Patrick

Chapter 9: A hurried departure Stephen was passing one last night with Rachel before he had to go to Glasgow again, and take the plane to Spain. He hadn’t given her a reason yet and had planned to do so in the morning. As they both lay asleep, next to each other Stephen’s cell phone rang. “Is that yours or mine?” – he grumbled being brought out of sleep. “I switch mine off at night.” – was the soft-voiced reply. Still half-asleep, Stephen got out of bed and fished for the phone in his trousers pockets. He thought of not answering it, when he saw who was calling. It was very rare for Walter McCluney to be up at this hour. “Malcolm.” – he said simply. It was the code used between the two of them, for the fact, that he couldn’t speak entirely freely, being with someone. “You’d better have a good reason for waking me.” It was all for Rachel’s sake. McCluney would know that he needed to keep his cover. “You have to leave Edinborough now. A car shall be waiting for you outside the station in half an hour and bring you to Glasgow. Can you make it?” “Yes. What happened?” “A tip-off from an informant inside the PD in Edinborough. They’ve established a connection between your trips, and so far unsolved assassinations.” – McCluney’s voice was rushed, betraying a need for speed. “Does this mean that we are cancelling the preparations for tomorrow?” “I still need you to go forward with that Stephen. I need the job done, and you’re the only one available at the moment. At the moment I’m thinking of taking you over by boat to Ireland, and you would fly from there.” – he then stayed silent. “See you in a few hours time.” – said Stephen, realising that the conversation was over. “What was all that about? Do you need to go off again? And what were you preparing for tomorrow?” Stephen looked at Rachel. She was staring at him, genuinely curious. “It would take too long to explain, Rachel. I’m sorry, I’m not totally who I appear to be.” He quickly grabbed his clothes and started hurriedly dressing. “Stephen! I love you! And you had told me the same thing the last night. Why can’t we be honest to each other?” – she was clutching the bed sheet, as if this dishonesty pained her. Stephen paused, halfway through putting his shirt on. When he had said that he loved her he had meant it. But was that enough for him to blow his cover? What would she do, if she knew the truth? Such questions were rushing through his mind, while he made his decision. “Rachel, I need to get to the railway station in about twenty five minutes. If you take me I’ll tell you while we’re going there.” – then seeing that she wasn’t moving added. “Please. It’s urgent.” She finally reacted, and started dressing. They both stayed silent until they had gotten into the car. She didn’t have to ask for him to speak, he spoke by himself. “Some would consider me a very bad man, Rachel.” – he glanced sideways at her. “But I do have a certain morality. That is one thing I have managed to keep throughout the years.” “What do you mean? You’re a criminal?” – there was a glimmer of tears to come at the edge of her eyes. The roads, at this hour of the morning were nearly totally deserted and they were going fast. “Yes.” – eventually it hadn’t been as hard to say, as Stephen had imagined it would be. “I am a criminal.” Now came the hard part. “I get given jobs and do them.” “Jobs?” – she dreaded the answer. “I kill people. I am a murderer, Rachel. I made a point of only accepting jobs, when the target had also committed crimes, though. I’m sorry. I hadn’t wanted to tell you, didn’t want to trouble you with it.” “You mean you would have lived down a life alongside me, without ever telling me anything?” – she was working herself up. “Don’t I deserve at least that much honesty?” The tears were still there, but weren’t coming. Rachel fell silent. She wasn’t reacting to this the way Stephen had expected her to. He had expected her to stop the car, and throw him out. “I would understand if you don’t forgive me. I should have never gotten this close to you. I don’t deserve what you have given me. Not after all that I have done. I know I have done wrongs, Rachel, but…” She swerved viciously around a corner cutting him off, as he needed to grab hold of something to stop him from hitting the window. “Do you mean that you don’t love me?” – she asked through her teeth. “As much as I love you Rachel, I fear that all I shall be able to have is a memory. I need to leave the country.” She suddenly braked to a halt. They were now only four corners away from the station. She turned to face Stephen. “I thank you for being honest with me, Stephen. That is something Peter never gave me. I think it was one of the things that led to our break-up.” The tear, which had been at the edge of her eye, finally started rolling down her cheeks. “But I think I need some time now to think. I might give you a call, and then again you might never hear from me again.” She started going again, and stopped at the corner across from the station. A black Volvo was parked there, and Stephen suspected that it was McCluney’s men. “Goodbye Stephen.” – she said, now unable to hold her tears back, which were flowing freely. “One thing before I go, Rachel. As recent events…” – here his voice nearly faded away. “…have shown, it is dangerous to be close to me. If you ever tell anyone about having met me, don’t use my real name, or it might be dangerous. I would suggest you go to the police and ask for protection. I’m sorry Rachel, sorry to have dragged you into this.” He opened his door, and the chill night air blew in. “Goodbye Rachel.” – he said before closing it. He waited until she had disappeared around the corner before crossing the street. He wiped away the tears from his own eyes as he reached the Volvo. The back door opened and he was motioned to sit in. Barely had they left, when Stephen was handed a phone. The voice of the blond man next to him told him that it was McCluney. “Yeah?” “The boat is waiting on the western coast of Scotland. It shall take you slightly north of Dublin. Since I didn’t have the time to get you a ticket you are flying one of the low-cost airlines from Dublin to La Coruña. After the job I suggest you lie low in Spain, or Portugal, or even better, go over to Africa from Gibraltar.” McCluney was a superb organiser. “And remember that you are now Basil Nevers. My men have the wig and the false beard. Good luck.” “Thanks.”

