chicken, mushroom and rice, I was given a nice set of
dentures. They looked exactly like my
old teeth never did, and made my mouth feel alien again for a little while. My physical
rehab continued. At week 8 I began walking without the aid of a stick, by week
10 I was managing a couple of miles a day.
At week 12 I was jogging short distances and started light work on the
weight bench in the gym. My stitches
were removed. The holes in my head
healed and my hair had started growing back. And I still had
The Gift. I could see
everyone’s corona. I resisted the
temptation until week 11. Up until that
point I was sure I was under more than one kind of observation. My CO came down
from Hereford that day. It could have
been awkward. I saw in his
mind that he’d read the reports - my debrief, the reports from the Royal Irish
Rangers (Bravo force’s ground support for our Op) and an overall data analysis
from the intelligence bods. I saw that
there’d been a cock-up, several cock-ups. Because of the
storm in the desert, Bravo force had been inserted two kilometres southeast of
the drop zone. The poor bloody Royal
Irish Rangers, who were already on the ground, had been issued with radios that
were thirty years old and prone to malfunction. They couldn’t talk to us.
We couldn’t talk to them. The
intelligence we’d been given had been flawed, and what the desk jockeys back in
Northwood had concluded was an enemy Observation Post was in fact a Forward
Command Bunker supported by two light tanks, and fifty infantry with an
assortment of medium artillery. The F-15 pilot,
who had strafed us with canon fire and air-to-ground rockets as we overcame the
enemy FCB, was twenty miles outside of his combat zone. The pilot had failed to get authorisation
for his attack. The report concluded this was probably due to him being out of
his head on speed at the time. I saw all of
this. I saw that the CO didn’t blame
me, despite the other three members of the team never coming home. He blamed himself that they wouldn’t be
eating Christmas lunch with their families ever again. I asked him how
my future looked, but before he could reply I saw the word ‘discharge’ in his
mind. I felt OK with that. That day I
decided that the time had come to begin experimenting with The Gift. A few weeks
previously we’d formed a nighttime card-school: me, the ward Sister, Duty Nurse
and the ward porter. We’d been playing
poker every evening since - for pennies, but our debts soon mounted up and we
joked about calling in our debts and buying ourselves out of the service. That night, after an hour of light bantering
and gambling, I gently ‘suggested’ that the night porter didn’t want to play
any more. He stayed for two more hands
then announced he had a headache, pushed his chair backwards and left for a his
duty room. Catherine, the
ward Sister, said that now would be a good time for a break. She and Angela - the duty nurse - did their
rounds, took temperatures, wrote notes, and then came back to the table with
hot drinks and a few rounds of sandwiches. We played on. I learned as we
played. I learned that if I used the third
strand of ‘purple’, joined it with the fifth strand of ‘black’ and sent a
gentle suggestion - down the newly joined pathway, the person on the other end
believed that the suggestion was his idea, that he wanted to do it. If I added a strand from the fourth layer of
‘yellow’, I discovered that the planted suggestion had a fraction more
compulsion - to which the person on the other end received a slight feeling of
gratification when they yielded. When I
added in the very lightest of the ‘blue’ strands the suggestion became an
intensely compelling desire. At the poker
table that night I won and lost some hands.
As the three of us played I learned the art of subtlety in
manipulation. I also learned how to
combine the intricacy of ‘suggested’ manipulation with the ethereal touch of
‘seeing’ into another person’s mind. I saw the game
through the eyes of both Catherine and Angela and made suggestions
accordingly. Sometimes I made them
throw in strong hands, other times they played ‘long’ on hands that didn’t even
mount up to an opening bid. All the time I
was learning, suggesting, observing, adapting, and practising. The next night
the porter joined us as usual and I learnt to play the three of them - or
rather, I learned to play three minds at the same time. To begin with, that was a challenge, but
after a couple of hours I soon mastered the technique. By the end of
that week I could maintain sight and suggestion over three minds at once. I was also able to exert subtle degrees of
control - of different levels of control - in one, two or all three minds at
the same time. On the last
night of their joint shift I sent the porter to his room, stopped experimenting
with cards and got more physical. Angela and Catherine loved it; I made sure of
that. Four weeks
later I was discharged from hospital and ordered to return to Hereford for a
final debrief and my formal discharge from the service. I was sorry to leave the hospital, sorry to
leave Angela and Catherine. I would
miss them; miss the nights of sexual gymnastics that the three of us had
enjoyed. More than that, I would miss
their care for me - they had seen me through my recovery from beginning to end. Five weeks
later I was on a train. Almost all of
my worldly goods had been sent to storage, I’d left Hereford carrying a
suitcase and a rucksack. In my pocket
was a single train ticket. I took it out,
together with the envelope that the RAF Personnel Assistant had given me before
I left the unit. One single
journey, Hereford to London. Why London? Why not? Before I’d
joined up I used to live in Glasgow.
