2012
the Secret Teachings
of the
Next Door Neighbour
by Frauke and Simon Lewer
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Frauke and Simon Lewer
Prologue
‘If anyone can do this, it is you,’ he said, his clear, grey eyes locked into hers.
Pushing his chair back, he rose and extended a wrinkled yet immaculately clean and well-manicured hand over the polished desk towards her. Within its grasp he held a small silk wrapped package. She too reached out and for the briefest of moments, the tiny bundle was held suspended in time, supported by both the old and the young together.
‘After all these years, I find it hard to believe the time has finally arrived,’ he said slowly, his rich voice resonating around the library walls, ‘but now I realise, the hardest part of all is yet to come.’
She acknowledged his words with a slight nod of her head and, with only a hint of her native Parisian accent detectable replied,
‘I will do my very best to ensure its safe arrival.’
She glanced down at the package, feeling suddenly overawed by the magnitude of her task. After all the years of training she’d come to believe that she was ready, but now, actually holding it in her hand, she wasn’t quite so sure.
The elderly man smiled, the myriad lines around his eyes creasing as he replied with sincerity,
‘I know you will.’
Paul: December 15th
As the tube train rattled into Oxford Circus Station, Paul glumly watched himself reflected in the carriage windows streaking by, thinking how tired, grey and middle-aged he looked. He knew he should be feeling happy, after all, he had the whole of the week running up to Christmas off work. And with the kids going to Julie’s folks, he had a clear ten days to himself. But instead of happiness, Paul felt nothing but a kind of blank gloom.
The tube stopped and Paul waited in the throng to get on, clutching his plastic bags. His chances of getting a seat in this crush, he thought, looked pretty unlikely.
He squeezed on, wedged his bags firmly between his feet and took hold of a stainless steel pole. The doors closed with a hiss and the tube jolted into motion.
There was nothing worse than Christmas shopping, especially when you’d braved the crowded pavements and overheated shops and still hadn’t found what you’d gone for.
Chris was easy, 9 year old boys were. He’d bought him an Arsenal sports bag straight away, knowing he’d be chuffed to bits with it, before spending a fruitless couple of hours picking up and putting down all kinds of junk, wondering what the hell to get Tara and Julie.
For God’s sake, he thought, he didn’t want to encourage Tara’s macabre sense of teenage fashion by getting her death’s head jewelry, or black make-up, even if it was what she’d like. The problem, he knew, was that, anything that he liked, Tara on principle would look at with scorn.
The train rumbled on through the darkness, with it’s cargo of blank-faced passengers, jolting in time to the rhythm of the tracks. As for Julie, Paul thought bitterly, the way she was fleecing him for money now, he just didn’t feel like getting her anything. He was already paying all of Tara’s school fees, half the mortgage on the extension, and most gutting of all, the monthly payments on his Land Rover that he’d left with her. Still, he’d have to get her something, even if it was only to show the kids that they still had some kind of family unity. It’d have to be something cheap, that’s all, he concluded.
Jesus, he could probably pick up some pebbles in the park for her to arrange in her “feng bloody shui” corner.
Paul had to consciously stop himself and think of something else. It was all too easy to fall into anger and resentment whenever he thought of Julie, and he knew it didn’t get him anything but a splitting headache.
Now Elodie, at least Elodie was easy. Paul reached a hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out the plush velvet box, flicking it’s lid open. He’d spent more money on her than he probably would on the whole of his family, he thought guiltily. But it was classy, and it would suit her. The tiny gold heart shone lustrously, nestled in it’s velvet bed, the minute diamond set in the right hand side seeming to wink cheekily up at him.
Just the thought of Elodie lit a spark of excitement somewhere deep inside him, brightening the cloud of gloom he seemed to have been under since moving to London.
Well, if the way to a woman’s heart really was expensive jewelry, he thought smiling, this was definitely the clincher. He snapped the box closed and patted it into his pocket carefully, as the lights and crowded platform of Warren Street Station streaked past the window and the train slowed.
A handful of passengers rose to get off, and before the tube had fully stopped and the doors opened, Paul had made a determined line for the nearest empty seat, and dropped himself into it with a sigh of satisfaction.
Back in the tunnel again, Paul let his gaze wander idly over the faces of the passengers opposite him.
What was it, he wondered, about London, that reduced everyone who lived there to the same miserable, drab, greyness?
He caught sight of his own reflection, and despite the blurred effect from the double glazing he could see he was just the same as the rest of them.
God, I’m getting old, he thought dismally, staring back into his own tired, grey eyes.
When Jeremy from work had offered him the flat in London at such a reasonable rent, he’d convinced himself that a trial separation might be good for them. There was sound financial logic in it. It would save him the expensive commute, and meant he could leave Julie the car, but inside himself he’d been excited, thinking London would give him the new lease of life he’d been looking for.
He’d seen it as a chance to reinvent himself as someone new, find some new friends and make up for the lost time of the last 15 years. But looking at it now, honestly, in the bright neon light of the tube carriage, he could see things for what they really were, and he knew he’d been deluding himself. He was just a weary, nearly 40 year old watching his marriage slipping slowly but surely down the drain.
How was a “trial separation” ever going to help or do anything, for that matter other than make the widening gap between them ever bigger?
It had about as much logic as Julie’s daft idea that getting a dog would make them a more complete family.
Ha! The least said about that, the better.
And the flat, he had to face it, was crap for the kids when they came to stay every second weekend. All Tara wanted to do was spend the day in bed with her laptop on facebook, while Chris was bouncing off the walls, needing some exercise. He could never please them both, and he’d started to dread his weekends of parenting, forced to drag them unwillingly on expensive, joyless outings round London, to museums, ice-skating and McDonalds.
