(ADRICS REPOST) BFD G: The Evolution Machine (NOMINEE) (3/6)

[Paul Dale Smith]

4
Little Sarfield: 23. November, 2003
19:56

The guard watched the road and surrounding fields for any sign of the UNIT
woman returning. He had his orders now - he knew what needed to be done. And
he was perfectly willing to do it. Stop the woman from getting into the
base, then call the Listener at the police station. He had been entrusted
with the safety of the Manor, and he wanted to justify that trust. He knew
he could do it.
Over to his left, the woods shifted again.
Perhaps, if he proved himself to the Listener, this could be his route
to the promotion he desired: after all, he didn't want to be on guard duty
for the rest of his career. All he had to do was demonstrate he could be
relied upon, prove he had initiative and skill, and those sergeant stripes
would be his. He turned his attention back to the roads and the fields.
Nothing. Well, just let her try, he'd be ready.
In the woods, a branch snapped.
The guard spun around. So, she was using the trees as cover to get in,
was she. Well, she'd be in for a surprise: if the electric fence didn't get
her, he would. He drew his revolver, the barrel glinting in the gloom. He
checked the chamber - full. He flicked off the safety catch and headed into
the heart of the woods.
It took a precious few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the
green gloom, seconds in which she could have attacked him if she was truly
worth her salt. She didn't, and soon he could make out the individual shapes
of the trees and see anything, if it was moving. He looked. He couldn't see
any movement. If she'd seen him she might be hiding, waiting for him to give
up. He wasn't going to. If she was here, he was going to find her.

In the bushes, it stood immovable. The weight over its shoulder was nothing,
and it shifted it slowly so that it couldn't obscure its vision, but so that
the creature could not see the movement. The whole woods stood out for it in
glorious infra-red detail, thin red greenery snaking up around it, and wide
red leaves masking it from the creature. It waited, watching for the
creature's next move.

It was obvious to him now that she had seen him enter, otherwise he would
have expected to see her moving towards the fence by now. So she was
planning something. Well, let her try - he reckoned he could out fight her
if it came to it.
He scanned the immediate area, looking for some trace of her. Nothing,
just dark trees and greenery. He weighed up his options. He could wait for
her to make her move, or he could flush her out. If he waited, she'd have
the advantage. So he had to force her to make a move.
He looked around again, failing to spot the dull glint of metal in
amongst the shrubbery. Checking his gun again, adrenaline flooding his
system, he began to move ever so slowly forward.
God, he thought, this was what it was all about.

It watched him move through the redness. It took only 1.1 seconds for the
following information to be computed and assimilated, and a course of action
decided upon.
TARGET: HUMAN, MALE. HEIGHT 1M 72, WEIGHT 342.64KG, CHRONOLOGICAL AGE
25.2 ORBITS. TARGET ARMED. WEAPON ANALYSIS BEGINNING. ANALYSIS COMPLETE:
WEAPON PRIMITIVE COMBUSTION FIRED PROJECTILE WEAPON. NO APPARENT DANGER.
SUITABILITY OF HUMAN TARGET: ANALYSIS BEGINNING.
The human obviously had no augmented vision: as the male creature
scanned the surrounding trees, it failed to see its bulk hidden behind a
cover of thin leaves. Even the simplest night vision enhancement should have
been able to detect its form behind such flimsy cover, even without the
tell-tale heat trace that it gave off. He was obviously part of a primitive
species.
ANALYSIS COMPLETE - SUITABILITY OF HUMAN TARGET: NIL. TARGET DESIGNATED
HOSTILE. WEAPONS SYSTEMS ON-LINE - SYSTEM RUNNING AT OPTIMAL. SEEK AND
DESTROY.
Its course of action decided, it began to move.

The first the guard knew about was when he heard the sound behind him. He
spun around just in time to catch a glimpse of the giant rushing towards him
with impossible speed. It was carrying over one shoulder what appeared to be
a body. He had just enough time to register that the giant had burst from a
section he had thought empty before it grabbed him with a hand and lifted
him off the ground. He found himself staring into a grim death's head, two
slit eyes burning red into his.
'Who are you?' he managed to blurt out.
With a silent snick, a concealed blade in the giant's forearm extracted,
pushing through a flap in its wrist. The blade extended out to its full
gleaming length, almost as long as the giant's entire forearm. At least half
of its length buried itself in the guards neck. He let out a bubbling gasp
as he suddenly found it impossible to speak.
The giant pulled the blade out of the guard's throat and then pushed it
viciously into his stomach. He felt its sharp edge intruding into his gut,
and tried to scream as the giant jerked it up almost to the wound in his
neck. No sound came, though, save for a forced bubbling. Apparently
satisfied, the giant tossed the dying guard aside with a single impatient
gesture. He landed in a heap on the floor, after crashing through two
thin-trunked trees.
As the creature carried on its way towards the Manor, the guard's last
thought was how chillingly impassive the giant's skull-like face had
remained throughout. Then he died.

