DOUBLE VISION - CHAPTER TWO

The sickness that now rages within me is getting worse. I normally got a warning around ten in the morning but recently I have woken up and it’s already there. Nothing stops it and as the day goes on it tries to control me, making my body shake uncontrollably. I’ve not been to work in three months. I can’t. It won’t let me. At first I fought against it but eventually I became too weak to resist. I wake up screaming some mornings but I can’t hear the scream. It’s as though someone is clutching the inside of my throat…..but there….. I’m getting ahead of myself. For you to understand what has become of me and to warn others, I must explain what happened on the day I first caught this awful illness.

On that day that I first observed it clinging to a branch up in the tree, I wanted to escape from it. Terrified and inexplicably drawn to the absurd vision, I could not take my eyes from it. It changed shape in front of me but what I later saw filled me with such dread that when it finally disappeared I sat on the bench wondering if I were dreaming the whole thing. Before my eyes it had slowly changed and grown into a larger cylinder, and then it formed another shape, or rather a blurry vision within it. I couldn’t make it out at first. Then as it gradually cleared I recoiled in horror. I found myself looking up into my own distorted face.  

For the rest of the day I could think of nothing else but as the afternoon wore on I began convincing myself that some form of mild illness, perhaps an allergy, had somehow affected my mental state. On the way home I reasoned that I imagined the whole thing. I spent the evening listening to light opera and went to bed quite early, hoping to sleep well and wake fully refreshed.

Just past one a.m. I awoke feeling thirsty and walked into the kitchen. Without turning on the light, I opened the refrigerator and reached for the carton of milk. As I turned away, the light from the refrigerator shone across the room. Shock and sheer terror momentarily froze me to the spot. I screamed. I recoiled in uncontrollable panic, spilling the milk. Tears flowed and my body shook. As I lay on the floor I looked up into my own grotesque face, floating just below the ceiling above the kitchen sink. My mind went numb as this apparition floated toward me.   

DOUBLE VISION

 

 I have a plot for a Sci Fi story. This is the first chapter. Let me know if I am way off beam.

I have no idea what made me look up from an interesting article in THE TIMES. Maybe it was the flash of a bright red umbrella as a woman rushed past the coffee shop window I was sitting at. Like all the other pedestrians, she battled against a blustery wind that blew a light rain in all directions; rain that made a light staccato sizzling sound each time it peppered the window in uneven waves.
My eyes followed the woman along the road until she was almost out of sight. She’d stopped and stood on the curb waiting to cross the road with a small crowd around her. It was then I noticed it. At first I thought it a piece of brown paper or maybe someone’s discarded burger box sitting on top o...f a trash bin. I tried to focus but rivulets of rain running down the window blurred my view. I thought nothing of my strange observation and returned to reading THE TIMES.
Half an hour later I crossed the precinct in front of the tower block I worked in. The rain turned to a mist as the wind abated into a breeze. There were several trees in the precinct and my attention drew to one, under which two dogs leashed to a bench were looking up, barking. Then I saw it again. I slowed, despite the weather, and approached cautiously although I have no idea why; maybe sixth sense. As I walked closer, I made out a square shape, brown in color, nestling in the crook of two branches high in the tree. It wasn’t paper or cardboard and seemed not to have any distinctive shape to it, for as I stood directly underneath the tree it changed into a cylindrical shape and grew in size, some two feet long and a foot wide. It was then I realized it was opaque. I could see leaves through it.
Amazed at this odd conundrum, I looked around for one of my colleagues, hoping they would confirm my mental state was sane by seeing as I did. The dogs were totally engrossed in the object and would not let up barking.
“For goodness sake, you two, stop scaring the pigeons.” The voice behind startled me. A young woman stepped forward to untie the leash.
“I think they were barking at that object up there,” I said, pointing up into the branches.
She looked up. “There’s nothing there, sir. Pigeons don’t normally fly off when barked at as long as they are up in the tree or on a ledge. That’s why these two naughty boys were barking so much.”
I waited until the woman left and looked back up the tree. There it was. I didn’t feel ill and I told myself I didn’t drink. Surely someone would see what I could see? I took another look and froze with fear. What happened next started a whole chain of frightening events that have shaped my miserable existence ever since.

                                                      

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

  This is a short chapter that introduces one of Enda's friends from his university days. 'B' is a Whitehall mandarin within the Foreign Office and with an ear to the ground when it comes to information regarding scandal and corruption within the corridors of power in Brussels, political seat for the European Union. 'B' has a warning for Enda and, although Enda does not comprehend the significance of it, a cryptic message that has far reaching consequences that will put him and Jessica in fear of their lives on Cyprus.

