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Thursday, 14th March 2012, 7.30 a.m.
Arthur opened his two eyes as the sun opened its one. He smiled to see his angel beside his bed, his hand in both of hers. Timon slipped out of the room as silently as the sun rose while clamour from a frantic hospital filtered through the double doors. Yes, he thought, the noise has started again – time to gird one’s loins, brace oneself and to act strong in a weak and defensive world. Time to wake up and be brave again.
“How are you feeling, love?” asked Joan, hopefully.
Hmm, how am I feeling? Arthur wondered. Or, what’s more important, what answer is she expecting?
“I’m feeling ... mmm, good to see you,” said Arthur, realising he truly meant it as the words emerged.
“That’s good to hear, Arthur,” said Joan, now looking more relaxed. “They say the tests show no brain damage. It’s just a surface wound.”
“You mean there’s been someone in my head, looking around while I’ve been away?” joked Arthur as the talking made him aware of a dull thud in his skull. “I wonder if they’re still there, do you think?”
“Arthur Bayly, I do believe that sense of humour of yours is growing,” said Joan, squeezing his hand. “I wonder what else has changed since you’ve been gone.”
“Get me home and you’ll find out!” said Arthur with a grin, feeling strangely brazen.
“Oh Arthur ...” said Joan, unsure what else to say as she leaned forward to kiss him. “They think another day here would be advisable, love, so hold the thought.”
“I will,” said Arthur, as the faint, dull, thudding moved to the right side of his head. “So, tell me, what’s been happening in the world since I left it?”
Over the next few days Arthur was able to glean as much information as he didn’t need to know as newspapers and people arrived at the hospital and, later, at their home. From these now-famous friends and family he was happy to receive wishes of speedy recovery and perplexed to receive the occasional offers of employment. He and Joan were plagued by reporters and publishing houses wanting to know their story and, when he was fully recovered, they escaped the furore and spent two weeks on the Camino walk – some of it walking and some of it contemplating. It was a spiritual experience that changed his life ... or was his life already changed and did the peculiar and uplifting experiences simply bear witness to a change already happened? It didn’t matter and it was enough for him to know he wasn’t stuck in unhappiness and drudgery – he could leave it any time he chose.
The events related to this point were reported extensively (and often inaccurately) by the clamouring press, while individuals were negotiating publishing contracts for their more intimate views of these events. It is apparent that several books are currently being ghost-written and neither Arthur nor I are at liberty to disclose the details of those books. You’ll see them soon enough.
However, from the periphery, Arthur was able to discover some fascinating and/or banal facts.
Firstly, there was an eventual swapping round (a technical, legal term) whereby Amanda and Toby were released from police custody while George Sanderson, Commissioner of Police, head of the London Metropolitan Police Force, was made to appear before the Police Disciplinary Committee. To appease a salivating public, he was placed on three months suspension and much of that time was spent recovering, at Her Majesty’s governmental expenses, on the island of Majorca and then, having been suitably admonished, was promoted to fill the gap left by his retiring boss, a fact probably met with great applause by many in industry.
Philip J Bradbury
Superintendent Hopkins, working for an organisation less influenced by government, was able to quietly continue his life-long ambition of protecting innocent victims from corporate crime. His sergeant, a previously astute and upcoming detective, became quite disoriented by the affair he found himself at the fringe of and his strong and simple views on crime were shattered as he began to wonder who really were the bad guys and who were the good ones. In fact, he pondered with concern, were there no good or bad guys at all; just good people all doing their best in an imperfect world? The jury is still out but it’s odds on that he will join the Israeli monastery he visited recently, in an effort to simplify (or banish) all such thoughts.
While tied to a chair in his office, Lord Atkinson had not witnessed the events in the corridor nearby. However, when he heard about it, he was incensed that a young man and woman who were trying to help him should be dragged off into custody while that dratted Sanderson, that wolf in sheep’s clothing, had got away with it, again. Lord Atkinson had quickly assembled his political friends and, days later, was able to welcome Toby and Amanda back into the free world. Both men formed an immediate and easy companionship – a brothers with arms in slings camaraderie – and he insisted that Amanda and Toby recuperate at his country mansion.