That was 21 years ago; I haven’t been back there since. For over two decades the Army had been my
home: Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, Wales, Belize, Scotland, Hong Kong, The
Falklands, Kuwait, Iraq, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Israel, Ireland (north and
south) and, of course, Hereford. I opened the
envelope. HMtQ’s crest on thick, textured, headed paper with a WC1
address. The letter was hand-written -
an extravagant copperplate script, which had flowed from the nib of a fountain
pen. I was invited
to contact the writer at the above address, or if it was more convenient
perhaps I’d like to give him a bell and arrange to pop in for a cup of tea? My words, their
meaning. I folded the
letter, put it back in the envelope then tore it into pieces as small as I
could make them. I put the remains in the pocket of my rucksack. ‘To spook or
not to spook, that is the question’, I mused. I gazed out of
the window, wondering what career path I should take as a brand new member of
the civilian community. When we arrived
in London the shock - whilst walking around the streets - of seeing all those
coronas, was overwhelming. It didn’t take
me long to realise that a few - a very few - had the appearance of being a little
‘tainted’, slightly darker in all shades than other coronas. I also noticed that another very small
number of coronas were discoloured in a different way, a little lighter than
the shades that I had come to call ‘normal’. I sat in an
Italian restaurant and looked into the mind of a lighter corona. It belonged to a person who was good, who
had a set of morals and wasn’t ever going to come close to breaching them. This was a person whose head was just a
little empty, a person who lacked a fraction of intelligence. A person who might be described as a bimbo. As I used my
eyes, rather than my new 'sight', to study the owner of this corona, it struck
me that I’d been so busy looking at coronas I’d not been using my eyes at
all. Or perhaps I had, but I hadn’t
registered what they had been telling me.
This corona belonged to a guy in his mid-twenties. A nice guy, harmless,
he looked smart - just a bit of an airhead. I 'looked'
around the restaurant and found a darkened corona. The owner thought she was tough, mean, cool, hard and
attractive. I smiled to myself. The RAF cooks
who’d kept me fed for the last few months had probably killed more people with
their cooking than this person had with weapons. Thinking about it, the RAF cooks had probably fired more
weapons than this person. Then I delved
deeper and found what was different. It wasn’t just an extra degree of
meanness. This woman was more than bad
– she had no morals, no rules, would lie, cheat and lie and cheat about lying
and cheating - and all before breakfast, whilst thinking this was perfectly
acceptable behaviour. I dipped into
memories and skimmed through past examples of her deviousness that would have
made Machiavelli envious. The way she
used people was impressive, but her total disregard for her colleagues and
those who depended on her - that was what offended me (as a person whose life
depends, had depended, on his colleagues) more than anything else. I used my eyes
to sweep over the smart suit, the silk blouse, neatly styled hair, and
immaculate fingernails. I didn’t mind
the appearance but I hated what I’d seen inside her head. I sent a hard-edged command into her
corona. Her demeanour didn’t change but
I knew the message sank in. I spent the
night in a cheap hotel near the train station.
From my room I telephoned London City Airport and booked myself on the
breakfast flight to Luxembourg. I found
myself wishing for the company of Angela and Catherine before I finally drifted
off to sleep. The next
morning, somewhere over France, I read the announcement in The Telegraph that
the fast-rising MP for a Sussex constituency had unexpectedly announced last
night that she was resigning from Parliament with immediate effect. There was a lot of press speculation at this
unexpected turn of events. I smiled,
message received all right. We landed at
Luxembourg airport and I took a taxi to the city centre where I found a hotel,
checked in then went for a walk to stretch my legs. Soon I was walking through the amazing parkland that is set in
the valley between the two hill-topped halves of the city. I ambled through the open space, admired the
sculptures and works of art just like any other tourist and was back in the
centre of town by 2pm. A quick walk
through a small but exclusive shopping arcade on the way back to the hotel and
I was positive that there were no tags on me. I hadn’t been
sure in London yesterday. It takes a
minimum of five front-line operatives to make a surveillance box work, but a
box of five people is easy to spot if you know what to look for. But if the people in the field had twenty
staff in the pool - and if the field was a busy place like west London, then
not even an old pro like me would spot the box very easily, not without ducking
and diving to flush them out and throw them off the scent. And I didn’t
want to duck and dive; I didn’t want to alarm anyone. I changed into
a suit and presented myself to the smart office of Sveizerrische
Kredietanstalt, and then 40 minutes later I was in the equally impressive Kredietanstaltbank
Verein. Five-thirty, I
was back in my hotel. The next
morning I caught a flight to Zurich where I kept similar appointments with two
other small, privately owned banks.