Document One

An extract from THE PAINTINGS OF WINDSOR, by
Prof. Rachel Jensen (Cambridge University Press, 1972)

". . . but perhaps the most interesting aspect of the Mysterious Lady of
Paris (188?) is that all the questions that the observer asks about the
painting - who is this woman, where does she come from, et cetera - were the
very same questions that were being asked by the artist as he worked.
The history of our Mysterious Lady is one that can only be pieced
together using historical documents, the diary the artist periodically kept
and - most importantly of all - intelligent guess work. Even this picture is
more of a sketch, and an incomplete one at that. All we really know for sure
is that our lady was called either Dorothee or Dorothea - records indicate
the latter, whilst the artist uses the former, perhaps an indication of
friendship? - and was a foreign traveller from an unknown country who was
engaged - briefly - to one Count Constantin Sorin of St. Petersburg. If she
used a last name, posterity has not recorded it.
It appears that our Dorothee arrived in Paris in the spring of 1887 at
around the same time as another traveller - the Count of St. Petersburg. It
seems that the two - perhaps drawn together by similar lifestyles - soon
fell madly in love. The engagement was announced a mere month after their
first meeting. As a celebration of this engagement, the Count evidently
decided to commission a portrait of his betrothed and approached Duvall to
this end. The artist - never being one to rush into his work, as we have
discovered - proceeded to arrange four sketching sessions with Dorothee
which occurred one a week for the next month.
We are quite lucky with regards this period of Dorothee's history as it
coincides with another period of activity in the artist's infrequent diary
entries. The first sketching session remains a mystery - perhaps little
happened of note, or perhaps - more likely - our artist was too drunk to
remember what occurred. With the second session, very little of note appears
to have happened, as can be seen by the diary entry I have translated:
'Met with Constantin's fiancée for sketching. Still annoyingly cheerful
about wedding plans. Finish early.'
In the penultimate session, again little of import seems to have
occurred, yet it is important to note that Duvall did see fit to comment
that Dorothee appeared less "annoying cheerful" about her impending
nuptials. This could perhaps be put down to last minute nerves, of course.
What happened between this third session and the final meeting is a
matter of legend amongst art historians.
There is a story - whose validity cannot, of course, be confirmed - that
the close of this session saw the beginning of another of Duvall's infamous
drinking sessions. What seems quite extraordinary about this particular
session is that - quite in contradiction to the conventions of the day - the
artist was joined by an aristocratic lady, not the usual painted lady. It is
widely assumed that this lady was Sorin's fiancée, Dorothee, and although
there is no confirmation of this anywhere it is certain that something
occurred between the final two sessions to form a bond between painter and
model.
The next stage of the tale can be told by Duvall himself, from his diary
entry of that day.
'Sketched Dorothea for the last time today. It was all I could do to make
the dear creature smile, such was her sadness. It was fortunate I was only
finishing a study of her hands.
Once the sketching was finished, I felt I must ask her what her trouble
was. As I feared, it was Constantin. He is a dear friend, but all to dry to
take this girl for life. I fail to see what she does in him, which is, I
suppose, fortunate.
It seems poor Dorothea is sickening for her homeland. My suggestion that
she and Constantin visit it after the wedding was not taken particularly
well. It seems she too is wondering what it was she saw in my friend. When I
ask, all she can really tell me is that he reminds her of an old love. But
they are engaged now, and it seems as if there is little she can do.'
This conversation that took place between them would certainly seem to
explain the alternate title the Mysterious Lady of Paris sometimes goes by:
The Mirror of Love Lost.
Unfortunately, this is the least well documented period of Dorothee's
history - the next entry in Duvall's diary is from 1891, by which time the
painting is finished and Dorothee is long gone, and forgotten in a haze of
opiates.
We do know that in the autumn of 1887, Count Sorin threw a party to
celebrate the forthcoming wedding, so it is evident that the two were still
engaged at that point. Most of the Parisian elite were invited to and in
attendance at that party, including our Duvall. There is a story that
circulates about that party that I offer here only as one possible version
of events.
It seems that Dorothee indeed attended that party, and was again
appearing not exactly enamoured with her up coming wedding. It is said that
Duvall himself tried to cheer her up, to no avail, and by the end of the
night he caught her in the garden with another traveller. This stranger -
reported as being a professional of some description: perhaps a lawyer or a
physician - had an amazingly beneficial effect on Ms. Dorothee, lifting her
spirits to the point of hugs, tears and laughter.
When Sorin came to claim his fiancée from this stranger, young Dorothee
is said to have called off the wedding there and then with apologies. It is
said she left that night with the stranger, leaving Sorin heart-broken and
humiliated.
This is not the only explanation for what we no to be true: there is
another story that suggests Dorothee died that night, which would explain
her disappearance but not the lack of documentary evidence. Another story -
most probably started by Duvall himself - suggests that it was Sorin who
broke off the engagement when he learned of his betrothed's night of passion
with the artist. I myself discount this story because it does not seem - to
me, admittedly - that such a headstrong girl as Dorothee would fall for
somebody of Duvall's nature.
All we know for sure is that the engagement between Sorin and the
mysterious Dorothee never blossomed into marriage. Before Sorin returned to
his native Russia, he visited England and took a wife there, a young girl by
the name of Mary Wilson, and the Sorin line continued until it was severed
in the 1940s, the name and title lost due to adoption outside of Russia.
Obviously, he never asked for the painting to be completed and paid no
monies to Duvall. He was given one of the series of sketches to keep as a
momento - what has happened to it since is anybody's guess. The other nine
sketches survive to this day in the Louvre.
It appears that sometime between the autumn of 1887 and the next diary
entry in 1891 - presumably earlier - Duvall uncharacteristically completed
the painting in return for no fee, and kept it up until his death in 1901.
From there, the painting was sold to . . ."