Though Lord Atkinson had sustained financial and political damage in the past, he’d never been physically hurt. This recent series of events shocked him into a deep reverie about what was really important in his life. In conversations with his wife and with the two young people, he realised there was a way to fit all their changing puzzle pieces together. He and Lady Atkinson decided to keep three horses for her to ride and to sell the rest of the race horses. Half of the massive, modern stables were leased to a neighbouring trainer, one stall was kept for saddling Lady Atkinson’s horses and the rest was turned into a fitness and defence training academy – a dream that both Amanda and Toby had had since their very different childhoods. They were soon ensconced in one of the cottages recently vacated by the head groom. The Atkinsons took on Toby as the son they never had and he took on the Atkinsons as the parents he never had; being raised in several orphanages, he had learned to fight for everything he needed. The Atkinsons enjoyed Amanda’s Antipodean sense of humour and directness and Toby learned, from her, among other things, that defenselessness is strength.
And, yes, you guessed it – Arthur and Joan were invited to their wedding, along with others in this small saga. Toby and the Atkinsons helped Amanda’s parents sneak into England and appear before Amanda three days before the wedding, much to Amanda’s surprise and delight. She was able to show them some of Surrey and Kent and to enjoy their company ... well, her mother’s, anyway. Her father, who had not been abroad before, grumbled about the monotony of England’s landscape, the unfriendly natives and the crumbling old houses they insisted on living in. However, Toby charmed him mercilessly and Amanda was not a little tearful when she heard her father tell Toby that he and his new wife must come to New Zealand to see how real people live.
Lord Atkinson, with Sam’s help, had formed the Robert Adams Free Energy Trust (RAFET) and, after the Olympics and the ensuing publicity, the enterprise really took off, free from the needs of secrecy.
No one else in this tale of intrigue was able to return to the maps of their old lives and the AIL insurance company will never be the same again. Because of its spectacular profits, it was bought by the Greenwich Bank (GB) and the chairman appointed just happened to be a nephew of one of GB’s directors. He appointed Malcolm Schriever, the indecisive stickler for form, as his deputy and, between them, they managed colossal change – staff turnover increased seven-fold and profits plummeted to such an extent that GB was forced (quite happily, really) to ask for a four million pound injection of funds the following year. The government immediately and without evidence saw an immense benefit to the nation of such a transaction and that relationship was further cemented by said nephew’s promotion to the House of Commons as the Member for Croydon. Malcolm Schriever took his place as chairman for GB and the world waits with baited breath on next year’s published accounts.
After a respectable time, Arthur and Joan received another wedding invitation – that of Sir Samuel and Lady Mary Black. Ah, yes, they had also attended, along with Martin and Emily, Sam’s investiture for his contribution to finance and peace. The bride’s hair was long, glossy and thick. Her dress was feminine, her figure slimmer and her smile couldn’t be chiselled off. The happy couple did not live happily ever after. No one does. They did, however, experience occasional erotic and spiritual explosions of ecstasy, petty bickering and longer and longer periods of quiet, companionable ordinariness. The requests (demands?) of his devoted wife meant Sir Samuel had to be more discerning and brief at his club and this sacrifice gradually turned itself into a choice and a joy. Lady Mary took on a new diet – instead of reaching for a plate, she reached for her mate – and though their sexual proclivity more than made up for so many years of abstinence, Mary was ever determined that no creature was ever to pass through her loins. Happily, she was able to acquire (as it were) a daughter and granddaughter in Emily and Chloe without the ghastly loin-passing event ever occurring. Mary, of course, got her wish to lie in on Sunday mornings with her Prince Charming, doing all those delicious things she’d always dreamed of. And, once in a while, their mornings were shared, in bed, with a delightful blonde granddaughter.
