LONDON ALERT
Authors: Christopher Bartlett
Other Books
by Christopher Bartlett
(Print and Kindle editions)
Air Crashes and Miracle Landings
Sixty Narratives:
How, When…and
Most Importantly Why
LONDON ALERT
By
Christopher Bartlett
Copyright
201
5
© Christopher Bartlett
All
r
ights
r
eserved
.
ISBN
978-0-9560723-4-4
Published
April 2,
201
5
by
OpenHatch Books
UK
londonalert.co.uk
Chapter 3 Your Profile Fits
.
15
Chapter 4 Cut-Glass and Sir
Charles
.
27
Chapter 5 Not so Black and
White
.
43
Chapter 6 Miss Innocent and
Dr Blackwell
47
Chapter 11 VIP for Half a
Day
.
87
Chapter 12 Mission Creep or
Leap?
.
91
Chapter 12 Hotel du
Cap-Eden-Roc
.
119
Chapter 13 What Did You
Expect?
.
127
Chapter 14 Rethinking
Democracy
.
143
Chapter 15 US Ambassador’s
Reception
.
145
Chapter 16 Shine It on
Nelson’s Chest
151
Chapter 19 Return to the
Fold
.
177
Chapter 23 Dangerous Ducks
.
199
Chapter 26 Better for
Having Waited
.
215
Chapter 27 No Pain, No Gain
.
223
Chapter 28 Time to Try for
Another One
.
231
DISCLAIMER
All featured characters are fictitious
,
despite any
fortuitous
resemblance
to actual people. This also applies to the government departments and
operations centres
,
and
while the headquarters of the three main UK security establishments, two
in London by the River Thames and one in Cheltenham, do
exist, what is purported to go on there is also purely fictional,
as in the James Bond films.
Details in CIA briefing
papers for US presidents about to receive foreign dignitaries are, as far as
this book is concerned, merely humorous fiction.
The political views of
the Owl or any other of the characters should not be construed as being those
of the author.
Had Hollywood had the
prescience to make a disaster film showing young men learning how to fly but
not how to land, and using that knowledge to hijack four fuel-laden airliners and
fly them into iconic US buildings, would 9/11 have ever happened? Had it,
Hollywood would have been blamed, just as transpired after the first ‘bomb on a
plane for insurance’ film.
Christopher Bartlett, London, 2015
Just a Boy
The
master had been called away
,
leaving
the twenty or so
fresh
-
faced
boys
unsupervised
and
ten
-
year-
old
Holt
a chance to demonstrate his prowess
as a practical joker.
With his giggling classmates looking on, he snapped a piece
of blackboard chalk in two. Holding the front half in his left hand and a
gimlet in his right, he bored a hole from the break almost right up to the tip.
Into this hole he inserted a broken-off Swan Vestas strike-anywhere match from
a very old box he had found lying around in his father’s shed. He pushed the match
in so the head would end up almost at the tip of the chalk.
The boys gathered
around him were already chuckling in anticipation as he neatly cemented the two
halves of the chalk together to make the break invisible and handed the chalk
to the boy standing beside him.
‘Quick,’ said
Holt. ‘NT could be back at any moment.’
The long-haired boy
grabbed it, hurried over to the blackboard, replaced it on the tray and pocketed
the two other chalks, so Nervous Tom – the nickname given to the master unjustly
alleged to be a Peeping Tom – would have to use it.
NT was indeed soon back,
surprised to find the classroom unusually quiet, with the boys absorbed in
their books rather than fighting. Turning away to face the blackboard, he was
unaware of their smirks as he picked up the doctored chalk and began to write.
They all waited in
expectation, but nothing happened. Soon he would finish writing his
instructions for their homework and be finished with the chalk. Holt was wondering
whether his hands, sweaty with excitement, had dampened the match head.
Suddenly, there was a
loud crack. The tip of the chalk caught fire, shocking the hapless NT so much
that he let out a scream and danced around in panic, as if he were being
electrocuted with alternating current and unable to let go of the wire. His
relief when the flame fizzled out was tempered by the sight of the boys bent
double, laughing at his expense.