Chapter 8: Lieutenant McNeil’s discovery Edward – known to his friends and colleagues as “Eddie” McNeil was a passionate man. He was passionate towards his wife, and even towards his work. He had been the one at the Edinborough Police Department, who had gotten assigned the case, which quickly became known as the “Malcolm” case, even though Stephen Malcolm wasn’t a suspect. The Police had quickly established the connection between the explosion of the Rover, and the murder of Johnny Malcolm. They were looking for someone, who could have had a grudge against Stephen. They had started by questioning his co-workers and neighbours, and not surprisingly they found nothing. It all appeared as if Stephen Malcolm had lived the perfectly normal life of an insurance agent, bringing up his son alone, occasionally travelling abroad to attend to conferences, or to see a promising overseas customer. His superiors spoke well of him, and even his subordinates said that he was a good boss. It all seemed very good. Almost too good, was Eddie McNeil’s thought, a thought he had quickly put aside. Stephen Malcolm wasn’t the suspect here; he was the one against whom these crimes had been committed. The evidence was pretty straightforward and pointed to a professional job. Johnny Malcolm had been shot nearly exactly between the eyes, by an Israeli-made, silenced Desert Eagle. The house wasn’t simply set afire; some explosives were set off in the kitchen, in an effort to create the impression that it had been a gas-explosion. The traces of explosives were the same as those, which had been found on the remains of the underside of the Rover. Military grade, high quality explosives. The tests had shown that they came from the shipment, which had been stolen four months previously, when a separatist branch of the IRA had attacked a military convoy outside of Londonderry. That could have suggested an IRA connection, but Lieutenant McNeil knew that he didn’t have to jump to conclusions. The explosives could have been sold to anyone throughout the UK, and even outside it. He did have to send a request over to the Belfast PD, asking them to look into it, but he honestly doubted that anything would come from that lead. Eddie sighed and pushed his chair back. Looking at all this evidence wasn’t getting him anywhere. They simply didn’t have enough leads. Then his phone rang. He was expecting a call from the ballistics lab, so he picked it up, even though the hour was getting close to midnight, and he had told his wife that he would get home early. He made a mental note of calling to tell her, he might not be able to go home that night. “McNeil.” “Lieutenant McNeil, this is Sergeant Heathers from the Aberdeen Police Department. I was told that you were the only officer in at this time and my superiors have asked me to send some information they want your Department to check against your records sent over. It’s about the Waters killing. We need some vehicle registrations checked out, and our computer systems have just died. I was wondering whether you could possibly check the information in your databases?” “Send them over.” The list turned out to be a list of about three-dozen vehicle registration numbers, some of them only partial. Probably turned up by a routine sweep, or some eyewitness accounts. Eddie called over a simple cop to have them checked out and sent back to Aberdeen and plunged back into his case, forgetting to call his wife. When his phone rang again, he really thought that it was going to be her, instantly regretting not having called. But it turned out to be Sergeant Kittle. “Hi Eddie, you had asked me to check Malcolm’s movements over the last few years, right?” “Turn up any dark chapter in his past, which would need a closer looking into?” “Unfortunately no. He seems to be as clean as he says he is.” Lieutenant McNeil let out his breath. He had been hoping for a lead. “That doesn’t get us anywhere. But John, I don’t know, I have a feeling. Just a feeling, nagging at me, that he is hiding something from us.” “Want me to take a closer look?” “If you wouldn’t mind.” “I’m just an old man, with nothing else to do Eddie. I’ll have a look.” They laughed. Then Kittle’s voice changed in tone suddenly, as he spoke to someone next to him. “Wait a moment. Show me that paper, will you?” Some rustling of papers and then a hiss of the intake of breath were followed by an excited voiced remark. “You’d better come and look at this Eddie.” Eddie McNeil hurried to Kittle’s office, which was just at the other end of the corridor from his. “What is it John?” “Malcolm’s car is one of those the Aberdeen PD asked us to check out. They only had a partial registration number, but only one grey Rover, in the whole of the UK matched that.” “Good spot.” – Eddie, said to Kittle. Had the Sergeant not noticed the name of Stephen Malcolm on the sheet, which was just about to be faxed to Aberdeen it would have gone totally unnoticed, as in Aberdeen they knew nothing about Stephen Malcolm. “So, while someone was killing his son, Stephen Malcolm was in Aberdeen. That rules him out as a suspect.” – said John Kittle, seeing only the most obvious consequence of what they had just found. “He didn’t mention going to Aberdeen when he spoke to you, John. Yet that day was one you went over in great detail. What had he said for that day?” “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” – was Kittle’s remark as he shoved papers out of the way, looking for the transcription of the interview with Stephen Malcolm. “Ah, here it is. Let me see…ah yes. He said that he had to go to see a customer on the outskirts of Edinborough personally. The customer, a certain Harry George Dickson, a retired English army officer confirmed his story.” “Could you pay him a visit in the morning, John? Go home now, while I go over some more of this. You’ll need to be sharp with this guy, I feel.” “Sure, Eddie. See you tomorrow.” – he stood up from his table and made as if to leave his office. “Oh, and for heaven’s sake, give your wife a call. Let her know everything’s ok.” “Thanks for reminding me.” He made the call, and escaped with only a minor telling off. Ms McNeil knew the extremes, which came with her husband’s job, and had gotten used to him sometimes staying at work during the whole night. She wasn’t completely happy with the situation, but she wasn’t like those police wives you could see in some films, who divorced because of this. She really did love her husband. Over the course of the next few hours Lieutenant McNeil delved deep into Stephen Malcolm’s past. Slowly, he started to see an emerging pattern. The stories Malcolm had told the police were always rock solid. He could back himself up with several witnesses. Yet almost always, when he had travelled abroad, a murder would take place. Nothing could connect him to these murders, and since they were mostly killings of people, who were either known as or later were found out to be crime lords, could be attributed to gang wars wherever they happened no one would have suspected him. If it weren’t for his car having been spotted in Aberdeen. The puzzle was starting to be solved in Lieutenant McNeil’s mind. If, as he supposed Stephen Malcolm was an assassin-for-hire, then anyone could have found out about him. Suddenly, he then remembered that Detective Alan Johnson had been looking for some mysterious assassin, who had committed several assassinations over the UK and abroad. He would have to call him in the morning. For now he needed to write up a memo for the chief before he collapsed from exhaustion. It was already four in the morning, and there was only him, the night watch crew, and a cop helping him there. Hi finally finished the memo at half past four and handed it to the police man, telling him to put it on the chief’s desk. He then literally collapsed in one of the beds in the room, reserved for officers staying in for the night, and fell asleep in less than a minute. Peter McAdam, who had been handed the memo, curiously took off the top cover sheet and started reading the last page. …In light of all described above, I request the immediate issue of an arrest warrant against Stephen Malcolm. He is probably going to be armed, and dangerous given the information I have found… It was upon reading that that Peter McAdam decided that he needed to immediately call Walter McCluney in Glasgow.