5
Little Sarfield: 24. November, 2003
06:30

'In conclusion, I find that Project Vali has been a costly and dangerous
mistake. Indeed, if our society survives its consequences, we will find
ourselves called to account for it to a much higher authority.'

From a destroyed memo to the
Prime Minister of Great Britain, 2003

Dorothea was woken from dark dreams by a gentle patting on the back of
her head. She didn't even need to open her eyes to know it was Wolsey,
probably with some fresh kill to share. All these years together, and he
still hadn't seemed to work out that she didn't need him to feed her. A nut
cutlet and a mushroom risotto did just fine for her.
'Good morning,' Chile called, before she'd even had a chance to sit up.
'I've got toast and juice waiting for you. There's marmite, or guava jelly
if you want it.'
She sat up on the sofa, pulling away the blanket someone had put over
her and noticing that they'd also taken her coat off. Wolsey jumped away and
finished his meal in the corner, as his sibling did her best to ignore it.
Looking around the room, she noticed that the Doctor's hat and coat were
gone.
'Where's he gone?'
'Down to the village. He has a lot of things to think about.'
Pulling herself to her feet, Dorothea padded into the kitchen. She saw
Chile bent over the kitchen table, scraping the burnt bits off his toast.
There was a pot of tea brewing in the corner - some bizarre herbal mix that
only Chile knew the recipe to. It tasted like a autumn sunset, although
after the whole flowers thing last night, she wouldn't be surprised if it
came from a packet. The threads of her dreams still clung to her, refusing
to be shaken loose.
'What's going on, Chile?'
Chile put the toast down, resting both hands on the pine table. It was
only when he fixed her with a soft gaze that she realised her sunglasses had
been taken off her last night, too. It didn't matter: she had nothing to
hide from Chile, or the Doctor.
'How much did he tell you? How much did you hear?'
Ace thought back:
'Not much. But I had the dream again last night.'
She could feel the dream waiting to burst up within her again - she'd
had it so often now she didn't know whether she remembered it, or just the
first time. Trapped in the darkness of the cellar, Loki beside her - not the
shaven-headed fake Captain, but Loki as they knew him later - and the Doctor
just a beast in a cage. And as glass shatters all around her, she sees the
Doctor lying, dying on the floor. And she feels herself change, the beast
take her, as she launches herself at Loki. He just laughs, and laughs, and
laughs.
'Dorothea?' she heard Chile coming in over the airwaves, and found that
he'd manoeuvred her into one of the antique chairs.
'What happened?' she asked. Wolsey was rubbing around her legs again,
concern coming off him in waves.
'You went,' the caretaker said softly.
Dorothea simply nodded. Of course she had. Chile pushed a steaming cup
into her hands. It was sweat, warm, tasted of better days. His pale coffee
hand was warm on her arm, his brown eyes reflecting her own. Wolsey didn't
even react: there were only two people he let touch his Sibling, and both
had been in the room the previous night.
'He came back,' Chile said softly. 'He came back for both of us.'
'I know,' Dorothea said, suddenly feeling like Ace again.
Chile frowned. He could read her mind at times.
'What?' he purred.
'I . . .' she stopped. No. This had to come out right. 'I'm so glad he came
back. It was the worst year of my life, thinking he was gone. Worst, and the
best. I learnt a lot about myself, Chile. I learnt my limitations, what I
could and couldn't do any more, I learnt to live with - I love Wolsey to
death, but I had to learn to live with him, right?'
'And you had to live with what killed our mutual friend.'
'And then he comes back. Right as rain, the old -' she caught herself in
time, seeing Chile's face tense slightly, '- the old him -'
'A new him.'
'It was the happiest night of my life, Chile, that night in Sydney. But
it's hard to see him beat it, and to know that I'm going to live with it for
the rest of my life.'
'Did he ever tell you how he beat it?'
'No. You?'
Chile shook his head.
'But I know this much. If he could've, he would've shown me.'
Chile stood, heading for the door. He stopped half way, and Dorothea had
to twist to see that he'd picked up the Doctor's question mark umbrella.
He'd be getting wet, wherever he was. Resting underneath it in a neat pile,
were Dorothea's jacket and shades. Three guesses who'd put her to bed last
night.
'It's possible,' Chile said, 'that he still might.'
'No.'
'You can see it as much as me. He's back. His travels took him from this
plane, when Loki -'
'Killed him.'
'But this is him back. When he's finished here, he'll go back to Sydney and
he'll find you again. Who's to say he won't cure you now?'
'Look at him, Chile. You've spoke to him. He hasn't got a clue how it
happened. 'Sides, I'm used to it now. Be like giving up an arm.'
She reached down, stroked Wolsey behind the ears. The kitling purred
softly, then crawled away to rest by the radiator. Dorothea stood, pulling
on her jacket, slipping her shades over her eyes. Chile looked concerned,
standing between her and the doorway, but stood aside as she smiled. Poor
Chile. He could never refuse her anything.
'I've got to go.'
'Looking after him again?'
'He can look after himself. I've got work to do.'
'UNIT?' Chile asked, eyebrow raised.
'I'm on leave. Personal project.'
Chile nodded, opened the door for her.
'Anyone I know?'
'Fawney Rig.'
Chile's face hardened. For a moment, he looked like the old Chile, the
Walker, but it passed in an instant. But as Dorothea tried to step passed,
she found his hand on her arm, holding her back. She raised an eyebrow at
him.
'I'll come with you,' he said, a flat statement. She knew he'd brook no
argument.
'Okay,' she said. 'I could do with a diversion. Over-active sentry.'
'Been a while since I had to deal with one of them.'
Dorothea smiled:
'Don't worry. It's like riding a bike.'
And they set off into the morning mist.