After Zurich I took a train to Basle where I visited two other - similar
- banks, then took a much longer train journey to Liechtenstein. In Vaduz I kept appointments in four banks
then caught an evening flight to Brussels. After an
overnight stay I kept my single appointment there - at the Belgian branch of
Chemical Bank. From Brussels airport I
sent the manager of each bank I’d visited an account number for another branch
of Chemical Bank, and then I caught an evening commuter flight into Heathrow. It was almost
10pm. I was on the tube back into central London; we’d travelled four stops
from the airport when I realised that I’d walked into a red zone. The lads who’d got on at Osterley were
looking for trouble. Three bored,
slightly drunk lads out to humiliate some passengers and brag to each other
about how big and bad they were and how scared people were of them. They ignored me and clustered around an
immaculately suited, shortish, dark-skinned businessman sitting opposite. As they hassled him one of the lads began
trying to pull the businessman’s briefcase away and his corona went into
overdrive. I looked inside and stood up
straight away. I worked on their
coronas as I put my hands on the shoulders of two of the lads and asked all of them
to sit down quietly until it was their stop. They did. The relief in
this guy’s face was so real I could almost touch it. The relief in his mind was
just as tangible. At the next
stop I picked up my bags, nodded to him and got off - but got back on in the
next carriage. I fished out my
phone and called the telephone number that had been written on the letter I’d
received with my discharge papers. “This is Sam
Barkes. I got a letter.” “Yes, Mr
Barkes. This is an unusual time to call.” The voice was
female, accent-less, but belonged to an older generation than mine. “This is an
unusual matter.” “I see, well
you’d better tell me more then.” “There’s a man
here, on this tube train. I believe I
recognise his face.” There was a
pause. “You’re telling
me this because he’s not an asset?” Translation:
He’s not on our side. “Correct. And his actions trouble me. I think he’s
carrying something that could make a very big hole in the infrastructure.” Translation:
This is an explosive situation. “We’re not
exactly set up for this kind of operation here. I could alert Bomb Disposal and Special Branch…” “OK,” I said. Christ, this
dopey woman was going to ring the Royal Engineers and the civilian plod! Well of course she was. She didn’t know what I knew. I added, “You
might want to ring my ex-boss in Hereford. Get him and a bunch of his friends
down here in one of those nice fast helicopters of theirs. And perhaps some people from Thames House.”
I hoped she’d understand the code for MI5. “Do you think
you might be over-egging the pudding a little, Mr Barkes?” For fuck’s sake. “Are you
recording?” “Yes.” “Send him a
copy of this conversation. Tell him that if he plays his cards right there’s a
case of Echo Uniform in it for him if he’s quick. I’ll give you his number if you don’t have it.” Translation:
Echo Uniform, enriched uranium. “Of course I
have it.” She sounded offended. “I’ll try to
stay with our friend. I’ll call again
when I can. Don’t ring me, my phone
will be off.” “Where are you
now?” “Acton.” I switched off before she could respond. I positioned
myself so I could watch him through the glass in the dividing doorway. He looked calmer now, his corona less
stressed. I still had my baggage with
me so my chances of following undetected were nil. I looked inside his mind and found out where he would be getting
off, where he would be going, and what he’d be doing. It was all straightforward stuff. At Gloucester
Road I got out, caught a cab back to my hotel in Paddington, dumped my things
and took the cab to Knightsbridge. His hotel was a
large old house that had probably been converted in the early 1950s. I walked up to the receptionist and engaged
her in harmless conversation while I probed her mind for information on my
target. He’d arrived an hour ago and
was upstairs in his room. I did a sweep of the reception and bar and
detected no suspicious coronas. But my
eyes thought the man sitting by himself in the bar looked apprehensive. I checked him out. No, he was just a married man, waiting for the receptionist to
get off duty so he could go upstairs to her room and continue their
affair. The word ‘vibrator’ was at the
forefront of his mind but I didn’t dwell there - didn’t want to learn for whom
it was intended. I settled onto
a stool at the end of the bar, and ordered a drink. As I looked around
again I noticed that the elegant, smart-suited woman sitting by herself seemed
to be reading Le Soir without turning pages. Well, I’d take my time over that one too. I looked inside anyway. Bingo. I told her not
to assess me as a threat. I delved some
more. I rang the
number once more. She answered. “Sam Barkes.” I
said. I told her where our friend and I had got to. “I’ve spoken to
Thames House,” she said. “They’d like
to know a little more.” I bet, I
thought. “Is there a
duty officer they could send round?” “I’ll arrange
that.” “Anything from
my ex-boss?” “Yes, he said
you’d better be right because the European Cup Final is on tonight.” “I’m not
usually wrong,” I said simply. “So I’m told.” She hung up. I sat at the
bar and alternated between coffee and diet coke. Before an hour had passed a man in his 30s strolled in, wearing
smart shoes, casual trousers and a leather jacket that must have cost
£500. He saw me, walked over and
greeted me with a handshake and a hug. “I’m from
Thames House,” he whispered in the hug. “Pleased to
meet you,” I said, looking over his shoulder at everyone else. “He’s in room
42, third floor. There’s someone in the
room next door and that smart looking thing over there in the Armani two-piece
is a pair of eyes. She’s carrying. I’d guess a pistol and maybe a knife as well
by the way she holds her body. It’s a
cert there’s more unfriendly tools upstairs.” “Thanks for the
invitation to the party,” he said.