Chapter 7: Walter McCluney They were in an inn, officially owned by a man called Toby McLean. In reality it was one of the establishments owned by McCluney, but weren’t on his name. He did not like publicity and paid people to act as owners instead of himself. The barman however knew who was boss, and served McCluney his usual shot of scotch. “For you sir?” – the barman asked Stephen. “The same.” They sat at the corner table, out of the regular drinkers earshot. Walter McCluney was a fat, tall man. He was over 6 feet tall. Albeit his size could be intimidating, his reputation was more so. His short, beard and moustache were associated with many criminals’ nightmares. And it was said, that no one, who crossed his path lived. “First let me offer you my condolences for your losses. Second let me offer my congratulations for the Waters job. Thirdly…” “Let’s not talk about the Waters job. Had I not done it I might have been able to save Johnny.” – Stephen interrupted. “Let’s not talk about the Waters job then. As I was saying, thirdly I have some information for you.” He paused while the barman brought them their drinks. Although he was one of McCluney’s men, they did not want him to overhear anything. “Does the name Alan Johnson ring a bell for you?” “One of the co-workers at the insurance agency.” “Now, I don’t have anything for certain, only word on the street type stuff, but I’m pretty sure it shall interest you.” “Go ahead.” “Word on the street has it, here in Glasgow, that Alan Johnson is a big fish. He doesn’t belong to any specific organisation, but works for several. And sometimes works for himself. They say he is a pretty ruthless chap. Some rumours link him to the Doherty-job three years ago.” Lance Doherty had been an up-start businessman in the pharmaceutical industry and he and his whole family had been brutally murdered in their home. “You think he might have killed my son?” “What I had said earlier was only rumours, but this info I’ll tell you now is rock solid. It comes from my half-brother who works for the Glasgow police force. Alan Johnson is also an undercover police agent. Two years ago he was sent to Edinborough to investigate rumours of an assassin living there. He might have gotten through your cover, Stephen, and then follow some other orders he got from someone not on the police force. You’ve been a problem for our enemies for some time now. I myself have heard rumours that you have a hefty price on your head. So far they did not know your face, or your name, but Johnson may have.” “Do you know where he is?” “He took a plane to Paris two days ago. I’ve sent three guys after him. They are to catch him alive.” “I’ll go to Paris. I’ll kill that son of a…” “I need you elsewhere, Stephen. And besides, I don’t want you involved in this affair anymore. I want Johnson alive, and I’m not sure that you would have the force not to kill him.” “I guess you’re right. Might I suggest, that I help at least? I can give him a call, pretending not to know anything. He might reveal a few things to me.” McCluney caressed his beard. Stephen had a point. “Do it.” The phone was picked up on the fifth ring, when Stephen was starting to give up. “Hello Stephen.” “Hi Alan, I was wondering, did Sean give you my message?” “What message?” “I had wanted him to tell you that I wasn’t going in to the office for a few days.” “Oh. Why?” Walter McCluney was leaning close to Stephen’s ear, also listening in on the conversation. “I had to come to Glasgow to see my mother and then go to her funeral.” “I’m sorry to hear that. Didn’t Sean tell you that I was sick?” “He did.” – then acting on an impression, he added. “But wait a moment, isn’t that people talking in French that I can hear behind you?” Alan was silent. “Are you slinking off to see the French girls, while pretending to be sick?” – he asked with a slight humorous tone in his voice. “Let me tell you a pretty strange thing, Stephen. I’m sitting in a cafeteria here in Paris, wondering when McCluney’s men get here, and then you call me. From the sounds behind you, I gather you are in one of the fat slob’s pubs. He’s probably sitting next to you, listening in on the conversation. And you’re trying to get information from me. Come on, it was much too obvious.” “Why did you do it?” “Why did I do what? Burn your house, blow up your car, or kill your son? Well let me guess: you’re talking about your son. A pretty bright boy. When I phoned him to tell him you were bringing him a surprise and to stay in his room he did so.” Stephen was trembling with anger. It was only McCluney’s hand on his shoulder, which kept him from bursting out. “He didn’t even beg for mercy. Might be because I didn’t leave him the time. He probably still thought, when he died that the gun was my gift to him on his birthday.” – Alan laughed. “Let me give you one bit of advice, Stevie. You don’t mind if I call you Stevie, do you? Get out of Scotland. Even better, get out of the UK. If you don’t I’ll go back and kill the rest of your family. Not because I hate you or anything like that, but because this is what I’m being paid to do. I have nothing against you personally Stephen. Nothing at all.” “Who are you working for, Alan?” – Stephen managed to say. “Come on, Stephen! You’re pathetic. I won’t tell you that.” McCluney suddenly took the phone from Stephen’s hands. “This is McCluney speaking.” – he said. “Hi, you fat slob.” McCluney did not react to the remark, which was very strange. “I just want you to know one thing. We’ll get you eventually.” “Oh, and wait a moment, how does the rhyme go? If McCluney wants to get you, get you he shall? Or is it if McCluney wants to get you, he’ll fall fat on his face? I can’t remember. But I remember that those paying me said, that they were going to cover me. I would stay out of this, if I were you McCluney.” – and with that, Alan hung up. Walter McCluney handed the phone back to Stephen. “Well we know that he did it, we know he’s in Paris, and I have a pretty good idea of who he’s working for.” “Who?” “The only person in the UK, who has the man- and firepower to come after me.” “You mean Davis from London? Or the IRA boys from Northern Ireland?” “The IRA boys wouldn’t have hired someone for the job. It’s not their style. The other thing is that when we had worked together, Davis used to call me fat slob also. I’ll have to sniff around Davis’s headquarters.” “You had said when I offered to go to Paris, that you needed me elsewhere.” “Yes I did. Now let me explain. I need you to go to La Coruña. You shall be going on a ship journey to Gibraltar from there. The ship shall arrive from Rio de Janeiro. Your target goes by the name of Michael Taylor.” “The Michael Taylor? The actor turned politician?” “No. This man is a drug runner. He had been accompanying a shipment of drugs from Asia to Brazil, but was caught along with the shipment. Then, probably due to the corrupt Brazilian police he got out, and now he is en route to Europe. Remember the people, who gave us the Waters job? Well this one is from them also. They don’t want Michael to reach Gibraltar.” “Was that the catch that made worldwide news?” “Oh yeah, went all over the media. There were well over sixteen tons of drugs.” “Wow. So pretty straightforward job?” “Not exactly. Michael Taylor works for a Dutchman, living in London, who is a partner of Davis. You must under all circumstances hide your true identity. You shall be travelling under the name of Basil Nevers, a mid-aged Scottish businessman. Your plane leaves Glasgow airport on the morning, two days from now, and it is that night that the ship gets to La Coruña. It is an ocean cruiser, called the Sea’s Pearl. Since your weapons cache is pretty much inaccessible at the moment, buried beneath the rubble of your home…” “You knew that?” “Of course.” – Walter McCluney replied with a broad grin on his face. “A man called Abel Asevedo shall meet you on the ship, with the usual weapons. He is the security officer in charge of the ship, but has taken on a few extra weapons at my request.” “Right.” Stephen took the forged passport and the tickets. “Stephen, if at any time you feel you can’t do it, just give me a call. I know what you must be going through. Remember, I lost my son when he was only three years old.” That was the first affectionate moment Stephen had ever seen from the crime-boss. It didn’t last long. Walter McCluney stood up and threw back his third whisky, draining it till the last drop. “When you get back, we shall hopefully have Johnson.” “Who’s on the job?” “Hickley, and the McNamara twins.” “I know Hickley. He’s good.” “He sure is. He was the one, who had tracked down all the info about Johnson.”

Chapter 6: Two funerals Laura Malcolm, born Laura McNara stirred in her sleep. Stephen took hold of her outstretched hand, and as he did, his mother opened her eyes. “Stephen?” – she said incredulously. “You’ve come? Am I in that bad a state?” – she said half-joking. The doctor had been there just that morning and had told her how long she had left. Stephen bit into his lower lip and said nothing. He had never been a man of words. His mother had read his reason for being here correctly. And after what had happened to him in the last few days, he was unable to deny that she was right. Neither was he going to confirm it. He decided not to mention all that had happened to him. She need not be troubled with all that. “I came to see you, Mother. I neglected my duties as a son in the last several years.” “Don’t blame yourself for what has happened, Stephen. Your father is as much at fault as you are.” “I had been telling him the same thing in the car.” – came Thomas’s voice from the door to the room. He went to his wife’s side and gently caressed her hair. “How are you feeling?” “Considering that this is the first time that I’m seeing my son in eight years, I’m feeling good. Considering that the doctor told me this morning that I had less than a week left…” – she left the end of the sentence unfinished. “But mind you, I plan on seeing as much of my family in that time as possible. That reminds me! Where is Johnny, Stephen? Did he come with you? I would very much like to see him, before I die.” “Johnny couldn’t come. He had to stay in Edinborough.” – Stephen said. “Why?” – came the question that he did not want to answer. His father came to his aid. “Stephen told me in the car, that Johnny had been playing in the yard, and had sprained an ankle. He had to stay in bed, so Stephen left him at some friends of his. What were they called?” Needing to make a name up in a hurry, Stephen took the first one, which came to his mind. “The O’Donagheys.” “Ah yes!” – was his father’s reply. His mother did not notice the lie she had been told and was satisfied with the improvised reply. “Give him my best wishes, when you see him Stephen.” “I will mother.” “Now leave me, I need to rest again. Oh and Thomas!” “Yes, my dear?” “Call for the priest, would you? I’d like to make my last confession, in case I don’t have the chance anymore.” The two men left the room and looked at each other. “What is it?” – asked Stephen. “She smoked too much. Was first diagnosed with lung cancer seven months ago.” Stephen put a comforting hand on his father’s shoulder. “How have you been taking it?” “Bad. I simply don’t know what I’ll do once she is gone. I’ll only have my children and grandchildren left.” “Only?” – Stephen asked with a smile. “We’ll take good care of you dad.” “Now, don’t think I need taking care of, I’ll just need some company at times. Now, off you go and see McCluney, you probably have business with him.” “My place is here Dad. I’ve neglected my family enough, to need to now salvage my own conscience by staying here.” Laura Malcolm died that night, just as supper was being served. When Susan went up to take her some of the food – which in the last week she had always rejected – she found her unresponsive, and when the ambulance arrived a few minutes later, all they could do was confirm her death. Stephen’s father was shattered. Kneeling at her bedside, tears streaming down both his cheeks, he could not let go of her hand, could not take his eyes off her face, even when her hand had already become cold, in the morning. The next day her body was taken away to be prepared for the funeral, which was fixed for the end of the week. Stephen phoned the Police Department in Edinborough and arranged his son’s body to be transported to Glasgow to be buried in the family grave. He did not want the two funerals to be at the same time, however, because many people knew his mother, whom he did not know, and he only wanted family to be at his son’s burial. Once his son was buried, three hours after his mother and everyone had left the cemetery, Stephen knelt down at the grave. He remembered all the happy times he had passed with his son. The first time he had walked, the first time he spoke, his first Christmas. As he remembered, he also recalled Jessica being there then. Everyone had said, that they had been the perfect couple. Why did he have to witness so much death? He took the gift from his pocket. The gift, he had wanted to give his son for his birthday, but never got the chance. He placed it on the small grave. He left the family crypt and since he was the last to leave, locked the door to it. As he turned the key he spotted the man watching him from the corner of his eye. “Hello Stephen.” – the voice said. It was strangely familiar, yet at the same time, Stephen could not for the life of him remember who it belonged to. “Who’s there?” – he asked, pocketing the key. “We need to talk, Stephen. And you’ll need a few stiff ones, because you won’t like, what I’m going to tell you.”