About one third of this chapter was axed and the opening was cut by a half. I had put far to much information, both political and background, into a piece which only needed to let the reader learn two pieces of information that would mold the storyline and show the more serious side of Enda.             

 I was on my way to see an old friend, Roger Askew-Broughton, or B to his friends. We’d met at Oxford where we both studied politics and modern history. He eventually found a job in the Foreign Office care of a father in the diplomatic corps. When I joined the Herald he became a valuable source of information for all the intrigue as well as current world affairs, both political and financial.
Whitehall lives and breathes statistics. On reaching Great College Street I quickened my step as the cold breeze turned into stronger gusts. I made my way to a small but up-market bistro called Le Petit Dejeuner. It had been our comfortable meeting place over the years.

Decorated expensively with peach flock wallpaper and carpeted throughout in burgundy, it looked and felt more like someone’s living room. The furniture was highly polished reproduction Georgian. Overlaid with crisp white linen, the tables sat in two straight lines, each table   complemented with an ornate silver service.
Frequented by city types, the Le Petit Dejeuner was the kind of place that dared anyone in jeans or those without a sizable bank account to enter. Needless to say I wasn’t a regular.
Roger was already there, a bottle of claret standing opened on his table. He was poring over a copy of The Times that lay spread out before him. Dressed in dark navy suit and sporting his old Oxford tie, he was typical of the well-heeled Westminster set. He was forty-eight years old with well styled dark hair thinning on top. His face was young though, belying his age, with ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes. In his middle age he had acquired an overweight girth that threatened to pop the buttons on his waistcoat. On his left hand he wore a gold wedding ring with one inset diamond, and an Oyster wristwatch. Ash from a cigar he had smoked earlier smudged his waistcoat.
Sitting down opposite Roger, I tapped the side of the bottle. “C’est combien?”
He didn’t look up right away but took several seconds to answer, engrossed in whatever he was reading. At length he said, “Don’t worry, old chap, the bottle is on me.” Folding the paper, he smiled broadly. “Thought I’d treat you to a drinky today, what?”
He guffawed and snorted at the same time, making me cringe.
"Now, let’s have a look at the menu.” He produced two menus from the small rack at the side of the table and handed one to me.
I looked for the cheapest omelet I could find. We had an arrangement that whoever called the other for a chat over lunch got to pay. It was my wallet that emptied most of the time but I didn’t mind. Many a story started from our conversations.
 I ordered the cheese omelet and he ordered the steak. B always ordered the steak so I have no idea why he studied the menu. I shook my head. He caught the look on my face as he ordered.

    “J’ai une allergie – du fromage et des œufs.’ He patted his chest and screwed his face into a pained expression. “I’m allergic to eggs and anything stuffed inside them.”

We sat looking at one another as he poured the claret without spilling a drop.
“So, what brings the bad boy from Wapping to my table?”
“You heard then,” I replied, smiling.
Tongue in cheek, B told me some of my great admirers were champing at the bit. The PM was furious and word was he’d told Hart to get rid of me, or else it would be a long time before the Herald got any favors from Number Ten.
He raised an eyebrow before burying his nose inside the goblet to capture the bouquet.
I told him to stop horsing around. Max was taking over while I served a ‘time out.’ There was a pause while Roger sipped the wine. I got the impression there was something more serious he had to say before we got around to discussing what I wanted out of our meeting.
B nodded.       He leaned forward and put a hand to his mouth.  The Americans were flying out to Toulon in the morning to talk a new deal with the European consortium. His opinion was they shouldn’t bother unless the price was right.
“The bloody French won’t have anything to do with it, you wait and see,” he said, his stubby index finger emphasizing the point by tapping the table.
We both knew the Americans stood to lose the most because of my column. I nodded and agreed with him. He joked I wouldn’t be welcome back in the west wing for the foreseeable future, then guffawed and snorted, nearly spilling his wine as he raised the glass to his lips.
 I waited until he’d finished and brought the reason for my visit up.
 “Yes, the bloody Elgin Marble situation.” He bowed his head and wagged a finger at me. “Enda, beware –it’s fraught with danger,old boy, fer-aught with danger. If Brussels-.”
“Hrisacopolis?” I interrupted.
He nodded, on the same wavelength. “Have you been digging?”
I nodded. “Can we share?”
“By word of mouth only, old boy. No tape, no memos, no phone calls.”
That meant the Foreign Office was briefing intelligence agencies and Roger was not going to talk in great detail. However, if I’d figured it all out right, he would nod and agree now and then, adding some unimportant detail that helped push another piece of the Greek jigsaw into place.
We talked through lunch, or rather I did, and on through coffee until around two o’clock. As I finished my coffee, we wound up the conversation.
Roger quaffed down the rest of his wine. “He will dread letting someone else run the company.”
I’d suggested that it was a shame Hrisacopolis son, although a terrorist for a brief moment in time had not lived to stand in while his father entered the EU battlefield. Things could have been be a lot different.
“That’s if Paul makes it to the EU table, old boy,” he added.
Before we parted he warned me to be careful a second time. There were other eyes watching our Greek. Some were friendly and others not but neither would be happy if I got in the way.
I walked back to Westminster tube station deep in thought. There hadn’t been much new information but it was interesting to note that the government were so concerned over Hrisacopolis that intelligence were looking at him, probably checking for any contact with terrorist groups or arms dealers, given his nasty past.