Paul again shook himself out of his depressing thought pattern, remembering his resolve to stay positive. At least he’d managed to quit the fags and the beer. It had been made easier, he admitted, because he didn’t have anyone to drink with here, but, even so, it was an achievement. And he’d lost some weight recently. There was still a bit of a podge, but half of what it had been three months ago.
He remembered how Julie used to nag him to exercise and keep fit and it had always seemed so hard, such an uphill effort, but now, he reflected, since meeting Elodie, he’d found new motivation, and even started to enjoy his sweat-soaked, after work games of squash with Martin.
The tube popped out of the grimy darkness of the tunnel again, onto the shining new tiles of Euston station. The platform was filled with people crowding round the doors to squeeze into the already hopelessly cramped space, as the other passengers shuffled over, filling the aisles between the seats, the air hot and stale as the doors closed around them and they jolted off again.
A smartly dressed, balding man sitting on Paul’s left unfolded a paper, holding it out like a shield between himself and the mass of other passengers.
Paul, for lack of anything better to do, peered over his shoulder, letting his eyes scan up and down the columns, reading just the headlines.
“Recession’s grip deepens.”
“Mortgage rates rise by 2.3%.”
“2012 shows highest unemployment and homeless figures ever.”
Yeah, Paul thought, same old stuff. It depressed him to know that all there was to read was a relentless barrage of bad news.
His neighbour turned the page, giving Paul the shortest of pointed glances as he did so.
Paul ignored him and continued scanning.
“5 billion Euro mobile phone contract in Ukraine.”
“Drug search go ahead in city centres.”
Well, that at least was a good thing if it kept the pushers off the streets. Paul thought protectively of Tara, staying out to all hours, up to God only knew what.
He craned his neck to try and read the small print of the article, but the carriage was bumping too much, and at this angle, the lines of letters dissolved into incoherent mush. He turned his attention to the opposite page where a collection of ragged clothed youths were photographed under the heading.
“Stonehenge exclusion zone to go ahead.”
“As more festival goers then ever are expected this year, Wiltshire constabulary have enforced a 10 mile exclusion zone. Chief Inspector Cluney made a statement .....”
That was the problem in a nutshell, Paul thought, the youth didn’t care about the state of the country, the economy or progress, preferring to waste taxpayers money and precious police time. It was no wonder everything was going down the drain!
The man next to him shot Paul another look as he shook the creases from his paper, and Paul gave up trying to read, shifting his attention to the neutral space of the advert panels above the windows.
At King’s Cross the crush eased off a bit as people poured out onto the platform, only half as many getting on. Paul watched with distaste as a down and out tramp staggered into the compartment, the other passengers instinctively making space for him and averting their eye contact. It was hard to pinpoint his age, though he probably wasn’t much older than Paul, his lower face covered in a dirty, grey stubble with unhealthy, prominent veins standing out bluish-purple on his cheeks. He was wearing a filthy donkey jacket, and his hands inside threadbare fingerless gloves, clutched a can of super strength lager.
But what Paul found most offensive was his smell, a powerful, odious mixture of alcohol, dried sweat and stale urine.
It was disgusting, Paul thought, how people could have so little self-respect. They should create some kind of scheme where homeless people had to do community work, give something back to society in exchange for food and shelter. What these homeless people didn’t understand Paul concluded, was that life’s hard for everyone. Sure, homeless people came from all walks of life, but you couldn’t just give up and let yourself go when things got tough. You’ve got to knuckle down and deal with it. He’d paid his won way through university, trained himself up and through perseverance and hard graft, here he was, junior partner at Hodgson, Burke and Burnett Accountancy Ltd. Maybe he wasn’t earning a fortune, but at least he was paying his way through life, and keeping his integrity.
That’s what really galled him about Tara. Why couldn’t she understand that he was working his butt off, to give her the opportunity to succeed, to come out on top, that he didn’t have. If Julie could just find it in herself to support him, together he was sure they could make Tara see some sense.
Paul sighed, that was the heart of the problem really. How could they be effective parents when they couldn’t agree on anything? Somewhere, he mused, there must have been a moment when things started going wrong. A moment, perhaps, if he’d been paying attention, he could have stopped this whole bloody mess from happening. Was it when Julie had first started getting into all that new-age nonsense? taking on the crackpot ideas of her new friends? Maybe that was his fault really, spending the weekends off in the pub with the 4x4 club, instead of the family walks and outings that Julie had wanted.
Looking at things honestly, Paul’s off-roading and beer drinking weekends had really been a way of escaping the stresses and pressures of family life.
Or had it been way back when Tara started private school, when the finances had got tighter, and he’d started taking all that overtime?
God! Maybe their problems went much farther back than either of them would be happy to admit.
Was Julie’s pregnancy with Chris just a pathetic attempt to rekindle the love that had once been so real?
It was hard to know, Paul thought, maybe all this analysis was nothing but a waste of time, a mental regurgitation of the same old stuff. One thing was for sure though, things had just gone steadily from bad to worse between them, and what with the dog and the engine on Julie’s volvo blowing, the proverbial camel finally collapsed.
The tube had stopped and doors opened at Highbury and Islington, Paul hadn't even noticed, his train of thought entirely engrossing him.
Thankfully, the tramp stumbled out onto the platform, taking his stench and a stream of other passengers with him, so that there were several empty seats now.
As the tube set off down the last and longest of the tunnels on his journey, Paul let his mind wander, as it so often did, back to Elodie.
Jeremy had introduced them over dinner when he’d handed Paul the keys, and it had pretty much become a fortnightly tradition they’d kept up over the last three months.
God, she was cute! Not that , like Julie, she didn’t have some pretty weird ideas. But there was a huge difference between them. Where Julie would try to ram her self-help, pseudo-psychology down his throat, insisting she was always right, Elodie would just smile that pretty smile and drop the subject when he objected. The thing with Elodie was, she listened, without any of Julie’s judgement, manipulation and nagging.