Chapter 5: A long-due meeting “Dad, I’m on a bus heading to Glasgow. Can you pick me up when I arrive?” – he needed to shout in the phone to have him be heard over the sound of the bus. “When do you arrive?” “At half ten.” “I’ll be there.” It was hard to say it, but Stephen finally managed to: “I’m looking forward to seeing you Dad.” His father didn’t reply, and just simply put the phone down, unable to cope with his emotions. “Taxi sir?” – he was asked as he made his way through the crowded hall of Glasgow’s Buchanan Bus Station. He declined with a sign of his head. His mind was in turmoil. All during the bus-trip he had been thinking about Johnny and, he admitted to himself, Rachel. He knew that he still hadn’t really come to grips with the death of his son, and that it was possibly this, which had pushed him into the arms of Rachel. Since the death of his wife, Jessica, Stephen had consecrated himself totally to his son, and hadn’t had a new companion. It might have also been the need for a companion, which had finally taken a hold of him. Stephen didn’t know. Through his job, he was good at analysing the feelings of others, but to master his own feelings, was a feat he had never been capable of, sometimes he could not even understand them. He bought The Times at a newspaper stall in the station. The explosion of his car did make the front page, albeit only the bottom of it, with the title of “Businessman’s car blows up”. Luckily neither his name, nor his initials were mentioned, and the press hadn’t managed to take a picture of him. Even luckier was that the press didn’t know that the fire in his house and the explosion of the car were connected. A thought, which had occurred to Stephen and the Edinborough Police also. “Stephen?” – the hesitant voice of Thomas Malcolm asked, and Stephen looked up from the paper he had been reading. There was a third page article about the tragic death of a young boy in a so far unexplained fire in Edinborough. Stephen lowered the newspaper and looked at his father for the first time in eight years. Age had been kind to Thomas Malcolm. He was nearing sixty but could have still been mistaken for forty. His hair was still a rich brown, albeit upon closer inspection some white strands could be seen. Since Stephen had last seen him he had put on a slight bit of weight, but since he had always been a rather thin man, he still wasn’t overweight now. “You look great, Dad.” – Stephen said, and they shook hands. “Stephen, Stephen.” – the old man was nearly speechless, almost completely overwhelmed by emotions he had had to push under the surface for long years. “You look…” – he had almost said troubled, which would have been accurate, but in the last moment changed his mind: “…changed.” “Changed?” – Stephen asked. “Never mind.” – Thomas said. “Want me to carry one of your bags?” “I’m supposed to be the young and strong one, Dad.” – Stephen said with a smile. “I’ll manage.” “So, tell me about what happened to Johnny!” – his father said once they were in the car. He had always been a very direct man, fast to get to the point. “I had been in Aberdeen two days ago, and when I got back home I saw the house was in flames.” – recalling these painful memories so soon after the tragedy wasn’t easy for Stephen and he had to pause to get himself together. “Johnny was in the house.” – he fell silent, unable to continue. “So it was an accident? Or can’t the cops tell yet?” “Wasn’t an accident. Prior to the house burning he was shot in the head. I learnt that yesterday morning. Just before my car was blown up outside a cafeteria.” “That poor boy. I had just been talking to him two days before he died. He had seemed so happy.” “You talked to Johnny?” – Stephen asked, quite surprised. “Sometimes we talked when you were away, and he needed someone to talk to. The first time he called me was when he had found my number out of accident in your bedside table.” “I already miss him.” – Stephen was close to tears, but managed to restrain himself. “He was the grandson I never saw, but knew better than all the others.” “How are Susan and Mary?” – Stephen asked referring to his two sisters. “Both of them are married, Susan has three girls, and Mary a boy and a girl. Both your sisters are here to see your mother.” “I’ve missed so much. Why did we drift so far apart?” “I’m not exactly sure. There was that thing, when we missed the funeral of your wife for some stupid reason and things really went downhill from there. Probably we both misunderstood each other. I don’t think it was anyone’s fault.” “It’s good to hear you say that. I had thought you would think that it was my fault.” Memories of the old times spent with his father were slowly coming back. But his recollections were cut short. “So do you think it’s connected to your work?” Thomas Malcolm was one of the very few people, who knew about Stephen’s other job. He did not totally approve, but since those killed were nearly always criminals – Stephen did have some selection over which jobs he took – he did not disapprove either. “Probably.” “Anyone you can think of in particular?” “I’ve already asked myself the same questions, Dad. I’ve even got Walter looking into it for me.” “He’ll probably find some lead to follow. What do the cops know?” “Not much. They’ll probably realise that Johnny’s death is connected to the blowing up of my car…” “They blew up your car?” “Oh, I forgot that I hadn’t mentioned that. Happened yesterday morning in front of the motel I had been staying at.” He didn’t mention Rachel. He didn’t want to mention her. Not when he himself wasn’t sure about the whole thing either. “So that’s why you couldn’t come by car. Hmmm…Seems like someone really wants to hurt you bad.” “Unfortunately it does.” They stayed silent for the rest of the drive, both of them lost in their thoughts. The Malcolms lived in the outskirts of Glasgow, in a large family house. Thomas left the car in the drive as in the garage there were already two other cars. Stephen guessed they were his sisters’. Susan and Mary were making lunch when he arrived. “Stephen!” – Susan explained in surprise. “You took long enough to get home!” It was a comment with intent to chastise, not to hurt and Stephen took it that way, but his father didn’t. “Now, now, girls. Let Stephen be. I’m sure he wants to see his mother, and while he does I’d like to have a word with you two.” Stephen understood this to be his father wanting to explain a few things to his sisters and went to the upstairs bedroom. His mother was asleep; yet even in sleep she looked very ill. She was pale and from the curves of the bed sheet, Stephen could see that she had probably lost a lot of weight. Not wanting to wake her he sat on the chair, which was placed next to the bed and just looked at her peacefully sleeping.

Patham smiled as he was announced as the winner and went to take his newest item. It sounded quite interesting and he planned to try it out later that day. OOC: story about the trying out to follow, if not today then during the week.