 I knew that by ‘other eye’s’ not being too friendly if I got in the way, Roger referred to a Turkish terrorist group called KKA, Kaygisiz, Korumak, Aydinlatmak – Care, Protect, and Enlighten. The group had reformed during the last two years since talks on Turkey joining the EU began. Now considered active, they operated in Turkey and on Cyprus. It was widely being thought in Whitehall that the group would cause trouble if Greece – and therefore Hrisacopolis – held sway in Brussels over crucial political decisions on the island’s future role within Europe. But then I already knew that.
Political rumors did not influence the EU though. Only concrete proof of corruption would put a stop to Hrisacopolis getting his own way. Many EU Commissioners and Euro MP’s from member countries needed to be convinced that the Greek had hidden agendas if my hunch about him proved correct. That was a pretty hard thing to do when Whitehall were dragging their heels over the European governments economic policies and Hrisacopolis, hero to his countrymen, was spending money on a glorious cultural renaissance.
Greece itself had been a member since nineteen eighty-one, enjoying strong diplomatic and trading ties within the Union. The Hrisacopolis shipping empire was part of that strength. The phrase ‘political impasse’ came to mind.

 I was mad at Max and Hart for not having the insight to see what Hrisacopolis was up to. I decided to tackle Max one last time. I wasn’t going to do that alone though. I’d write the script and Jessica would help sell it.

SENSATIVE WRITER NOT NEEDED

Today I got up on my high horse and wrote how I felt about sensative writers - those who think they do not need an editor to help them produce a good book. It was in response to comments made over the last couple of months and an incident at the moment involving the serial section of The Story Mint, the publishing company I am involved with. You may say I have seen the light and that would be true... as I have gone through self publishing and hundreds of rejection letters from agents over the years. I am now on track to have my latest novel published in the not to distant future. I am confident and sure because I have editorial assistance from The Story Mint. I have been taught a lot and don't mind admitting it. I now know why only one in a thousand or more writers get published. They refuse to realize that publishing is a team effort. The journey is painful as chunks of work are sometimes thrown away or whole chapters are re written. At the end of the day the pain is worth it.

The comment below was added to a blog written by the CEO of The Story Mint. See her blog on facebook 'The Story Mint'

I agree with both the other comments. I wonder if the writers realise what a golden opportunity they have in being edited and published for free in front of an international audience. Its about time all sensative writers accepted help. I speak from experience. I published through Publish America and through Amazon and got nowhere. I am now edited by a terrific editor at The Story Mint and am DETERMINED TO BE PUBLISHED through them by next year. If the sensative writers want to hold on to their babies without accepting help then I suggest they go wallow with the other 99% on Amazon etc. The Story mint is for writers who have a goal and want to acheive that through hard work and determination. The serial section is a showcase of talent and of course the work should be edited. I would love the sensative writers to receive just one letter from an agent, the main hurdle between them and the publisher. I have had plenty and with that experience a hard skin. You don't want to do this? Go sell second hand cars! Good message, Suraya!

CHAPTER SEVEN - A DANGEROUS MAN

I did not have too much trouble with this chapter. I enjoyed writing it as it introduced one of the villains. The opening had to be expanded a little and I had to rewrite the telephone conversation between Hrisacopolis and Ahmet. This is one of those chapters that sets out the cover up of a family secret but the reader does not know what that secret is. It is also part of a double cross by Ahmet but the reader does not know that either. The plot is complicated and so this chapter has to be correct in detail because readers will probably flash back to this chapter for the "Oh, that's why he said that", moment. There are several other chapters that drip feed the reader, leading them, hopefully down the wrong path.