Elodie seemed to care in a way that really helped him to talk and open up.
The tube jolted on its tracks and Paul felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t fair, he knew, to compare her to his 41 year old wife he’d shared a house and children with.
Still, she made him feel good, younger and more alive.
He wondered what she’d cook this evening, no doubt it’d be some cranky vegetarian recipe, but that didn’t matter.
What did matter was that she’d invited him again, which meant she did like him, possibly even fancy him.
Paul smiled at his blurred reflection across the carriage, imagining waking up with her on Christmas morning, her gorgeous body nestled around his, the necklace in his pocket sparkling up from her graceful neck.
Finsbury Park station rattled into view, and Paul’s fantasies evaporated as he remembered she’d told him she was off to France for Christmas. He picked up his gaudy collection of carrier bags, stepped out of the tube and started to climb the dirty, grey steps up to the traffic choked, evening streets above.
The Commander: December 15th
Four figures stood grouped around a circular, marble table, rimmed with a heavy band of lustrous gold.
It’s shiny surface was completely bare, yet several inches above it, hovered a holographic, three-dimensional image of planet Earth, rotating slowly on its axis.
Looking closely, the white spirals of cloud could be seen in motion, swirling over the ochre and green continents.
Above the hologram, over the heads of the standing figures, vast, fluted, stone pillars stretched up and up, supporting a high, domed ceiling, from which a soft, artificial, white light diffused down into the windowless room.
Three of the men were dressed in expensive, grey suits, mirrored sunglasses resting on their slicked back, grey hair. They were grouped facing the fourth man across the table who, from his powerful stance and exceptional height was evidently their superior.
‘We know they are preparing to move it out of England,’ said one of the suited men.
Their Commander’s gaze rotated slowly to a bank of surround screens that took up three sides of the room. He scanned the tight patterns of energy waves continuously moving over the screens for a long moment, before he replied,
‘Do we have the vibrational anomalies pinpointed?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Good.’
The Commander took two powerful strides towards the central table, his steps ringing out on the black and white, chessboard floor.
He reached a long angular hand towards a concealed console built into the rim of the table and pressed a button. Instantly the hologram began to change.
Without actually growing in size, the image magnified, rapidly zooming in, closer and closer, till the partially obscured outline of the British isles could be seen.
The Commander’s pale skinned face stared intently at the image.
‘Show anomalies,’ he said clearly, and instantly three highlighted, electronic dots were superimposed over the first image. He turned his attention back to the waiting, suited men and scanned them slowly.
‘The moment has come,’ his voice, though firm, lacked any emotion, ‘Bring them in.’
The men nodded assent and sliding their shades over their eyes, turned to leave the room.
Paul: December 15th
Once home, Paul decided to wash the grime of central London off himself with a long, hot shower. That, he had to admit, was a nice thing about living alone, there was always enough hot water in the boiler.
Wiping the condensation from the bathroom mirror as he stepped out of the shower, Paul gave his body a few moments dedicated appraisal.
It really wasn’t too bad, for a nearly 40 year old, he thought. With a touch of pride he puffed out his chest and pulled his stomach in slightly to show his abs to better effect. What would Julie say to that? Well, she had definitely been right, he had been heading down flab road to paunchville only 3 or 4 months ago, and now, after his regime of morning jogging and after work squash, the effort was definitely paying off. It was a shame that jogging was quite so arduous. He was never going to really enjoy it.
He turned to get a side view, folding his arm across his chest and flexing his biceps.
Yep, he thought with satisfaction, I’m not altogether un-fanciable and maybe, just maybe, tonight could be the night!
Paul started to dry himself, slowly and methodically. Looking at things logically, he thought, she didn’t have a boyfriend, and it was a well know fact that a lot of girls were attracted to older men.
He wrapped the towel round his waist and reached for the bottle of deodorant above the sink.
The fact that she’d never yet made any physical move towards him, apart from the brief, glancing cheek kiss he received each time they met, didn’t mean anything. She was a well-brought up girl, taking things slowly. It might even be a French thing, he thought, rolling the deodorant around his armpits.
He started to get dressed, choosing his clothes carefully from the bedroom cupboard.
He’d never met anyone as gorgeous as Elodie before, he was sure of it. From those long legs to those pert breasts, to her deep, melting eyes, she was about as perfect looking as a woman could possibly be. Of course, Julie had been a knockout in her day, but that was before childbirth and time had taken its toll.
He couldn’t deny that her reticence, bordering on secrecy unsettled him, and the things he had managed to find out, didn’t quite add up. For example, he knew she was studying in London, but what kind of course included yoga, meditation and martial arts? Definitely none he’d ever heard of. He pondered his choice of shirts, finally plumping for the pink and white pinstripe he reserved for special occasions.
How she made ends meet wasn’t too clear either. She wore designer clothes, and they didn’t come cheap, he knew that, and what student could afford to get around London by taxi?
Well he had to suppose, Daddy back in Paris must be footing the bill.
Paul chose a beige v-neck sweater from the drawer, his thoughts wandering as he pulled it over his head. As long as Tara didn’t expect that kind of treatment, because she wasn’t going to get it .... Mind you, he continued with a touch of bitterness, she wasn’t even interested in studying. She was more likely to end up in a squat with some shaven headed layabout of a boyfriend, and he definitely wasn’t going to help her financially then .....
Paul frowned at himself in the full length mirror. If only Tara had Elodie’s drive, her self-motivation. His thoughts jarred. What was he doing comparing Elodie to Tara? Well, he supposed, they were definitely closer in age than Elodie and Julie.
His relationship with Elodie was confusing, did he want to be her lover or her dad for Chrissakes?
Paul took a deep breath to clear his mind, and checked his watch. It was nearly time to go over. He fetched a bottle of wine and the gift he’d bought that afternoon. He took it out of it’s velvet box, and dropped it in his pocket. It would be handier like that if the right moment came to slip it round her elegant neck.