Chapter 4: Pizza at nine “Son? Is that you?” “Dad, this isn’t really the moment to call.” – Stephen replied. The last time they had spoken to each other was at the Stephen’s marriage. His father hadn’t even come to her funeral three years later. “Stephen, I know that we have had our past differences…” “I don’t want to talk to you.” “I just wanted you to know that your mother is ill. She might not last long.” – George Malcolm paused waiting to see whether his son was going to say anything, but getting no reply he continued. “So, just hop into your car and come and visit her. If you want you don’t even need to talk to me when you’re here.” “I don’t have a car anymore.” – Stephen was feeling overwhelmed. How could all this be happening to him now? Was it punishment for all the deaths he had brought, by some superior force? Stephen wasn’t religious, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t believe in fate. “Want me to go and pick you up?” – his father asked. “I’ll get there somehow. How bad is it?” “The doctors are saying she might not last the week.” “I’ll try to get there as soon as I can.” “She’ll like that. I’ll go tell her you’re coming soon. Oh and I tried calling Johnny yesterday to wish him a Happy Birthday but you didn’t pick the phone up. Could you tell Johnny his granddad wanted to call him?” This was what Stephen had feared. He had to break the news to his father. “Johnny is dead.” – he said simply, and unable to cope with his emotions any longer, he hung up. He turned to Rachel and saw that she was handing him a handkerchief. “Thanks.” – he said taking it and wiping the tears away. “Looks like a pretty crap week so far, doesn’t it?” “My boyfriend also left me just this Tuesday.” – she said. “But I shouldn’t be telling you of my problems, when you also seem to have so many of your own.” Stephen wondered whether she was telling the truth or not. She had seemed so suddenly friendly in the morning. Had he known her, he would have known that she was always that trusting, and her friendship once given, was very strong. “Oh, but please do tell. I need something to take my mind off all that has happened in the last twenty four hours.” Rachel glanced at him for a second, then turned back to concentrate on her driving. “We had been together for three years, Peter and I. But just two days ago, which was on Tuesday, when I got home from work, there was a note on the kitchen table telling me that he had left me for another woman. He was sorry for not having told me of it previously, but he wrote that he hadn’t found the courage to tell me face to face.” “The bastard…” – Stephen whispered. “I’ll have to agree with you on that.” – she replied. “We’re nearly there. My house is at the end of this row of houses.” “I hope I won’t be intruding on anything.” “Oh, don’t worry about that. Some company shall do me good.” – she said with a smile, as she pressed the remote of the garage. “Well this would be it.” – she said after having showed him the small house. On the ground floor there was a small kitchen, from which a door opened to the living room furnished with a pleasant, light brown sofa, and a matching colour carpet. The door in the garage opened into a small ante-piece, which also connected to the living room. Stairs led up from the living room to the upper level, where there were two small bedrooms and one larger one, along with a bathroom. Rachel showed Stephen to one of the small bedrooms. “Will this room be ok for you?” – she asked. “We had intended it to be the room for our first child, with Peter.” “You are too kind Rachel. Taking me in, even though you barely know me…I couldn’t ask for more.” “Oh don’t even mention it.” – she said with a smile and disappeared into her own room. Moments later she reappeared with pink bed clothes. “I’m sorry that I only have pink now, but the other set is in the washing right now.” – she looked at him with those blue eyes of hers. Those eyes, which reminded Stephen so much about his late wife. He simply couldn’t resist those eyes. Acting as if under a spell, Stephen put an arm around Rachel’s neck, and stared, hypnotised into her eyes. He dreaded what her reaction to his act would be. He feared she might throw him out. But he was very pleasantly surprised. Rachel, still holding the bedclothes with one hand, put her other hand behind Stephen’s head, and drew him closer. Then they kissed. Briefly at first, being both still surprised at what they felt. The second time lasted much longer, as they savoured the taste of the kiss, letting it linger. Two hours later, Stephen looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He was naked, as was Rachel, who was showering next to him. She had managed to make Stephen forget for those two hours, all of his problems, but now reality was intruding again. Rachel finished her shower, and stepped out, dripping wet next to Stephen. “I’m so glad you’re still here.” – she whispered, while Stephen handed her a towel. “Why would I have left?” “Today for me is as if it were a dream come true.” Stephen waited for her to explain, but she didn’t, and he did not press her further. “I’m starved.” – he said. “Well I wasn’t expecting to have someone here, at the morning, so I don’t have much to offer, shall we order something?” About an hour later, they had finished their pizzas and were on the sofa, Rachel lying in Stephen’s lap, watching the news. “The killer of Sir Jonathan Waters is still on the run, police sources have confirmed. Police have asked that if anyone has any leads to offer on this crime they call the police on the number you can currently see on your screen.” The picture changed and showed scenes of last night’s fire, and Rachel quickly reached for the remote control and switched off the television. “I’ll have to go to Glasgow tomorrow.” – Stephen said. “To visit my parents. I might have to stay a few days.” They lay there on the couch, not saying anything, both lost in their thoughts. Rachel thinking about Stephen, imagining what life could be with him, and Stephen thinking about Johnny, and what life would have been with him. “I think I love you Stephen.” – Rachel broke the silence, looking up at Stephen from his lap. He caressed her face, and then leant down to kiss her, but said nothing. At the moment he couldn’t understand his feelings at all. “Rachel, I think I need some time before I can start my life anew. But I sincerely hope that there shall be a place for you in my new life.” – he said after a long pause.

Chapter 3: Rachel O’Donaghey Stephen stood up. His ears were ringing. He looked around. Where previously his Rover had stood, there now was but burning wreckage. All the windows of the cafeteria were broken, and the scene around him was a scene of utter chaos, with people moving around, in shock. Stephen helped the woman up. Luckily both of them had escaped the passing through the glass door, with only minor cuts and bruises. The police got there fourteen minutes later. Stephen half expected to see Sergeant Kittle to be with them, but the plump officer wasn’t there. The bomb squad arrived a few minutes later while a lieutenant was questioning the people from the cafeteria and paramedics were taking away the seriously wounded. Stephen saw that several people were being taken away in sealed body bags. “Would you mind answering a few questions, sir?” – the lieutenant asked him. “My name is Stephen Malcolm, and that was my car.” – he said without waiting for the questions. “I’m sorry about your son.” – the lieutenant said. Stephen didn’t reply, but let the uncomfortable silence drag on. “Would you mind coming down to the Department, so that we can ask you a few questions? I could take you in my car.” Stephen nodded and made to follow the lieutenant, but then felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw the red haired woman. “Give me a call if you need something.” – she said, handing him a card with her name and phone number on it. Her name was Rachel O’Donaghey and she worked in a small store in the city centre. Stephen pocketed the card and went to the lieutenant’s car. The drive to the Police Department took fifteen minutes and Stephen was told that the officer was called Lieutenant McNeil. He was young for a lieutenant, barely thirty, Stephen judged. At the Police Department Sergeant Kittle was waiting for him. “It shall only be a few questions, Stephen. About what you had done at work and during your trips.” In the next three hours, Stephen told him about his life as an insurance agent, and gave him the cover stories for his trips. “That shall be all, Stephen.” “Thank you Sergeant Kittle.” “Just call me John.” – he added with a smile. “Oh and if you happen to remember something you forgot, just give me a call. My number is in the phone book.” – the officer said. Stephen stepped out from the Police Department. All that had been his life had been destroyed. His son, his house, his car - all gone. Who could he have angered so much? He half-thought of calling Walter again but knew that the man would have told him if he had found out anything. Instead he decided to call into work to tell them that he won’t be going in for a few days. “Northern Insurance, how may I help you?” “Is that you, Sean?” “Stephen, I was horrified to hear…” “It’s ok. Could you tell Alan, that I won’t be going in for a few days?” Alan Johnson was his secretary. “I’m sorry, but Alan has called in sick for today.” “Can you tell people who look for me that I’m not in then?” “Sure, Stephen. Here at the agency, we’re all with you. If you need anything just give us a call.” “Thanks.” Traffic and life was going on as normal around him. Yet for Stephen life had come to a halt. All he had lived for was now gone. His only son, so brutally taken from him, had had so much more to get from life. Stephen wished that he had died instead. On a sudden impulse he took Rachel’s card from his shirt pocket. The same shirt he had worn last night. All his clothes had also been destroyed in the fire, and his jacket in the explosion of his car. He now only had what he was wearing, and he felt that he really needed a shower. “O’Donaghey.” “This is Stephen Malcolm. We met in the cafeteria this morning…” “Yes, I remember.” – the voice on the other side of the phone line was so warm and welcoming. “Could I ask you a big favour?” – Stephen asked. “Sure.” “Would it be a problem if I stayed at your place for a few days? Just until I manage to get myself going again?” For a few moments there was silence, but then the voice sounded again. “That wouldn’t be a problem at all. Where can I pick you up?” “I’m just outside the Police Department.” “I’ll be there in half an hour. I need to just take care of something.” She arrived in a small, red Ford. “Hop on in.” – she said to him as she stopped on the side of the road. “Thanks.” - Stephen replied. Rachel stayed silent for several long minutes. She was clearly feeling ill at ease. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really know what I could say.” “That’s ok, I don’t really.” – at that moment Stephen’s phone rang. “I’m sorry.” – he said, then picked it up.