Sergeant Murphy sat in his office and watched the sun come up over the
village. It was as sight he never failed to miss, unless circumstance or
exhaustion made it impossible. There was a certain kind of light he had only
ever seen in the village at dawn, and nothing else could compare.
The sun was just cresting the other side of the valley now, spreading
its warm orange light over the - mostly - sleeping village. The rough brick
houses soaked up the light and the warmth gratefully, feeding it to their
occupants until they were energetic enough to venture out into the light
themselves. The train tracks glinted pleasingly outside of his office, two
lines of fire running from horizon to hill-lined horizon. There would be no
train today, he knew, and that only increased the feeling that the metal
lines had only been put there to enhance his enjoyment of the morning sun.
God had truly known what he was doing when he sorted out the sunrises, he
thought playfully.
It was a hard job being the village's only serving police officer, even
harder if you actually cared enough to do the job properly. In theory, he
was supposed to only work his shifts five days out of seven and when he was
off duty any incidents in the village were relayed to the central station in
the city. Bitter experience, however, had taught him that his comrades in
the city had their own problems, and somebody using the vicar's parking
space came very low down on their list of priorities.
Usually, he popped in most days just to see if anything needed doing -
he hadn't had a day off proper in the five years he'd been doing the job. It
was only on rare occasions, however, that he found himself trying to grab a
few hours sleep in the station before getting back to work in the morning.
Occasions such as last night, for example. He'd dropped off to sleep in the
early hours of the morning, only to be woken about half an hour ago by the
incessant beeping of the fax machine his Chief Super had insisted he had
installed.
When he'd checked it, he'd found a two page report waiting for him from
his friend in London. It consisted of one page of general information and an
old missing persons form, with a note scribbled on it that said Is this what
you wanted? It was indeed. He wandered over to the kettle and flicked it on,
then settled down to read through his faxes.
Dorothy McShane, the first page told him, born 20th August 1970,
Perivale, Gt. London. Mother Audrey McShane, Father . . . All of this was
very interesting, but it wasn't telling him very much. It appeared young
Dorothea had been born in Perivale, lived there for a while with her mother
whilst her father had gone AWOL. Nothing strange about that, more's the
pity. He flicked on to the missing persons.
Missing Person, it told him. Dorothy McShane. It went on to give a
description of the woman at eighteen, complete with nylon bomber jacket
plastered with badges and a rucksack stuffed with numerous items, including
a baseball bat. It sounded to Murphy like she had planned to run away,
packing what she could and getting out one night. Shouldn't have taken long
to find someone as distinctive as that, though.
He skimmed through the rest of the report to check the dates at the
bottom: filed on 23rd November 1987 - she would have been seventeen. Then he
saw the final line of the report, newer than the rest. It read: File
cancelled 23.11.93, on UN request.
Now that was interesting. She'd disappeared ten years ago, with nothing
on file for six years - not so much as a caution for loitering - only to
reappear with the weight of the UN behind her. Were they picking up runaways
now, he wondered. And if so, what for? To use as agents? He wouldn't put it
past them - there'd been plenty of stories in the newspapers of late about
UN cover ups in the seventies. Perhaps this was another one.
His train of thought was briefly derailed by the sound of a car pulling
up outside. Duty calls, he thought as he wandered over to the door,
expecting to see an aggrieved villager of some description. Instead, he saw
Lars climbing out of his car. Murphy waved at him.
'Morning, Lars,' he said cheerfully. 'You're just in time - the kettle's
boiling.'
Lars didn't smile back. He looked different to Murphy somehow - colder,
more focused. He was certainly more dishevelled. His pastel blue suit had
developed quite a few creases in it since last night. It looked rather like
he had been sleeping in it. Under his arm, he was carrying a slim leather
hold-all.
'Everything alright?' Murphy asked.
'I'm afraid not, Sergeant Murphy, no,' he said briskly. 'This isn't a