A Chaffinch swooped down and landed by the side of a hole in the gnarled silvery trunk of an olive tree. After perching for several seconds, it flew up through the small tapered leaves and sat chirping in the shade. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in small sparkling points of light as an occasional breath of air rustled them. The olives stood in a straight line, casting long shadows that cut across the gravel drive and climbed the villa’s whitewashed wall. Beyond the wall, the village, a cluster of small white buildings to one side of the dusty road, stood out against the dark green orange groves that climbed the hillside. Some of the villagers took advantage of the shade offered under the trees and lay there during afternoon siesta.      

       Paul Hrisacopolis, his portly figure wrapped in a blue bathrobe, sat upright on a lounger beneath a white awning that ran the entire length of the veranda.  He watched the bird with interest. Two more chaffinches joined it on the branch and started to sing.

       Through the open bedroom window the faint sound of chimes from a carriage clock peeled through the still air twice. Paul pushed the wide brim straw hat back and wiped his forehead and mustachioed lip with a handkerchief.  

The shaded veranda kept the sun from burning him. There was no escape, however, from the humidity and eighty plus degrees that would remain long into the afternoon. The cool interior of the villa with its marble floors was more comfortable but he preferred to sit on the veranda watching the birds.

       Now and again he got up to enjoy a leisurely swim of one or two lengths in the swimming pool. Sometimes he took a short walk before ten in the morning or after three in the afternoon to watch the terrapins in the artificial pond he had built. The terrapins enjoyed permanent shade under a large eucalyptus tree on the other side of the villa. Between ten and four the sun’s heat was relentless, sapping his strength and forcing him the rest on the veranda.

       His doctor advised him to retire and rest after suffering a heart attack the previous year but he scoffed at the idea. Instead, he rested for the summer before launching into the elections in Brussels. At sixty-four he was one of the most successful industrialists in Greece. The accolade meant nothing to him. Recognition to be a national hero like his father, a man whose name passed into history forever, moved closer each day to reality. He thought about his destiny as he watched one of the chaffinches flit skyward.         

       “Lunch.”

       An elderly woman dressed in black stood in the doorway.  A silver hair comb held her graying hair tightly in a bun. Of slim build she stood upright like a governess with feet together and hands folded in front of her. Small dark hazel eyes, a small pointed nose and a prominent chin gave her a stern appearance within an unsmiling face. At her side sat an equally stern Doberman with dripping tongue.

       She repeated herself using a more commanding voice.

       Hrisacopolis acknowledged her with a wave of the hand without looking up.

       “Does that mean you will eat out here or inside?”      

       “Out here.”

       “The doctor said you-.”

       “Damn the doctor!  Just bring the lunch and don’t tell me what the doctor said.”

       The woman’s head and chest rose and with her lips tightly drawn, she turned on her heels and marched back into the villa in quick little steps.

       The Doberman padded over to the side of the lounger and crumpled to the wooden floor with a loud thump. He rolled sideways with one raised paw, waiting for a hand to pat his stomach. When it didn’t appear, he whined. A hand came down and slapped his nose hard. The dog yelped, scrambled to its feet, sneezed, shook his head, and then loped off to the other end of the veranda. He crashed to the floor again with eyes that never left his master. 

       “Damn dog,” muttered Hrisacopolis.

       The housekeeper reappeared, carrying a cordless telephone. She announced there was an urgent call from his secretary in Athens.

       Hrisacopolis snatched the phone from her hand. “What?” he barked down the phone.

       The secretary told him a journalist from the British newspaper, the Herald, was asking questions about his family and the Parthenon marbles.

       Hrisacopolis fidgeted with a cigar, rolling it between finger and thumb.

  “I know about that and if you read your morning instructions you would know too,” he answered irritably.

       The secretary ignored the remark. The journalist, a woman, was making enquiries about George and a picture that appeared in a Cypriot newspaper.

       Hrisacopolis sat upright. “What picture?”

       It appeared shortly after your son’s death along with an obituary. The journalist wanted to know about a girl, partially hidden, sitting next to George.

       “What did you tell her?” He flicked open a small silver cigarette lighter and lit the cigar.

       His secretary had said nothing and ended the conversation.