It surprised her how many of Uncle Hughie’s friends were the same ones Sam knew in the Camden music scene and so this lonely Scottish girl soon became one of a varied and fascinating mix of friends, from political and industry leaders to creative and artistic fringe-dwellers. It should have been no surprise that she bumped into Halee from time to time. Halee had kept her Camden flat while Ahmed vacillated over how his relationship should look with a bold New Zealand pixie who quickened his spirit. Ahmed fiercely desired her and none of us will know what took place in their private moments but, to the world, he treated her with the deference of a queen to her prince ... an English one, anyway.
Ahmed laid the facts of his shooting a New Zealander at the feet of Superintendent Hopkins who conferred with others at Scotland Yard. Ahmed was allowed out on bail and, after a nervous five months, discovered he had been pardoned. No one knows who influenced and/or made that decision and few facts of the case became known to the general public. It was clear that the New Zealand government, seeking to avoid further scandal – after the disclosure of it’s handling of Robert Adams and his invention was made public, worldwide – chose not to press charges on behalf of a Secret Intelligence Service employee. Full of gratitude to Allah and with a realisation that life is, indeed, precious, Ahmed immediately asked Halee to marry him. Reports are that she accepted immediately though we must keep quiet about that until he has obtained his family’s consent.
Halee enjoyed her new lifestyle in London, Pakistan and New Zealand and her new position as secretary for the Legal Director of RAFET. RAFET, as you can imagine, dispenses money and freeenergy technology to poorer communities, financed by sales of said technology to wealthier communities. Halee often accompanied her boss to negotiate contracts around the world and Ahmed never tired of his secretary’s presence. It also pleased him deeply to be able to help the people of his homeland, with resources, and he and Halee shared many a tearful moment for the good they were able to effect.
Our red haired Scot, Angus Collins, was pleased (ecstatic, actually) to be able to put his engineering skills to work as Deputy Engineering Supervisor for RAFET’s four factories in England and this necessitates the occasional overseas trip to supervise installations. He returns regularly to his beloved Dunfermline, despite the fascinations of his now-bigger world. With his increased income, he offered to buy his Ma and Da a larger, more modern house but they gave an emphatic thumbs down, preferring to live in a council house they can complain about. So Angus bought himself a larger, more modern house which his parents dutifully ‘look after’ most of the time when he’s in his smaller semidetached in Witney, Oxfordshire. His father has been known to smile a little more (when he thinks others aren’t looking) but his mother retains the need to conceal the happiness she feels for her two children.
Of course, Mary and Angus now see more of each other, both working for RAFET and living an hour’s drive from one another. We are forbidden from revealing any more details about Angus, Mary and Sam because of two separate book deals.
We can tell you that Mr and Mrs Fordyce, of Dunfermline, died within a month of each other and friends mourn their passing and miss their wise company. Mary, after a traumatic grieving period, now feels closer to them than ever before, somehow.
Lucky Pintado, owner of Lucky Café, struck it lucky. After the unexpected and well publicised press conference at Lucky Café, it quickly became the favoured haunt of journalists. Because journalists only look ‘out there’ for bleeding hearts and bleeding bodies and never look within (or anywhere nearby), Lucky Café has also become the favoured haunt for business negotiators and those hatching dastardly plots – right there, they go undetected by the nation’s greatest sleuths. The money really started to roll in for Lucky. Unfortunately, Lucky had misheard conversations and then had a small plaque inscribed with the words, “Site of the birth of the world’s first time machine,” and planted it in a corner of the courtyard. Despite it being a free-energy machine and that it wasn’t really born on that spot, the joke of the error spread and added to the quirky aura of Lucky Café. With Sam’s business contacts and techniques, Lucky Pintado started a Lucky Café franchise and now new cafés are springing up around London and further afield at a rate of about one a month. For all we know, there could be a Lucky Café in Dunfermline by now. Sam and Lucky have installed plaques in each Lucky Café, commemorating the birthplace of yet another as-yet uninvented invention. By careful design, they have created a pilgrimage that has thousands of people following the cafés to collect their own photo of each of these quirky, nonsensical plaques. Sam also smiles broadly at Mary each time his monthly cheque for business consultancy fees arrives. Everybody lucky at Lucky Café.