Paul checked his reflection again, practising his smile. He wanted to look friendly, but not over-keen. He mustn’t look desperate. There had to be an element of distance, of cool.
‘Hey Elodie, how you doing?’ he said to the mirror, trying the smile. No, maybe not, he decided, he should just relax and be himself.
He left his flat, stepping out onto the cramped landing between their two doors, took another calming breath and knocked. It was ridiculous at his age, feeling like a stuttering, nervous adolescent.
‘Come in, I’m in the kitchen ....’ Elodie called and Paul pushed open the door, clutching his bottle of wine, and made his way down the tidy corridor.
Elodie’s flat exactly mirrored his in size and layout, looking out on the street, whereas Paul’s had the view of the overgrown, neglected garden, but it was amazing how different they were.
Paul liked to think of himself as a reasonably orderly, tidy person, but there was something about the crisp cleanliness of Elodie’s flat that made his seem like a tip.
The kitchen was full of sizzling sounds and fragrant steam and Elodie was bent over the cooker, her shiny hair rolling lustrously over her neck and shoulders.
She turned as she heard him enter, her smile making those irresistible dimples that he’d grown to love, and kissed him on both cheeks.
Paul breathed in the delicate smell of her, feeling the softness of her cheeks as they brushed against his, and felt himself blushing slightly.
He turned to the large, cast-iron wok on the cooker to hide his embarrassment and sniffed at the contents.
‘Hmmm, another nutritious, meat-free, organic delight then?’
‘But of course,’ Elodie smiled, ignoring his light hearted jibe, ‘I eat only the best.’
Paul helped himself to a chair, pulling it away from the table and sat down.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing ...... bacon sarnies dripping grease,’ he mimed biting into an invisible sandwich, before continuing, ‘don’t get me wrong, there’s no harm in a bit of salad as long as there’s a big, juicy slab of steak laying on it.’
Elodie’s laugh was drowned by a sudden sizzle from the wok as she shook a bottle of soya sauce over the vegetables.
‘I have to disagree,’ she replied, ‘for me, organic tofu is better any time.’
Paul leaned forward, settling happily into their usual conversational pattern,
‘Organic food is just a con as far as I can see,’ he stated, ‘same stuff, just twice the price.’
Elodie stirred the food rapidly around before turning off the gas and replying, ‘I prefer my food without chemical residues.’
Paul was settling into his stride now,
‘Yeah, that’s all well and good, but what about the starving millions in the third world? You can’t tell them not to use pesticides if there’s a swarm of locusts on the way. Anyway, there is no nutritional difference between normal food and organic - it was in the paper last week .. ‘
Elodie brought the wok to the table trailing steam behind it.
‘Well, you can’t always believe what the media tells you Paul.’
Paul loved Elodie’s voice, it was so rich and lyrical, and he could love it, even when he couldn’t agree with what she said.
‘When it’s a respected journalist writing for a reputable paper you can,’ he said pompously.
Elodie raised her eyebrows. He liked her eyebrows too, the way she could look confrontational yet retain a sense of humour.
Paul reached for the wine bottle and corkscrew.
‘Come on Elodie, not this one again, the news is there to inform us, that’s the purpose of it. What would they gain by misleading us? In my opinion, anyone who believes there’s some big conspiracy going on trying to hide the truth from us, is just looking for a scapegoat to blame for their own problems.’ He screwed the corkscrew in and then tugged on it and with a satisfying “pop” the cork came out. He proffered the bottle, but Elodie shook her head.
‘Still off the hard stuff?’ he teased.
‘You know I don’t drink.’
‘What, not even at Christmas?’ he queried.
What was the point of all her clean living, organic food, water and herb teas? Paul thought,
Why would she want to permanently deprive herself?
‘No, I like to keep my mind clear. Do help yourself,’ she said, handing him the ladle.
Paul smiled at her,
‘Well, I have to admit it does smell delicious Elodie. But much better with a glass of wine. As far as I’m concerned, the foggier the mind the better,’ he joked, whilst ladling food onto both their plates.
‘Maybe if your mind was less active you would have no need to escape from or sedate your thoughts.’
‘Elodie,’ Paul felt slightly affronted, replying condescendingly, ‘when you get to my age, things aren’t quite as simple as they might appear. I mean, if my life wasn’t so chock full of problems, sure I wouldn’t have to think about them .... ‘
‘I find when I have problems,’ said Elodie, contemplating a floret of Broccoli, ‘I make space in my thoughts so that solutions can appear. Meditation is very useful.’
Paul took a long sip of wine, and dabbed his mouth with a napkin before continuing
‘Be realistic Elodie, when you’ve got problems, you’ve got to think about them. If anyone’s the escapist it’s you - you can’t meditate problems away. It just isn’t realistic.’
‘You might be surprised,’ Elodie paused to spear a carrot stick onto her fork and Paul interrupted.
‘Yeah, I would be .....’ he chuckled, ‘if it worked, and I had the time.’
‘You have never even tried have you? You just think it doesn’t work,’ she chided.
‘Elodie, I don’t have to try to know that it doesn’t work. If it worked, everybody would be doing it. I’m a logical, practical bloke and I’m -’
‘Paul, you can’t dismiss it because you have never done it. It is something you have to feel,’ she looked at him with mild exasperation.
His mouth was too full to speak. Their eyes connected unimpeded by the distraction of words.
God she was gorgeous! Maybe this was the moment for the necklace, would she melt into his arms, lips parted?
Come on Paul, he thought, not now, we’re eating. Anyway, what was he thinking, she was only twenty three for God’s sake!’
Jesus, what would Julie and the kids think? He quickly blinked and broke the contact.
Elodie, still watching him, smiled knowingly,
‘Mais oui, it’s pretty chaotic in there.’