social visit.'
Murphy felt his heart skip - a worrying sign at his age. This was
something to do with the woman, he reckoned.
'What's up?'
Lars looked grim faced.
'I shall have to ask you to address me as "sir", Sergeant,' he said coldly.
'Yes, sir,' answered Murphy.
'That's better,' Lars said absently. 'I shall need your office.'
Lars paced past the Sergeant without even stopping, leaving him to spin
around and watch him head for his station. Something must have gone
seriously wrong. Not that it excused Lars for being this rude, especially
when Murphy had no ties to the military. He hurried after his young friend,
and only caught up with him when he was inside the station.
'Can I remind you, sir,' said Murphy diplomatically, 'that this is my
station and - officially - you have no jurisdiction here?'
Lars sat himself down in Murphy's chair and carefully placed the bag on
the table top. Then he looked up at Murphy with deep eyes and said:
'Last night, Sergeant, we had what you may call an incident up at the
Manor, yes? As a result of this incident, I have been forced to instigate
the Valkyr Procedure. I am required to ask you if you understand what this
means. Do you?'
Murphy's face fell. When he had first taken the job here, he'd been told
about Fawney Rig and the vital work they were doing for the government.
Vital work that at some point may need the co-operation of the local police.
If that was the case, then every available resource - the station, the
man-power, even the stationary if they desired it - was to be put at their
disposal. The Valkyr Procedure.
'Yes,' said Murphy grimly, 'I understand.'
'Good,' said Lars, pushing the black bag across the desk. 'Now, do you see
this bag?'
Murphy nodded. It was a small black leather hold all, in pristine
condition. The handles at the top were tied together twice with thin red
wire, and a large plastic seal kept it closed.
'This seal,' Lars continued, 'is the British Government diplomatic seal.
Only a high ranking Government official can break it - an official like me.
Do you understand?'
Murphy nodded dumbly again, biting his tongue. This was not a good time
to start snapping at Lars. It could lose him his job, and leave him spending
his twilight years in a prison cell.
'You are not such an official,' Lars was saying. 'Under no circumstances
are either you yourself or anybody else to open this bag without my express
permission. You will personally guard it for me until I - or some other
identified government official - come to collect it. This does not include
anybody claiming to be from UNIT. If you do allow anybody I do not
personally authorise to open this bag, you will spend the rest of your life
in jail. Do you understand that?'
'I understand. Sir.'
Lars smiled, for the first time since he arrived. It was a weary smile,
too tired to reach his eyes.
'Good. I'll have coffee, black, please Sergeant.'
Without a word, Murphy went over to the kettle and began pouring two
cups of coffee. He didn't even offer a suggestion that he was trained and
experienced to be more than a tea-lady. When the coffee was made, he carried
the cups over to the desk and handed one to Lars.
'Thank you.'
'You might be interested in that fax on the desk, sir,' Murphy said evenly.
'It's about our visitor last night.'
Lars picked it up and gave it a casual glance, then dropped it back onto
the table.
'I already know all that, Sergeant,' he said dismissive.
Of course you do, thought Murphy.
'One of the other duties I want you to perform,' said Lars, 'is to find
that woman and arrest her. Understood?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Now, Sergeant. Take the bag with you.'
Murphy glared at Lars over the rim of his coffee cup. The European
stared back, stone faced. He calmly put down his coffee cup and picked up
the bag. Before he left, Murphy turned back to Lars and asked:
'I don't suppose there's any chance you might tell me exactly what is going
on here, sir?'
'No, Sergeant,' answered Lars. 'No chance what-so-ever.'
Thought not, thought Murphy, and headed out of the door. As he left, he
saw Lars pick up the telephone and dial what appeared to be a twenty digit
telephone number.
'Allfather,' he just heard him say into the mouth piece, 'this is Vali.'
The sun had almost fully risen now, losing its burnt umber colour and
becoming a more fiery yellow. It was shining down on what was turning into
the worst day of Murphy's life. He started walking down towards the village,
his newly acquired bag in his hand, and a quiet rage beginning to burn in
his chest.