Two
days later Holt was half dozing in the afternoon French class when the
re was a sharp knock on the
classroom door
.
The master went to it and pulled it open
to reveal the headmaster’s secretary
.
The
y
engaged in a
brief whispered conversation
.
H
is face looking
grave,
t
he
master
turned towards the class and
called out,
‘Holt.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘The head wants to see you. You had better take your
things with you.’
With the whole class looking at him and wondering
what his punishment was going to be – expulsion maybe – Holt gathered up his
textbook and exercise book and shoved them into his satchel. He then followed
Mrs
Jones, the middle-aged
secretary, along the corridor and down the wide staircase to the headmaster’s
office.
‘Come in,’ came the muffled voice of the fifty-year-old
head in reply to her knock.
Pushing open the door, she called out, ‘Here’s
Jeremy,’ rather than using his surname, as she usually did, and indicated that
he should go in.
‘Hello, Jeremy, do sit down,’ said the head, who,
although not an awesome figure, still managed to make the boys wither by the
way he used sarcasm and raised his brush-like eyebrows to indicate disbelief.
He was actually quite a small man.
He pointed to the leather settee facing a
similarly covered armchair, in which he himself proceeded to sit. These comfortable
chairs were the ones used for discussing embarrassing personal matters, such as
the facts of life. For a telling off, one would normally be left standing or sat
in one of the hard wooden chairs facing his desk.
‘Jeremy, I’m afraid I have some bad news…’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Your father
and mother were involved in a serious car accident early this morning. They
were so badly hurt that they were helicoptered to hospital, where your father
was declared DOA.’
‘DOA?’
‘I’m sorry. That means dead on arrival.’
‘What about Mother? How’s she?’
‘She is in intensive care and I’m afraid in
critical condition.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘Indeed you must. And as soon as possible. Your
aunt is at the hospital, and we’ve arranged for a taxi to collect you and take
you there. The school is paying for it, so there’s nothing for you to worry
about in that regard.’
‘How will I know where to go when I get there?’
‘Just go to the emergency wing and ask for
intensive care. They will probably call your aunt so she can fetch you.’
‘Oh,’ was all Holt could say. He did not know what
to think, other than praying his mother would be okay.
‘Mrs Jones will give you a cup of tea while you
are waiting. It should not be long.’
The headmaster walked over to his desk to call his
secretary on the intercom. In moments she was back, having no doubt expected to
be called to take the heartbroken boy in hand.
‘It will,’ said the kindly woman, ‘take over an
hour to get to the hospital, so you’d better go to the toilet before collecting
your coat and things. I’ll make you that cup of tea.’
Even though he was only there for a pee, Holt went
into a cubicle so no one would see the tears welling up in his eyes. He
remained there for a good ten minutes, flushing the toilet to mask the sound of
him blubbing when a boy did come in. Consoling himself with the thought that he
would be seeing his mother, he wiped his eyes and returned to Mrs Jones’s office,
having collected his coat and satchel from his locker.
Fortunately, the boys were still in class, and no
one had seen his red face or had an opportunity to ask the nature of his presumed
punishment for the chalk prank.
When the caretaker called Mrs Jones to announce
the arrival of the taxi, she informed the headmaster, who came out to accompany
them to the school entrance, where the taxi was waiting.
She gave him a hug as he was about to climb into
the back seat.
‘Our thoughts are with you,’ said the headmaster
before closing the door and signalling to the driver that he should move off.
The journey through busy traffic to the hospital
seemed interminable, and Holt began to feel more and more depressed. He had a
sinking feeling and wondered whether he was going to be sick. At one point the
driver turned to him and asked if he was all right.
‘No, not really,’ he answered. ‘Mum and Dad had a
car crash. Dad’s dead and Mum is in a bad way.’
‘You poor boy. I don’t know what to say. What can
one say other than that we never know what might happen in life? I’d better
keep my eye on the road – we don’t want you to be injured as well.’
‘If Mum dies, I don’t know what I will do. Might
as well be dead.’