Chapter 2: Black Coffee Stephen’s cell phone rang. He didn’t pick it up. He was in a motel room, just outside of town. Several empty bottles of whiskey showed what he had been doing since his son’s death. Several full ones showed what he still planned to do. The phone rang again. He glanced at the clock on the wall, above the cheap TV-set. It was barely six in the morning. Six rings, and then the phone stopped, but it started almost instantly again. It was more out of annoyance, than interest of who could be calling him that he picked it up. “Stephen Mal…. Malcolm here.” – he said in a drunken voice. “Mister Malcolm, this is Sergeant Kittle. We need to talk. Can I meet you, at let’s say seven thirty in the cafeteria of the motel you’re staying in?” “I’m not in a…state to talk.” “I can hear that, but what I have to ask you is important.” “Oh…all right…” – and Stephen hung up. He needed to sober up, and fast. A cold shower later, he went down to the cafeteria and ordered a black coffee, especially strong. If the coffee didn’t manage to totally sober him up, the news he was given by Sergeant Kittle did. “What did you just say? My son had been murdered? Do you mean the fire was intentional?” “We are not sure yet whether the fire had been intentional or not, but your son was already dead before the fire started.” “What…what do you mean?” “He was shot.” Stephen put down his third coffee a little too forcefully, spilling some of it in his lap. He disregarded the pain he felt because of the hot coffee. “Shot? Why would anyone want to do that?” “That was exactly what I had wanted to ask you Mister Malcolm.” “Stephen, please. Just call me Stephen.” “All right. Stephen, do you have any enemies, or people who would like to hurt you for some reason?” Although the truth was a definite yes, due to the line of work he was in, he couldn’t tell the Sergeant about that. He ventured a more diplomatic reply. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” “You shall have to come in to answer a few questions later today, at the Police Department.” Stephen nodded absently, his mind starting to get into full gear. Sergeant Kittle left him in the cafeteria. Fifteen minutes passed, and Stephen still didn’t know who could have killed his son. Being a good professional assassin he had always been careful not to be caught. He had no idea, even if his son’s killing was connected to his “second job”. “Another coffee?” – the young, female waiters voice brought him out of his daydreaming. “That would be lovely.” Stephen approached the problem from a different perspective, but again arrived at the conclusion that he was lacking information. He couldn’t go to the police, which only left the possibility of his employers. He reached for his phone and dialled a number from memory. “Office of Walter McCluney.” – the voice of a man announced on the end of the line. Walter McCluney was an antique dealer, along with being involved with organised crime over most of the north of the country. “I’d like to speak with Walter.” “Who should I tell him is calling?” “An old friend.” The man on the other side of the line was not only a secretary, but also an associate of McCluney, and knew not to ask questions. The code phrase, “an old friend” was used for business, which had to go to the “boss”. With a click, he put Stephen through. “This is Stephen.” – he simply announced. “I’ve heard the bad news.” – was the reply. Walter McCluney had an uncanny ability of being able to acquire information at unimaginable speeds. “It was murder.” “I know that also. You should know by now, that I have sources in the police also.” “I want to know who did it.” “We’re working on it. I’ll let you know if we find out anything.” Stephen hung up. He had never felt so helpless in his whole life. “Mind if I sit here?” The voice belonged to a tall red-haired woman, whose blue eyes were so like his late wife’s eyes. Even though that familiarity appealed to Stephen he was inclined not to let her sit at his table, but then he saw that all tables were taken, and with his left arm motioned one of the chairs at his table. The woman thanked him, and sat down. She ordered eggs and bacon, with a coffee. All of Stephen’s insides were turning all over at the thought of food. “You look like you’ve had a rough one.” – she said. “Do I?” “You should see yourself.” Stephen didn’t need to see himself to imagine what he looked like. Three bottles of whisky tended to make even him badly hung over. “I had one too many probably.” – he said. “Girlfriend leave you?” – she asked. What had gotten into her? Why did she have to ask all these questions? Although Stephen hardly wanted to tell her about it, he knew that he needed to talk. “No. Worse.” “Oh?” – she asked, with genuine surprise. “Wife find out about mistress then?” – she asked with a wink. “My wife died five years ago.” – he sipped some of his coffee. He was already much calmer than the previous night. Being an assassin gave him strong nerves. “I’m sorry.” – she replied. She really did have the same eyes as his wife had had. “Saw the fire last night?” – he asked her, then without waiting for an answer he added: “It was my home.” The previously talkative woman suddenly couldn’t find anything to say. She fidgeted with the strap of her handbag. “My son was inside the house.” – Stephen said, and tears started appearing at his eyes. Stephen stood up, preparing to leave. “Waiter!” – the woman called, and hastily explained to him that she had to leave and gave him a twenty-pound note, paying even for Stephen’s coffees. She caught up with Stephen at the door of the cafeteria. She put an arm on his shoulder. “I can take you to my place if you want.” “I’ve got my own car here.” – he replied pointing to his Rover at the other side of the parking. But just then a deafening boom sounded and some invisible force threw them through the glass door of the cafeteria.