“What else can you tell me about the chap on the train?” “His reputation
is not as a courier,” I said. “But I’m
sure he was holding something nasty.” “Where did he
get on?” “Heathrow.” He paused. “How would he get something nasty through
customs?” I laughed as
though we were still exchanging greetings. “Why don’t you
pop upstairs and ask him?” His turn to
laugh a little now. “Think I’ll
wait. We’re going to send in SB.” He saw my
expression. “Not happy?” “Civilian
police is civilian police. For
something extraordinary you need some specialist help.” His eyes
hardened a little. “They’re the
best…” “Of a bad
job?” I finished for him. “We’ve got,” he
said, emphatically. I was tempted
to goad him a little more but picked up his sense of urgency. “When?” “Five minutes.” “Mind if I watch?” “It might be
helpful if you’d stay here and watch for any unexpected developments.” I nodded. A couple of
minutes later a fine looking lady walked through reception and into the
bar. She walked up to us, kissed him on
both cheeks and then offered me her hand. He introduced
her. “Sam, this is DC Greenwood of the Branch.” “News?” she
asked him. He nodded
towards me, so I briefed. “Female, over
there, late 30s, brown hair, gold necklace, smart checked suit. Plus our friend upstairs in room 42, third
floor. There’s A.N. Other in the room
next to him. She and A.N. are armed.
Our friend may be too.” “That it?” she
asked. “That I know
of,” I said. She signalled
to the barman and asked for the Ladies toilet.
He pointed out to reception and told her how to get there. She thanked him and walked in that
direction. “Smart cookie,”
I said. He nodded. We both knew that what she’d done was
provide herself with cover so she could go outside and brief her colleagues. We ordered a
couple more drinks and exchanged small talk about the evening’s football match. A noisy group
of German tourists came into the hotel reception, headed for the bar. Halfway there one of them noticed the
elegant woman in Armani and made a beeline for her. As two of his friends walked over to try to call him off I
noticed six people, in three groups of two, slip into reception and head for
the stairs. The Le Soir
reader was taking the unwanted attention in her stride when suddenly, at a
silent signal, the three Germans nearest the woman threw themselves upon her,
wrestled her to the ground and flipped her over on to her stomach and pinned
her hands behind her back. A moment later
she was hauled to her feet and marched outside by two of the ‘Germans’. The others remained on their hands and
knees, searching the area where she’d been sitting for any items that she may
have dropped or concealed. My new friend
and I continued sipping our drinks and watching silently. Four people
came nosily down the stairs, three of them half-carrying, half-walking someone
I’d never seen before. They went out
into the street, which now seemed to be bathed in red and blue flashing light. A few minutes
later another three people came down the stairs. They were half-carrying, half-walking the man I’d seen on the
underground earlier. My companion
raised an eyebrow and I nodded. He
ordered another couple of drinks. After half an
hour of chat DC Greenwood came back in. “Gentlemen,”
she said. “As of a few moments ago we
have charged three foreign nationals with various offences under anti-terrorism
legislation. One has also been charged
with illegally transporting nuclear material.” “Shit,” we both
said. She smiled, a
crooked smile, but a nice one nevertheless. “We owe you our
thanks, Mr Barkes.” “Sam.” She stuck out
her hand. I shook her
hand. “You’re welcome, DC Greenwood of
The Branch.” “Do we know
where to get hold of you?” she asked. “I’m sure
someone does.” “In that case
I’ll say goodnight.” And she went. So did the blue
and red flashing lights. “Another
drink?” asked my new friend. “Umm, no, not
for me thanks. It’s been a bit of a day
and I need some sleep.” “Can I give you
a lift?” “Going anywhere
near Paddington?” “For you,
that’s the least that the taxpayers of London can do. My car’s outside.” I walked
through reception and was halfway down the stone steps when I lost
consciousness. When I woke up
the first thing I saw was Catherine’s anxious face. “Hello you.” I tried to
respond but my tongue was too dry to speak.