‘Don’t say that! There’s always something one can
look forward to.’
‘Can’t think what it could be.’
After exchanging a few words with the driver, Holt
felt a little better. Anyway, they were arriving at the hospital. He would be
seeing his mother.
He also began to feel a little guilty in that he
had always taken his parents, and especially his mother, for granted. He had
just been beginning to appreciate her, having gone through a period where he
thought females were inferior.
‘All the best,’ said the driver as Holt stepped
out of the car. He was so enfeebled, he had to slam the car door shut a second
time.
Apart from attending a hospital when he broke his
wrist, he had never been to one.
‘Intensive Care is halfway down the green
corridor, on the left. You can’t miss it,’ said the receptionist at the main
desk.
He didn’t miss it and pushed open the double doors
leading to another passage. A few yards down there was a window marked ‘Reception
’.
He gave his mother’s name and
was told to sit down on one of the nearby chairs and wait.
‘Your aunt will come for you.’
Holt had never hit it off with the woman, for she
was actually the wife of his mother’s brother, who unfortunately was away on
business in the Far East.
‘Ah, there you are, Jeremy.’
‘Hello, Auntie. How’s Mum?’
‘Not good at all. She has internal injuries,
ruptured liver and spleen, other complications as well. Good job you’ve got
here in time. The doctors don’t think she has long.’
‘But…’
‘She keeps asking for you…so come along, dearie.’
What an impersonal word. ‘Love’ would have been friendlier.
She might have shown some fake compassion by holding his hand. Though had she
done so, he probably would have felt worse.
His mother was in a private room, with all sorts
of tubes attached to her. The nurse standing beside the bed said, ‘Your son’s
here.’
The seemingly lifeless figure stirred, and his
mother’s eyes opened.
‘Come nearer. I can’t see well.’
‘Oh, Mummy…’
‘Jeremy. My Jeremy.’
‘Dad’s dead.’
‘I know. Go and say goodbye to him. For you and
for me. Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘I have not got long, so listen carefully. I’ve
signed a paper making my brother, Harry, your guardian. Auntie Dorothy has
agreed to look after you. There will be some money in trust for you, but not
much, as there is still the mortgage to pay on most of the house. Oh dear, I feel
so tired. Give me your hand and kiss me.’
‘Mother!’
‘Try and do something in later life of which Father
and I would have been proud…’
‘I will.’
Holt leant over and kissed his mother on the cheek
and squeezed her almost-lifeless hand as she sank back on her pillow.
‘I think he should go now,’ said the nurse, adding
that there was not much more he could do other than say goodbye, which his
mother might just be able to hear.
‘Goodbye, Mummy,’ murmured Holt with tears welling
up in his eyes.
Holt’s aunt pulled him away by the arm and led him
out of the room as the nurse leant over the bed to tend to his mother, who was
not responding. The nurse had lifted her eyelids and was shining a torch into
her eyes.
Once in the corridor, Holt demanded to see his dad.
‘He’s dead. Nothing you can do for him now,’
snarled his aunt, before adding, ‘There’s no point – plus I’ve been here long
enough.’
As they passed the nurses’ station, Holt turned to
face the senior nurse standing behind the desk.
‘I want to see my dad. I promised my mum I would
say goodbye to him for her as well.’
‘He’s been stone-dead for hours,’ said his aunt
angrily.
‘I think it would be all right,’ replied the
nurse, who was actually a sister. ‘He’s in the room over there…Nurse Barnes,
can you take this little boy to say farewell to his dad? Just two or three
minutes will mean a lot to the dear boy. Just don’t drag it out and get him too
overwrought.’
Unsure of what ‘overwrought’ meant, Holt let the
young nurse take his hand and lead him into the room where his father was lying
in bed, with his head low because there was no pillow. She pulled back the sheet
to reveal his face, which though ashen gave Holt the impression his father was
alive.
Gingerly, as befitted the schoolboy he was, he
kissed him on the forehead.
The cold sensation as his lips touched his father
was a shock he would remember forever.