Chapter 1: A birthday gone sour Little Johnny was nearly seven years old – he was only missing a few hours -and today it was his birthday. His father had gone out to work in the morning, but had promised him that he would be back early that day with a surprise. Although barely able to contain his curiosity Johnny had somehow been able to get through the day. His father normally finished at seven at his work, so Johnny expected him to be home at six, maybe half past six that day. Earlier did mean at least that much didn’t it? Johnny glanced at the digital wristwatch he had received last Christmas. Still only 4:12. He still had at least an hour and 48 minutes to wait he told himself. One hour 47 he thought looking at the watch again. Slowly walking down the stairs he went to the kitchen. He grabbed a bag of sweets from above the fridge and going over to the living room, settled on the couch. His favourite cartoon series was on at 4:30. He switched on the TV, and went through the channels, waiting for his program to start. A news bulletin on the local news channel caught his attention. “Sir Jonathan Waters, the proprietor of the sweets factory, who in the past months has been suspected of trafficking drugs, has been found dead in his countryside home.” – the speaker on TV said, while the face of a police officer, with a microphone in front of him came onto the screen. Johnny glanced at the packet of sweets in his hands. Waters Sweet Factory, Aberdeen, it said on the packet. He turned his attention back to the TV, suddenly afraid that his supply of sweets might run out. “The Police Department received a call from a local, who said he had heard shots coming from the villa of Sir Waters. Arriving on the scene, the officers found the body of Sir Waters, with several gun shot wounds in the chest. That is all I can tell you at the moment.” – and at the insistence of the reporters, the officer added: - “No questions at this time. If we find anything new, we shall inform you.” Johnny glanced at his watch. It was 4:28. He switched over to the cartoon channel and settled into a more comfortable position. Although the episode was quite interesting, his thoughts kept drifting off, fantasising about the surprise his father was going to bring him, and thinking about what he had just heard on TV. At 5:15, when the episode was over, Johnny switched back to the news channel, but they were already talking about some environmental activists, who had chained themselves to a boat in protests over the killing of whales. Johnny turned the TV off, and threw the now empty packet of sweets in the rubbish basket in the kitchen. At that exact moment the phone rang. It was Mister Johnson, one of his father’s colleagues. “Hello?” “Hello, this is Mister Johnson. Is that you, little Johnny?” “Yes Mister.” “Your father asked me to tell you to go into your room and not to go downstairs, when he gets home, otherwise that would ruin the surprise he has planned.” “Ok.” “Promise me you’ll do it.” “I promise Mister Johnson.” “That’s a good boy. Your father’s already on the way home.” Johnny rushed up to his room and closed his door. If his father was already on the way then that meant that he would get here in less than fifteen minutes. The killer of Sir Jonathan Waters was a professional assassin. He had been hired by an organization competing with the drug distributing ring ran by Waters. The Waters Sweet Factory was a profitable enterprise, but not nearly enough to support the luxurious lifestyle Waters had lived. He had turned to running drugs five years ago, and had recently been looking to expand his influence to the neighbouring town, but in the process crossed the imaginary boundary of the other gang, and had a contract put out on him. Stephen Malcolm had been the one to take the contract, and had completed it just that morning. It had been a relatively easy job, as the bodyguards of the late Sir Waters had proved to be not quite up to the job. But Stephen knew that even if they were, he would have been able to do the job. He was considered one of the best assassins in the country, and had even been called overseas to the States for several jobs. In the civil life Stephen Malcolm was an insurance agent, working in a small branch of a large insurance, and banking company. He had a dull, and uninteresting work as manager of the small branch. It was a position, which allowed him not to go to work on certain days. The Waters contract had come at a bad time for him though. It was his son’s birthday today, and he wouldn’t have dreamt of missing it. His wife had died, when the boy was but two years old, in a tragic car accident. Since then Stephen had brought up Johnny alone. Stephen looked proudly at the picture of the boy on the dashboard of his large Rover company car. The boy was smiling on the picture. The same smile, which he had seen but that morning when he had told the boy, that he was going to get a gift. He was going to be late. He had been held up at a police checkpoint. Still he judged he would arrive around seven. Johnny was waiting impatiently in his room, when he heard the front door open. He started running towards the stairs, but then remembered that he had been asked not to go down. Nearly bursting with impatience, he went back to his room and sat on his bead, taking his trusted teddy bear in his hands. He listened to the movement downstairs. One, or more people were moving around there, shifting something heavy. Then steps started coming up the stairs. Unable to contain his impatience any longer, Johnny opened his door, expecting to see his father coming up the stairs. But he was mistaken. “Mister Johnson?” – he asked with the surprise visible on his face. “Surprised?” – asked the man, who was dressed in a black, leather coat, and strangely wore gloves, inside the house, during summer. “Was this the surprise my dad had told me about? That’s so lame.” – Johnny said, clearly disappointed. “Oh, I’m sure that you’re father had a different surprise in mind.” – Mister Johnson said with a smile. “But I thought that I’d come here before and give you a different surprise.” Delight was visible on Johnny face, but it quickly turned into puzzlement, when he saw the silenced pistol in Mister Johnson’s hand. “Is that your surprise, Mister Johnson?” “Oh, yes.” Johnny didn’t even have time to scream, as the bullet drove a nearly perfectly circular hole through his skull. Checking the limp body, just to be sure, Alan Johnson turned to his companion, who had just arrived at the top of the stairs. “It’s done. Let it burn.” Stephen Malcolm spotted the flames from miles away, and realised that something had gone horribly wrong. Pushing the accelerator down hard, he covered the remaining four miles in less than four minutes. His car screeched to a halt, before his house, next to the fire fighter’s trucks. Stephen jumped from the car, and made to run to the flaming house, but the policeman held him back. “I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go any closer.” “MY SON IS IN THERE!” – Stephen shouted. Suddenly understanding the situation the man motioned for his superior to come over. “Mister Malcolm?” Stephen could but nod, unable to speak, after his previous outburst. The officer, in his fifties, had to be experienced in giving news of the death of loved ones to relatives, as he handled the situation nearly perfectly. He put a hand over Stephen’s shoulder and walked him several dozen feet away. “I am Sergeant Kittle.” – the slightly overweight officer paused. – “I’m sorry Mister Malcolm. The fire-fighters got here too late.” Stephen stayed strangely silent. The officer wrote it up to shock. Better tell him all – he thought. “Your son is dead.” Stephen stared blankly ahead of himself, unable to think clearly. Then he managed to say: “It was his birthday…” Stephen reached into his pocket and took out the new portable console he had bought his son. Tears came to his eyes. “Why did he have to die? WHY?” “I’m sorry sir. There was nothing we could do.” “Do you know what caused the fire?” Stephen hoped that it wasn’t his fault. He would have never been able to live with that on his conscience. “I want to see his body.” “I don’t think that would be…” “I want to see his body before it is all sliced up to find the cause of death.” It was always hard. Not only for the family, but also for Sergeant Kittle. “His body is over there.” – he pointed to several policemen next to a small black, body bag on the ground.

OOC: I already have quite a few chapters of this story done, but shall not post all at the same time so as to give everyone a chance to read it. If you want to comment please do so at the Critic's Corner so as not to disrupt story continuity. I'm not quite happy with the title, so when and if I find a better one I shall ask an elder to edit the topic title.

...a small anaerobic bacteria survived. After several divisions there were several million bacteria, who slowly turned the toxic gases in the area into oxygen, nitrogen and all other different types of gases and non-gases. Several million years later...

Congratulations to the other promotees!

Within my mind Your voice so kind Tells me many things. How nicely it rings. Within my soul The thing you stole I do not miss it, That I shall admit. Within my heart Right from the start I felt different Change I underwent... Within my dreams Everything seems So nearly perfect When shall my dreams come true?

Patham glanced at Sweetcherrie. He exactly knew how much geld he had, so did not need to count, and he did not have to set aside any for the bachelor auction either. "25 geld." - he announced his new bid.

Hmmm...this might be an interesting item. "I'll bid 20 geld for the guide!" - Patham shouted over the heads of the other bidders from the back.

"Well, well. Not as many as I had expected, but still I'll do this as it has to be done and announce the results!" Patham smiled at Wyvern and Sweetcherrie, who stood before him. Well Wyvern was actually more sinking than standing, but he was still before Patham. "And the winner is: ...." - he paused "wait a moment." - he said reading his paper. "It seems that we have a tie. Well...in that case, I'll have to divide the winner's reward between the two of you." Patham smiled again and handed Wyvern and Sweetcherrie their 12 geld each. He had no idea what to do with the remaining one geld from the reward. As far as he knew there did not exist a half-geld. That is, he tried to hand Wyvern his geld, but the reptilian elder was quickly sinking in the quicksand, so Patham had to just put the geld on the sand in front of him. Wyvern tried clawing for the geld, but was held captive by the sand, and finally gave up, motioning very reluctantly to Patham to give the geld to Sweetcherrie, which he did. OOC: Since there were only two entries I did not want to announce a winner, but then Wyvern pointed out that his piece did not meet the required length, so he can't win. So Sweetcherrie gets the prize geld.

1. Are you more of a shy person or more of a social butterfly? I'm quite shy when it comes to girls I like, but am not shy in other situations. 2. Do you feel like being shy makes the dating world harder/easier? For me it makes it harder. 3. Do you feel like being a social butterfly makes the dating world harder/easier? Knowing more people could make it easier but then again there would be people who don't like people who get along too easily with many people. 4. Finally, how do you view the aspect of shyness/social butterfly-ness in a perspective companion? Anything can work, it also depends on the other characteristics.