Paul reddened, hoping she hadn’t guessed his thoughts and poured himself more wine to hide his confusion.
Elodie tactfully changed the subject,
‘So, will you be with your children this Christmas?’
‘Let’s not do my problems tonight, just for once eh?’
He gestured toward her with his glass,
‘What about you, mystery girl? What are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Well,’ Elodie paused to choose her words, ‘I have something to do at Solstice, but after that, I hope to spend Christmas with my family.’
‘Solstice, isn’t that in the summer?’ he asked confused.
‘For someone who claims to be educated, you don’t know very much. There are two solstices, at opposite ends of the year. Are you sure you went to school?’ she teased.
‘Yes I did. I know all about pagans. They dance around Stonehenge in white robes.’
‘If only it was as easy as that .... ’ she sighed
Her mobile rang, cutting off the end of her sentence
‘I thought you didn't agree with mobile phones?’ jibed Paul.
Elodie winked as she got up to get it, saying,
‘It’s satellite. ..... excuse me a moment.’ She picked it up and walked out of the kitchen, closing the door behind herself. Paul could still hear her, her voice changing from calm to urgent.
‘Allo?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Ok I’m going ...’
She came back into the room, her complexion pale, a look of seriousness and worry in her eyes that he’d never seen before.
‘I must go Paul, I’m sorry.’
‘What?’
The sound of slamming car doors carried up from the road below. Elodie walked swiftly to the window and looked out,
‘Merde!’ she breathed.
On the street, two tall men wearing dark grey suits were standing next to a shiny, black Range Rover. Police cars were drawing to a stop alongside. As Elodie looked down, the two men snapped their heads up to stare directly at her. She turned, fear and consternation in her eyes. Paul put his glass down concerned.
‘Elodie,’ he said, pushing his chair back and starting to rise.
‘What is going on? Are you all right?’ He hesitated, ‘Can I help?’
She took two steps and stopped in front of him. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she looked deep into his eyes, her gaze seeming to reach to the core of his being.
‘Yes, you can,’ she said, pulling from her trouser pocket a silk wrapped bundle which she held out to him, without breaking her eye contact.
‘Please, take this. Look after it for me.’
Stupefied he reached out, accepting the package. She held his hand for a moment before she let go, and Paul saw a shadow of pain or doubt ripple over her face.
‘Keep this closed until they have gone,’ she commanded.
Their eyes still locked together, Paul realised that whatever this was, meant a huge amount to Elodie.
But before he could think what to say, she started pushing him towards the door,
‘This is more important than you can possibly know,’ she added urgently under her breath.
In the hall she grabbed her handbag, reached in and pulled her address book out. She quickly flipped through it and ripped out a page. Then pointing she said,
‘Please Paul, take it to this address. Give it to my mother. She will pay you for everything.’
Paul tried to look down to read the paper, but Elodie was pushing him out of her door until they were standing on the landing between their flats.
They heard a repeated thudding from downstairs. The front door with it’s ancient locks was being kicked down. Elodie looked at Paul again, her eyes burning intensely. There was no space to fall into them now, they were hard and focused. The crash of breaking glass could be heard below.
‘I must go, I will see you soon,’ she breathed, touching his hand one last time.
Heavy footsteps were rapidly approaching, powering up the narrow staircase.
‘Elodie?,’
‘Get in and shut the door,’ she whispered urgently and before Paul had time to respond she ran up the last flight of stairs, stopping underneath the loft hatch, where she crouched for the minutest moment, before leaping vertically upwards, her fingers pushing the panel up and clutching onto the edge of the opening. In one smooth movement Elodie disappeared through the hatch and was gone.
Paul stood dazed and confused, the taste of food and wine lingering in his mouth, a torn page of an address book and a silk wrapped package clutched in his hands. If it wasn’t for the sound of trampling feet on the stairs, he could have thought that he had imagined this. This was not how his evening with Elodie should end.
A sudden panic came over him. Quickly he turned the door handle and slipped into his flat, closing and locking the door behind him. His heart was pounding. Not quite sure why he was doing it, he searched frantically for a hiding place, aware all the time of the approaching footsteps. Seeing his squash shoes by the door, he shoved Elodie’s package and address into them.
‘Elodie had told him to get in but shouldn’t he go out and confront whoever it was? But, what kind of person kicked down a front door to get in? Maybe he should call the police? Paul pulled his phone from his pocket and looked through the peephole in his door.
Oh my God! The landing was crowded with police!
Shit, what kind of trouble was Elodie in?
With another splintering crunch, Paul watched as one of the men powerfully drove the heal of his boot into her door lock. His eyes firmly glued to the spy hole, Paul watched, both fascinated and horrified, as the police rushed into Elodie’s flat, leaving the hallway empty except for one exceptionally tall man in a steel grey suit. There was something more than the optic distortion of the peephole glass that made the man appear odd, out of proportion. It wasn’t just his size but something indefinable that sent a shot of queasy fear deep into Paul’s gut.
In an instant, the man’s head snapped round and stared straight at Paul’s peephole, his neck extended, head protruding forward.
Although Paul couldn’t actually see the man’s eyes behind his mirrored shades he recoiled from the stare and involuntarily stepped back, his heart pounding harder, his mouth dry and knees weak.
A sharp knock sounded on his door. Paul's mind disintegrated into a mess of incoherent fear.
‘Shit, what does he want? I haven’t done anything. Shit! Get a grip. Act normal.’
‘Open up! Police!’
Paul, taking several deep breaths reached up to unlock the door. The man barged past him in a blur of grey, giving him barely enough time to step out of the way. Across the hall, another grey suited man, disconcertingly similar to the first, stepped out past the splintered wreckage of Elodie’s door. Paul watched mesmerised, as he too brushed past and strode into his flat, again flattening him against the wall.