Sophie Wagner was very slowly being driven insane. Somebody was doing it
deliberately, that was the only explanation. She had wronged somebody
horrendously - either in this life, or a previous one - and now they were
extracting their revenge. That was the only explanation possible.
She looked up from her chair to see out of the window. Outside, row
after row of the village houses sat with their curtains drawn, blank eyes
staring out into the world. The new sun was shining down from over head,
fresh and bright. It cast long shadows over the road that Sophie stared at.
It was still empty. Soon it would be filled full of people on their way to
Greater Sarfield, or to the village shop, or doing whatever it was her
neighbours did on the weekend. She didn't care: she was only looking for one
familiar face.
She had spent the night travelling between the telephone and the window,
alternately staring at the empty road to the silent phone. Once she had
picked it up, expecting to hear nothing, but the steady pulse of the
dialling tone sang out. Then she had hurried over to the window and flung it
open. If he wasn't ringing, then it could only mean that he was so near home
that it would be pointless. Nothing. There was, of course, another reason
why he might not be ringing, but she wasn't thinking about that.
She had spent most of the early morning like that until, exhausted, she
had fallen into a fitful sleep in her chair. She had dreamt that Stevie had
come back, grinning all over his face, carrying box after box of shopping
from the city, all the best stores.
'I won,' this dream lover had said, his bright eyes dancing, 'won so much
damned money I just had to go out and spend some of it. Here.'
And he'd handed over the most beautiful clothes and nic-nacs, and it had
been such an understandable explanation, that she'd just reached up and
hugged him. He unloaded bag after bag, silk skirts, designer tops, jewellery
that would make the queen jealous, the last book to complete her collection
of children's' stories - the one that all the publishers had told her had
been out of print for fifteen years and she would be very lucky to find -
even a new book that she'd never even heard of. Stevie had handed them all
to her, smiling all the time. He was so good to her, and she loved him so
much.
Then she woken up and realised it had all been a dream. She turned to
tell Stevie about it, and then woke up some more and remembered that Stevie
hadn't come home. Then she cried.
And as the sun had risen, Sophie had dried her tears, knowing exactly
what she had to do. She picked up the telephone and dialled the sergeant's
number. She had to report Stevie officially a missing person. The phone
hummed quietly to her, singing out an engaged tone. She put it down quickly
again, in case Stevie was out there somewhere, trying to ring through. She
would try the sergeant again in a couple of minutes. At least that would
give Stevie a couple more minutes to get in touch, before . . .
She remembered the first time she'd met him, both of them heading into
Whitehall on differing business. He'd been there to discuss some contract
his firm in America had set up, and she'd been there to try and set up a
catering contract for the government kitchens. He'd been successful, she
hadn't: she hadn't been too upset, her catering business was strong and
could survive without them; and besides, she'd met Stevie.
Most men she met usually took a few hours to get over the guilt they
felt for something that wasn't even their fault. Not Stevie. He'd held to
door open for her, smiled cheerfully - the way he did - and talked to her