She passed me a glass of water and I tried again. “Hello you
too,” I croaked. “Fancy a game
of cards?” she asked. I tried to
laugh but my mouth was still too dry. “Be still,” she
said. “I have to tell someone you’re
awake.” A few moments
later she came in with my new friend from the hotel. He looked
around my room. “Nice place you’ve got
here, Mr Barkes.” “Sam.” He looked at me
and smiled. “Want an update?” I nodded;
Catherine passed me some more water. “There was
another,” he said. I took another
drink. “She was in the
room opposite your man. When she heard
the commotion she went downstairs by the back stairs - just in time to see the
woman who'd been sitting downstairs being taken outside. Then she saw the two people from upstairs
being marched out.” He paused for a
moment. “Then,
unfortunately, she saw DC Greenwood and me talking to you. She thought you were in charge. When we left the hotel she was waiting
outside. She got off a shot, which
grazed your temple. You fell forward
spoiling her aim and, umm, I jumped on her.” I liked the
image. “The graze was
nothing, but when you fell forward you hit your head hard on the steps. You’ve been unconscious for three days, they
thought it best to bring you back to the RAF Hospital where they knew you.” “I see.” What else could
I say? I couldn’t read
him. I couldn’t read Catherine. The Gift was
gone. I couldn’t read
minds. I couldn’t influence people any
more. He saw my
expression and hastily said, “Don’t worry old boy. No permanent damage. The
best surgeon in the country has looked at your X-rays and scans. You’re perfectly normal.” Again, I said
silently to myself. Perfectly normal
again. “There’s going
to be a gong in it for you, next Honours list.
I understand the PM’s office has nominated you for a very serious
award.” “Lovely,” I
said. “I’ll keep it on top of the wardrobe with all the others.” “I expect you
need to rest for a little while,” he said.
“I’ll be in touch. Take it
easy.” He shook my hand. It was only
when he’d gone that I realised I didn’t know his name. A few minutes
later Catherine walked in closely followed by Angela. I looked from face to
face trying to read their expressions, then suddenly they both smiled and I
knew we were going to be alright. In the middle
of the night the Email alert on my mobile phone beeped. “It’s been
doing that a lot,” said Catherine.
“Have you got yourself a bit on the side?” I laughed
gently, “No, it’s my bank manager.” I opened the
file of incoming email messages. It was
indeed from my bank manager. Or more
accurately, it was from the transfer manager at Chemical Bank in Brussels. He was informing me that as of close of
business today my offshore account with the Grand Cayman Islands branch of
Chemical Bank stood at £285,000,000. “What is it?”
asked Catherine. “Told you. My
bank manager.” “What’s he
say?” “He says,
‘would you like to retire to somewhere warmer and live the life of O’Reilly,
never having to work or worry about money again?’” “Oh really?” “No, O’Reilly.” She dug me in
the ribs with her finger. “Be gentle with
me. Angela’s turn to stay with me in an
hour or so.” “Sleep for a
while then,” she said. I tried, but I
couldn’t. I lay there and
contemplated my meetings with the bankers in Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, Zurich,
Basle and Vaduz. I’d used The
Gift. I’d seen the
Director of each bank and told them to transfer all balances from every account
that had lain dormant for over 20 years to my account at Chemical Bank in
Brussels. My instructions to Chemical
Bank in Brussels were simple: open an account in my name in their Grand Cayman
branch, and transfer all incoming money from Brussels to the Grand Cayman
account. I lay there a
little while longer. I didn’t know if I
could love yet, but I knew I’d missed both Angela and Catherine - and they’d
missed me. They weren’t
under my power any longer but they wanted me, wanted to continue sharing me and
wanted to live with me. I supposed that
with £285,000,000 in an offshore bank account I could afford to have two women
in my life. All the same, I
was going to miss The Gift.