It took a moment for Paul’s thoughts to catch up,
‘Hang on,’ he stuttered, ‘You can’t just ..... have you got a search warrant?’
He stumbled after them into the living room.
Who did these guys think they were? It didn’t matter if they were CIA or MI5 or any other sort of government bloody Agent, it still didn’t give them the right to barge into his flat without a warrant. He knew his rights. As soon as he walked into the room, one of the men turned abruptly to him.
‘Sit!’ he ordered in a clipped hiss of a voice.
Paul’s moment of bravado left him and he found himself compelled to obey, and like a small child, he sank onto the sofa.
‘What do you know of Miss Elodie Sauveterre-Dubois?’
The voice was emotionless, accent-less, as forgettable as the grey he was dressed in, and yet it was laden with a potent sense of domination. The words, Paul thought, contained a compressed power, a weight that could crush you. He floundered around looking for an appropriate answer but the tramping of police boots outside perforated his thoughts and added to the confusion in his mind.
‘Well, err ....... she’s French, erm ........ she lives next door, pretty girl .....’
Paul’s sentence drifted feebly to a standstill as the second Agent approached him slowly, until his face was just a foot from Paul’s.
‘Have you seen her this evening?’
Paul shrank backwards into the cushions and for some unknown reason spluttered,
‘Errrm ..... No.”
Before the words had finished coming out of his mouth, a grey sleeved arm shot out and grabbed Paul about the throat in a steel like grip, flattening him into the cushions,
‘Yes, yes,’ he choked and the hand relaxed slightly but didn’t withdraw. Paul tried to summon a bit of outraged dignity, ‘Yeah, I did. She’s my neighbour, she invited me, there’s nothing illegal about eating dinner for Gods sake!’
The Agent withdrew his hand from Paul’s neck. Without physically moving, the Agents seemed to be closing in on Paul, the intensity of their presence pressing him physically deeper into the cushions. Both deadpan faces were turned towards him, their focus as intense as a laser burning into the depths of Paul’s mind.
‘What has she told you?’
Paul scanned through the numerous conversations he’d had with Elodie, a chaos of disconnected words tumbling around his brain as he tried desperately to compose a coherent sentence.
What could he tell them? They’d talked of vegetarianism and religion and art, and his kids and Julie, but whoever these guys were, he didn’t think they wanted to hear about his relationship issues.
The nearest Agent’s upper lip twitched slightly into a half-sneer as he straightened up to his full imposing height. Paul shivered, a feeling of invasion overwhelming him, as if his mind was an open book for the Agents to rifle through.
A uniformed officer entered the room,
‘She’s not here, Sir.’
The second Agent’s voice cut across Paul’s thoughts as he turned, his massive bulk silhouetted against the orange glow from the street lights.
‘Where has she gone?’
In his mind’s eye, Paul saw Elodie disappearing through the loft hatch. Instantly the Agents tilted their heads towards the ceiling, Paul felt spooked, was he seeing things? Was he making this up? Did they know what he was thinking?
The Agent spoke without shifting his focus from Paul.
‘Cordon off the area, ..... and check the roof.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the officer, who turned on his heels, starting to shout orders as he was half way back down the corridor.
The first Agent sniffed derisively,
‘He knows nothing.’
The Agents cast a last look around Paul’s room and then simultaneously turned to leave. Paul rose, a breath of relief washing over him, now that their menacing focus was withdrawn. He stumbled to the living room doorway. He needed to see them leave, to know they were gone. Shakily he held onto the door frame and watched the Agent’s suited figures retreating down the corridor.
As the second Agent reached the open front door, he slowed and stopped. In an instant, and Paul didn’t know how he’d done it, the Agent was facing him again. He spoke slowly, his voice heavily laden with menacing ballast,
‘What do you know about Alesia?’
Paul was confused, Alisia?
What?
Was this a joke?
No, this man didn’t joke.
Alisia?
The only thing that came to mind was Alicia, who he went out with in 5th grade .....
The Agent continued to speak, the words now seeming to hold him by the throat,
‘If you have deceived me ....’
The Agent turned slowly this time, the unfinished threat hanging like a gallows rope in the hallway.
Paul waited for what seemed an age before he shakily crossed the corridor, and closed the door. He let out a huge breath of relief as he found himself sinking slowly down against the door frame.
Jesus, who were those guys? They definitely weren’t ordinary police, and even secret government Agents weren’t that scary were they? He couldn’t put his finger on what it was about them, but they gave him a chill like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
Paul heard the distant bang of closing car doors on the street, followed by a succession of engines firing up.
Even though it had only happened moments ago, the whole episode was starting to feel unreal. Paul wasn’t someone who was normally scared of authority. After all, he was a respectable, taxpaying citizen. He didn’t do anything illegal and had no need to fear the law. He wasn’t a coward either, but just thinking about those Agents, remembering that brutal grip on his throat, gave him a cold shiver.
‘Jesus, Paul, get a grip!’ he said out loud and pulled himself awkwardly to his feet. What he needed now was a drink.
He poured himself a generous glass of Scotch from the bottle in the kitchen cupboard and gulped it swiftly, feeling the familiar burn in his mouth and throat. Grimacing, he poured another, and cradling the glass for comfort, Paul walked back into his living room. There was no trace of the men now but somehow, it felt as if they’d contaminated his home with their presence. He turned quickly and walked down the corridor to his front door, gingerly checking the spy-hole. The hallway was deserted. Elodie’s door hung crookedly from its top hinge, the wood around the lock splintered. It had definitely been real. He opened the door with caution, looked to both sides, and crossed into Elodie’s flat.