like a normal human being. Perhaps it was something to do with being
American. Whatever it was, she liked it. He hadn't even tried to wheel her
down the corridor, wisely deciding to leave her to her own arm power.
By the time she'd come out of her meeting - feeling slightly upset that
they had chosen her cheaper and nastier rivals for the contract - she'd
found Stevie waiting outside for her. He'd smiled, asked how she'd got on
and - after actually listening to her reply - offered to take her out for
dinner to cheer her up. Before then, she'd never known it was possible for
people to be that confidant - the quickest she'd ever been asked out by
anyone was after a wait of five weeks.
Of course she'd said yes, as she had when six months later Stevie had
told her he was planning on staying in the country, in a little village
somewhere out in Derbyshire, and asked if she wanted to stay with him.
They'd been married just weeks later, a small ceremony without either sets
of parents: Stevie's couldn't make it from America in time, and hers just
wouldn't make it. And now he was missing.
She picked up the telephone again and dialled the station. This time the
telephone was answered by a gruff voice she half recognised.
'Hello?' it barked.
'Hello?' she said meekly.
'Allfather?' the voice asked.
'No,' answered Sophie, by now totally confused. 'I'm trying to report . .
.'
'Then go away,' the voice interrupted, and the telephone was slammed down.
Sophie held on to the telephone, staring out of the window in
bewilderment. She must have got a wrong number, that was the only possible
explanation. She tried dialling the number again, watching her finger
carefully in case it slipped onto a wrong number. It didn't, and the
telephone was answered again.
'Allfather?' the same voice barked.
'I'm trying to reach Sergeant Murphy,' Sophie said as calmly and firmly as
she could manage. 'Can you put me through to him, please.'
The voice on the other end of the telephone sighed. She was sure she
recognised it.
'Sergeant Murphy is no longer in charge here, madam, and he has far more
important things to do now than sort out your minor little problem. Please
do not ring here again. Thank you,' he said, and the telephone was slammed
down again.
Sophie stared at the telephone for a second of blank amazement. Then
with a scream of rage she pulled the entire phone away from the table and
flung it across the room. It sailed through the air with an almost graceful
ease, spinning as it went, the receiver flying behind it like a comet's
tail. Then it reached the window. It didn't stop. With a loud crash, it
continued on, landing outside in the garden amidst a shower of glass.
Sophie barely even noticed. She was too busy crying into her hands.
Stevie was missing, probably lying dead in some ditch, and now nobody cared,
not even the police. She'd ring her mother, but she wouldn't care. And
besides, the phone wasn't working any more. So instead, she cried.
'Excuse me,' said a quiet, calm voice.
She looked up to see a wire haired little man standing in her front
garden, peering through the fresh new hole in the window. There was
something about his clothes that struck her as odd, but individually the
tweed jacket and the red waistcoat seemed perfectly normal, counter-pointing
his five-year-old's smile perfectly. In his hands he was holding her
battered telephone.
'I found this outside,' he said, still grinning like a small boy with a
fistful of worms. 'I thought you might want it back.'
Sophie took one look at him, and burst into a fresh bout of tears.

--
PDS, making enemies since 1976