       “Good. Let me think. I’ll call you back after lunch.”

       Hrisacopolis ended the call and tapped out the number for his Istanbul office. He waited for the connection.

       The housekeeper appeared again, carrying a small table laden with a bowl of salad, a tsatsiki dip, and a plate of lamb and minted baby potatoes. He waved her away after she’d set the table by his side and handed him a fork.

       A faint voice fused with atmospherics on the line sounded in his ear.

        “Damn it, is that you, Ahmet?”

       There was silence.

       “Speak up! Do I have to keep telling you this is always a bad connection?”

       There was a pause before Ahmet answered more clearly. “Sorry, Sir.”

       “Well, what news have you? Has there been any progress? You’ve only got a couple of weeks now.”

       He forked some lettuce into the dip and rotated the fork before lifting it to his mouth. Some sauce dribbled down onto his robe. He brushed it away with the back of his hand.  

       Ahmet had good news. The grandson, George Jr., was agreeable to reconciliation although reluctant to join the ship on a trip to Athens from London.                      

       “No. He has to be with us on the trip,” said Hrisacopolis irritably. “If the contacts in Athens are comfortable in the knowledge that my grandson will take over, they will support my election. The timing is right.”

        He explained that an announcement about the grandson in the world press would be crucial, prior to any political fanfares about the new European committee. He was at a crossroads in his life. He’d waited so long to fulfill the promise of Cypriot sovereignty, made by his father to the Greek people. Now he stood so close to victory nothing would stand in his way.

       Ahmet listened, and then said, “George will be made to understand the importance of being present.”

       “Good, is there anything else?”

       Ahmet hesitated, “If I could remind you of two urgent problems, Sir. We still have to work out a statement that explains the situation regarding George. Then there is the matter of two people who need persuading to forget certain matters. Perhaps …?”

       “Perhaps nothing, I’ll take care of things this end. You will find and deal with the girl, something that should have been done a long time ago.”

       “Yes, Sir.” There was a faint click on the line.

       Hrisacopolis sat eating the rest of his lunch thoughtfully. Certain things would have to be taken care of, as risky as that might be, rather than have the truth revealed. His dream of national recognition would be gone as well as the reputation of a family, loved and respected throughout Greece. Nothing was going to stop him now. He drank some wine and smoked for several minutes before picking up the phone. Another problem would need attention.

       The Athens office answered promptly.

       “Nana, call that journalist back and make all information about my political career and the business available. Also put her in touch with Ioannis about the photo and call him before the journalist does.” As an afterthought, he added, “Extend two invitations to the newspaper to join the cruise.”

Ahmet replaced the receiver in its cradle and smiled. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling of his second floor office. The old oak desk, the gray filing cabinets with chipped paint and the comfortable wooden office chair on castor's still stood on the same Persian rug. He had moved into the office nearly twenty years before.

       From his desk he looked out of the large windows at the shimmering surface of the Bosporus. Ships of all sizes passed each day, including container ships owned by the Hrisacopolis line. He exhaled smoke and reached across the desk to turn the small fan on.

       The Greek would soon have all those wonderful dreams shattered. The man was an arrogant pig. Hrisacopolis had forgotten that it was himself who had hesitated over the girl’s fate. Soon, all the years of being a ‘yes’ man would be over.  He picked the telephone receiver up and dialed Cynara’s number. He waited, hoping she had not left for her morning job in Nicosia.

       “Yes, good morning.” Cynara’s voice sounded clear.

       “I have a job for you,” replied Ahmet. “You may be questioned by the press or by your neighbors about a Hrisacopolis grandson.”

       “I don’t understand.”

       “Don’t interrupt, Cynara.” His soft voice held an edge of threat and domination to it. “Listen to me and do as you are told. I want you to look through the records of recent deaths of widows or spinsters, nothing over six months old. Then let me know what you have found.”

       “This would be someone on the island?”

       “Yes, it will be announced Hrisacopolis has found a long lost grandson who is taking over the Hrisacopolis Industries. This woman will be the mother who confessed to hiding him, frightened of losing him to Hrisacopolis. On her deathbed she asked that he be reunited with the Hrisacopolis family.”

       “Why would they come to me with questions?”

       “Your name will be mentioned as the source of the information. You will be a friend of the woman. There are other small details I will give you later.”

       “Will you pay me for this?”

       “Of course. You can have a one way ticket back to Istanbul and ten years in prison.”

       There was a click and the line went dead.