Paul’s mouth dropped involuntarily open, shocked at the state of the place. The normally tidy corridor was strewn with Elodie’s belongings. Her coats, shoes and books, had been scattered and trodden into the floor, and a light coating of downy feathers trailed out from the bedroom door. In the kitchen, the cupboard and drawers had been ransacked and their contents strewn about. Rice and lentils crunched under his feet as he walked around the table. The pan of crispy tofu cubes and vivid green broccoli, Paul’s wine and Elodie’s water sat amidst the wreckage like a surreal still-life.
A shiver ran down his spine and he turned and walked to the living room, where similar destruction met his eyes. The settee had been slashed, the foam insides gaping like flesh wounds. Her tidy life lay in shredded piles of feathers and foam.
What could Elodie have done to deserve this, he wondered?
Was she a terrorist? Or a thief? Perhaps a drug smuggler?
He couldn’t imagine it, but then he didn't actually know that much about her or her life.
But no, he just couldn’t see it,
She didn’t .... She couldn’t ........ Elodie just wasn’t like that.
He turned back into the corridor and walked past her bedroom. Her clothes lay strewn about the floor, her wardrobe thrown onto its front and her mattress, like the settee next door, was laced with slash marks.
Well, whatever she’d done, they were definitely looking for something they thought she’d got.
Suddenly Paul froze on the spot, remembering vividly the parcel Elodie had given him, seconds before the raid.
Oh my God! The thought hit him like a thunderbolt.
He had what they wanted!
He knew it with a certainty, with absolute conviction. Paul hurried back into his own flat and locked the door behind him.
He picked up his squash shoe, and shook out the crumpled package and the torn out page from the address book that Elodie had given him. He squeezed it, feeling a hard lump in the middle.
What could she have given him that those Agents wanted so badly?
Whatever it was, lay wrapped in a silk handkerchief, in the palm of his hand.
Delicately, Paul unfolded the corners of the patterned silk to reveal a small egg-shaped crystal. He turned it gently, bemused, between his finger and thumb.
A crystal?
A small crystal?
He held it up to the light. It was opaque with tiny filaments running through it, and no bigger than a quail’s egg.
How could this be what they had been looking for?
It certainly didn’t seem valuable. He didn’t know much about these things, but he was sure it wasn’t a diamond. Anyway, you’d hardly send in the heavies for a jewel, even if it was a diamond. In fact, he thought, rolling it in his fingers, it looked like nothing more than a piece of quartz
No, it just wasn’t possible.
Whatever those Agent were after, Elodie must still have it, and this, .... his eyes returned to the tiny crystal, it had to be a family heirloom, something she was emotionally attached to ...
He turned his attention to the torn page and slowly read the address written in a neat, flowery hand,
Mme Sauveterre-Dubois
23 Avenue de Balzac
Ile St Louis
Paris 75012
Paris!
Did she really expect him to go all the way to Paris?
Could he send it?
Paul remembered the intensity of Elodie’s expression as she’d given him the package.
She really did want it taken personally.
The name, ‘Sauveterre-Dubois,’ wasn’t that the name the Agent had called Elodie?
It was hard to remember now, it had all happened so fast.
but he knew with absolute certainty that Elodie wasn’t coming back.
Paul felt a moments self-pity as he thought of the necklace in his pocket that he hadn’t had time to give her. His romantic intentions had been well and truly trampled on.
He clicked his computer to life and tapped the address into Google maps. A street map of Paris popped up on his screen, pinpointing the location on the edge of a small island in the Seine, the old heart of the city.
Paul sat down in his swivel chair and tapped ‘Eurostar Paris’ into the search box. When the window popped up, he tapped in tomorrow’s date. He felt as if he was on auto pilot, his hands clicking and tapping the necessary keys, whilst his mind was bubbling over with the events of the evening. He reached for his wallet, pulled out his master card and tapped the 16 digit code into the box.
What had Elodie done?
Why had she asked him to deliver this crystal?
Who were those guys?
And what had they been looking for?
With one last click, his train was booked.
Elodie: 15th December
Elodie closed the cast-iron skylight behind herself, her senses heightened with adrenaline and her heart thumping in her ears. She looked around, the street lights were casting an orange glow on the road beneath her, leaving the slated rooftops in shadow.
She closed her eyes and took three deep breaths to centre and calm herself, drawing the cold air into her lungs and letting the refreshing oxygen swamp her blood stream.
On the third out breath she opened her eyes. In moments like this, it was essential to stay centred, and was worth the few seconds it took.
She knew she could do this, as long as she could hold her focus.
She rose into a crouching position and ran, her trainers gripping well on the smooth slates, to the edge of the roof.
Elodie leapt across the alleyway, landing neatly on all fours on the next roof. Three houses later, she had settled into the rhythm of running 10 steps up to the ridge, a cautious 10 steps down and a leap over the alleyway to the next house. She felt totally alert, her senses enhanced by the danger of the moment.
She’d always know that this might happen, but still it had come as a shock. She was grateful she’d had the foresight to figure out the escape routes. She only had to hope the Agents would underestimate her.
Had she been right to trust the flash of intuition giving the crystal to Paul?
However they’d traced them she didn’t know, but could only presume they’d upgraded their technology. Until she’d figured it out, the crystal was best in the possession of someone who didn’t know, someone like Paul.
Now was not the moment to think, she reminded herself but to breath and move as she’d been taught. She listened keenly for any sounds of pursuit, but all she heard was the steady hum of traffic on the main road, and unhurried footsteps on the pavement below.
She knew that if she could just make it to the end of the terrace and down onto the street below, she could soon lose herself in the busy, evening crowds of the main road.
There her thoughts would not be so easily traced.
She saw the wrought iron fire escape, winding down from the last house to its scrap of a back garden. In a few steps she was standing on the edge of the roof. She turned and dropped, dangling for a moment by her fingertips from the cast iron guttering, before landing, in a cat like crouch, lightly on the top platform.
She took the steps four at a time, vaulting round the corners on the banister rail, descending as fast as she could towards the gloom of the gardens below. All the while her eyes scanned the darkness, searching the shadows for movement.