Backstage behind the Beauty Pageant Patham quickly put a shirt and some shorts over his swimwear and then made his way towards where some people had already presented themselves for the Bachelor Auction. He followed Knight on the stage. "My name is Patham, and well I guess I could be called a shape-shifter." His eyes dart around looking at the ladies gathered around. If I want anyone to bid even 1 geld on me, I'll need to tell them much more than that. - he thought. "I actually am a shape-shifter and my other form is that of an owl. Sometimes, although mostly not at will I can also achieve partial shapes, as in being an owl but having a small human part or vice-versa." He paused, surveying the reactions to his words. "I came here not so long ago, so I probably still don't know most of you as well as you would deserve, but I am trying." He stepped back, then remembering one more thing added: "If someone bids for me and wins I hope that we can have a really great time!"

Where have I put it, where have I put it? Patham was frantically hunting through his clothes in his room, and then finally, at the bottom of his trunk found his swimwear. He hastily put it on, and was just about to leave his room, when he noticed the problem. The swimming trunks had a hole in them, and to make matter even worse, the hole was at the worst possible place. This clearly was not going to be good. Not good at all. He did not know how to sow and even if he had known he had not much time to get the swimming trunks back into a wearable state. Then an idea struck him, and he got to work. Fifteen minutes later he was surprised that he was the first to get onto the stage. He heard a few gasps from the stage and some people pointed at his swimming trunks. Where previously the hole had been, there now were several owl feathers arranged in a symmetrical way, so as to cover the hole. "As you can see my swimwear is custom made for me." Patham started. "Yes, the owl feathers are really from my owl form." He turned around to enable everyone to see every side of the trunks. On the two sides there was an extra feather each, to try to make the judges and the audience think that this was really done for style. "I was also thinking of showing you the swimwear, which owls wear, but unfortunately owls, my owl form being one of them swim naked, so it wouldn't have been appropriate for me to show that." He made one last turn and then walking past the judge's table went backstage.

5 geld for the torch device? - Patham mused. "Make it six, and you have a deal." - he said. OOC: I have no idea what the ouiji board is, you'll have to ask Wyvern about that.

OOC: thanks to Appy, for helping Patham out. Patham stepped into the room, full of kids and saw the expectant faces looking at him. “What are you going to talk to us about, mister?” – asked one of the girls before Patham could even introduce himself. “Well…” – he started, but was interrupted again. “Is it going to be as stupid as the quacky poem?” – asked sarcastically a boy this time. "Don't say that!" - retorted the previous girl. "It was quite a good poem!" “Well…” – Patham was about to reply to the boy, but once again he couldn’t continue. “Can you talk to us about something interesting?” – two twins had spoken this almost simultaneously. Patham started despairing. If they interrupted him this often, then he wouldn’t be able to tell the story he had wanted to tell, and Sweetcherrie would be mad at him for not having completed what he had signed up for. Appy saw Patham's look, got to her feet and said: "Come on let him start already! He's not gonna tell us anything if we keep talking y'know" With a smug look she said down again and nodded at Patham: "Please?" “Why, thank you Appy!” – Patham said, grateful that someone had helped him. “So as I was saying, or I mean trying to say, that I shall be telling you a story, and then at the end talk with you about the story.” Shocked silence greeted his words. Whether it was due to Appy’s intrusion, or what he had just said, he had no idea. “This story is about a knight, who loved eating strawberries. They were his favourite food. Whenever he could get his hands on them he did, and eat as many as he could.” “One day the knight was called upon by his king. He had to travel to a far away land to rescue the princess, who had been kidnapped by the big, bad, evil dragon. And so set out he did. Many adventures he had before reaching the tower where the princess was kept captive.” Patham detailed several of the adventures, which ranged from a surprise attack by trolls to needing to help an old lady recover a stolen sheep. “…and then, six months after he had set out, Sir Strawberry reached the tower where Princess Mathilda was kept captive. Unfortunately the fields surrounding the tower were strawberry fields and desire overcame Sir Strawberry. He never again left that field.” “Did he get killed by the dragon?” – asked one of the boys. “No, he lived happily ever after, each day eating as many strawberries as he could.” “That ending sucks.” – the boy replied. Patham ignored the remark. “So what do you think was the moral of the story?” – he asked the kids. “Strawberries are good?” – ventured hesitantly one of the girls. Patham shook his head. Some more of the kids fielded even crazier guesses, and then finally Patham decided that he would tell them. “The moral of the story is, that you shouldn’t be too obsessive about your hobbies and what you like, otherwise they shall gain control over you.” He heard several groans and turned to leave. He saw that the kids hadn’t liked his story. OOC: Edited to change a sentence, which could offend, and unfortunately did. Sorry Tanuchan!

I saw War of the Worlds in the cinema today. The film was quite ok, until it ended. But the end was, in my opinion, much too sudden, and it felt like the director needed to finish the film in five minutes and this was the best he could come up with.

Patham, carrying three wooden boards and a sack walks past Wyvern. He drops the boards to the floor, and gently places the sack next to them. Then he picks out a flat spot in the sand and thrust two of the planks vertically in the sand, then placing the third on top of them. He checks to see whether it is stable enough, and then opens the sack. He gently starts placing items on the makeshift table. On one side he places the numerous Almost Draconic Brand ™ gifts he has received from Wyvern with small paper tags strapped to them detailing what the items were good for. Almost Dragonic Brand Reverse Owl Eyeglasses. ™ Can correct certain very bad eyesight problems. Almost Dragonic Brand Non-Authentic Meditative Torch Device™ Creates white or black or grey clouds for meditation. Colours come at random. Almost Dragonic Brand Forest Stealth Camoflauge Outfit™ Can camouflage an owl-sized creature, but hinders flying. Recommended for non-flying owl-sized creatures. Almost Dragonic Brand Semi-Professional Zombie Ward™ Makes zombies hesitate before lunging at you. Perfect if you want to gain a few fractions of a second. Almost Dragonic Brand Instinct-O-Meter™ Wyvern said about this: it's like the ouija board of choosing animal instincts. Almost Dragonic Brand Table O Elements™ Water ommited. One page from the Almost Dragonic Brand Stega-Thesaurus ™ On one side showing the picture of a Dragon flying over a lakeside town, with the phrase "Dragon flies over lakeside town" written under it, and on the other side various quite strange explanations for words from Dork to Dragoness. Then next to the rather large pile of Almost Dragonic Brand ™ stuff Patham placed another item. A small rock. There was no description next to it, but clearly it was special. More special than the heap of Almost Dragonic Brand ™ stuff anyway. On a scrap of paper Patham scribbled: Not necessarily for trade and placed the paper next to the rock. He then turned to look at what others had placed at the item swap.

Patham after splitting up with Anna rushed back to his room to grab a few things, then literally sprinted to the Beauty Pageant stage. He definately did not want to miss this round. He was greatly relieved when he arrived backstage to hear Anna still saying her part. He decided to wait for her to finish and walked around backstage finalising what he wanted to say. Then he spotted Sweetcherrie, who had some make up on. He said nothing, as Anna had just finished then. As he went towards the stage, he plucked the Almost Dragonic Brand Reverse Owl Eyeglasses ™ from the trashcan where the elder dwarf had put them and pocketed them. As Anna went past he stopped her and whispered. "I seemed to see some makeup on Sweetcherrie, you might want to check whether she has been near your dressing room." He then stepped on stage and walked to the microphone. "If I win this pageant, I don't know yet what I shall do. But I would talk to people, get their advice and then decide what I would do." He paused. Everyone was silent, waiting for him to elaborate some more. "You see, I am still pretty new here, and I wouldn't want to change this place unless it was for the better, and that is where everyone's advice could come in." He smiled at stepped away from the microphone. A few people applauded, but not much.