After the impromptu press conference at Lucky Café, Sam received a call which he passed on to Hemi, regarding his family’s stolen artefacts. Hemi was subsequently entertained at the Gloucester mansion of Sir Magnus Davenport – a man with the slicked-back, black hair, greying around the edges. Hemi was then presented with said artefacts, along with the narrative that they had recently been unearthed and presented to Sir Magnus. It seems unlikely that Sir Magnus divulged to Hemi that the artefacts were presented to him by his butler, just after taking them from the glass display cabinet in which they had resided for the past three generations of Davenports. Had Hemi known the second, omitted part of the narrative, he might not have cared a damn – he had what he came for and all he
wanted to do was return to his mates, the green hills and the blue skies or Aotearoa ... and some cold beers and waihine wera – hot women. Before the beers and women, on his return to New Zealand, he had to visit his Aunty Whina, a woman of massive girth and fearsome love. She sat on her throne – a worn and squeaky lazy-boy – in her state house in Rotorua, with assembled whanau (grandchildren, children, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles and anyone else passing through) and grilled Hemi on why it took so long to get three bloody bits of pounamu back from those whingeing poms. Hemi spun his yarn with much laughter and lyricism and, after a bear hug from aunty and everyone else they all had a big party and got totally inebriated.
Hone woke two days later and went as white as a brown man can: “Shit, where did I leave that pounamu?” he asked himself. He walked around the party-ravaged house and found his hooded jacket discarded under a chair. Luckily, the pounamu were still rattling around in the left pocket and so he had two beers and a smoke to help with the hangover and then borrowed someone’s car to take them to the kaumatua, the elders, for blessing and safe storage. His grateful grandfather took them and a meeting was planned for the next week to honour Hemi and the return of the mana, the honour, to their tribe. Then Hemi went round to a mate’s – several mates, actually – and they got out the beers, smokes and guitars and had a damned good time. After total immersion in his old life pattern for a week, something strange happened to Hemi and he went bush, sitting under the stars, talking to God and demanding to know the purpose of his life. The answer came on the seventh morning and he came down the mountain and started his new life. A ghost writer is writing the rest so we mustn’t say any more on that.
Meanwhile, back in London, Martin has decided that Emily is the woman for him now and Emily has decided that Martin is the man for her, later. She is insisting that he get counselling, tie up loose ends and get closure on his nine-year marriage to Ruth. Martin thinks he’s fine, that counsellors and shrinks are all idiots anyway and that his alternating bouts of anger and depression are normal for anyone having to live near London. However, Emily is insistent, Martin is hungry for her and so he has agreed to attend weekly (very weakly, he says) sessions of Divorcees Anonymous, a group, he explains, of scruffy, poor gits who sit about moaning about their lot because they’re too scared and/or unattractive to find another partner. It’s an uneasy truce between Martin and Emily but the three children get on famously, which helps them to feel that they should be together. It’s a wait and see, that one.
John and Belinda continue to study A Course in Miracles, a course that changed their lives and their relationship. Realising that free-energy machines do not make a better world but that the intent of those working together does, John turned down an offer of managing RAFET in preference to writing, publishing and speaking, alongside Belinda, in ways and places that help people realise their true calling, their true greatness. Discovering that Joan was A Course in Miracles student (as is Arthur, of late) they meet regularly, when not in New Zealand, having a jolly good laugh and a deeper connection every time.
John and Belinda continue their connection with RAFET on a consultancy basis and they’re often called in to mediate disputes when someone (usually a large corporation) feels threatened by freeenergy machines arriving in their patch. Knowing we are never upset for the reasons we think, John and Belinda (they’re an interchangeable pair in this work) are able to quickly get to the heart of the matter, to everyone’s surprise and joy.
And the tall, blonde, clumsy, mysterious Australian? Well, he might just pop up again very soon, in his very own novel. Who knows?