Nothing.
She’d have to find a way to get word to her parents and the rest of the Society. Above all, the other nine should not converge in Paris as planned. But all that could wait. She cut her thought. Now was the time to breathe, run and stay focused.
She saw the alleyway at the end of the garden, leading to an adjacent street. Elodie tore across the darkness toward it, vaulting neatly over the wooden fence.
Once covered from view, she gave herself a few seconds to calm her pulse, before creeping cautiously to the end of the alley and checking left and right.
Only the lights of televisions flickered behind closed curtains, and the streetlights hummed quietly onto the rows of parked cars. She saw the silhouette of a cat ahead, silently slinking across the street.
Go Elodie, she urged herself and sprinted toward the main road.
If she could just get there and lose herself in the crowds .....
Her feet pounded the pavement as she pushed herself forward. Every second counted.
Only 30 metres, 20 metres, 10 metres and still there was no sound of pursuit. With a last push, she threw herself round the corner onto the main road.
A bus rumbled past in the stream of traffic, and groups of people filled the pavements on their way out for the evening. Elodie slowed her pace to blend in, finally allowing herself the space to process the thoughts that had been piling up in her mind.
What had happened?
How had they found her?
It could not have been through her thoughts. She was always impeccably careful.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that all three dimension jumpers were raided at the same time?
A sentence said to her by her teacher many years ago tumbled to the forefront of her mind.
“Your energy field will shine like a beacon ...”
Of course! That had to be it!
They had gone beyond thought tracking. They must be reading our energy fields, isolating us by the one thing that sets us all apart. Elodie squeezed her way through the crowd waiting at the bus stop, thinking hard.
What could she do?
Somehow she must disguise herself, cloak her energy field.
An idea came to her. She doubled back passing the steel shutters of a closed newsAgent and a busy brightly lit off-licence and headed through the doors of a late-night chemist. Two could play at this game, she wasn’t out of the running yet.
Minutes later she came out of the shop, clutching a small, brown bottle. She twisted the plastic lid off and tilted it back to her lips, letting the sickly, sweet liquid slide down her throat and grimaced, knowing that her clean lifestyle would give her a minimum of tolerance to the codeine solution.
Casting another quick look around and tucking her head down, she set off, mentally replaying the scene in her flat.
Mon Dieu! What have I done? she thought.
A wave of nausea rose from her stomach. She forced herself to breathe deep. There was no use in worrying, what was done was done. She knew that in her heart it had felt right and wasn’t that what she’d always been taught, to trust her heart?
Now, it seemed, was the moment when all the teachings would be put to the test.
But first things first, she needed to get back to mainland Europe as quickly and efficiently as possible.
She downed the last of the bottle and tossed it into a bin as the edges of her mind started to fog over.
Paul: December 16th.
Paul strode briskly up the platform, the structural magnificence of St Pancras international arched above him. A muffled voice echoed incomprehensibly from loudspeakers bolted high up on the steel struts where rows of scruffy pigeons perched huddled, ruffling their feathers.
Paul buttoned his jacket with one hand against the icy wind that was funnelling down the platform, thankful for the thickness and quality of the tweed. He checked the numbers on each carriage of the sleek, streamlined train, searching for the reservation number he had on the computer printout in his hand.
Typical, he thought, it would be the last bloody carriage of the lot, as finally arriving, he pressed the button to open the doors and stepped in out of the biting wind.
He stowed his worn, leather suitcase on the luggage rack and flopped down with a sigh of relief. The train was almost empty, a scattering of respectable looking businessmen, busy with their laptops, were the only other passengers.
Good, Paul thought, settling back into the comfort of the seat. He didn’t feel like making conversation with strangers today, and was content to stare out of the window as the train slid slowly out of the station, past the graffiti covered bridges and scrappy back yards of London.
The Eurostar smoothly gathered speed and within minutes the repetitive rows of semis, the school football pitches and industrial estates of suburbia petered out into the Kentish countryside. Large ploughed fields, interspersed with small patches of woodland shot past his view, punctuated by tidy villages, and the occasional expensive farmhouse.
It wasn’t until the train plunged into the darkness of the chunnel that the reality of what Paul was doing suddenly hit him. He sat up straight in his seat, shocked at his own impulsive behaviour. If anyone was sensible and rational in their decisions, Paul liked to think it was him. Yet here he was, sat on the Eurostar, on his way to Paris, delivering a trinket for a possible criminal.
What exactly had he been thinking as he booked the ticket, packed a change of clothes and set off this morning?
It was pathetic that he’d go all the way to Paris, running errands for her. Had he really thought that would get her into his bed, or was he just helpful, or nosey?
What was he doing anyway fantasising about a woman nearly twenty years younger than himself?
Paul felt a flush of shame rising up his neck and onto his cleanly shaven face. He knew he could never tell Julie about this trip. He’d certainly never done anything so spontaneous, so irrational or so romantic for her, in all their 17 years of marriage.
As the train powered on relentlessly through the darkness of the tunnel, Paul’s mind reflected on the situation more deeply, seeing his own delusions with a sense of embarrassment.
Elodie wasn’t going to be there in Paris to meet him, let alone to fall into his arms. She couldn’t be, she was on the run and wanted, and not just by your ordinary police either. Whatever kind of police those guys were, they definitely weren’t to be messed with. What if he was wrong, and the innocuous looking trinket in his pocket was the thing they were searching for? If that was the case, looking at it from their perspective, he was definitely messing with them.
Again the memory of that steely grip on his neck, that expressionless face so close to his own, burst back into his mind and he felt his chest involuntarily contract, his breath coming faster and shallower.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered, a sense of panic rapidly flooding through him.
What if they came back to his flat, asked him where he’d been?
Could they have followed him?
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(Pages 1-36 show above.)