Drifters Chapter 2c

This is the third answer to Richard Banks’s challenge (see 04/03/21) there will be others posting their chapter 2 to his chapter 1.  You must decide the best by voting…

By Bob French

She grabs my arm and with a smile, gently leads me down the street which is in near darkness now.  The hissing sound of the gas lamps causes me to look up. Suddenly I feel a tug on the lead and the dog starts to bark and tug on its lead.  I look towards an alleyway and see a cat, its back hunched up, hissing at the dog. I try to hold the dog back, but it’s too late.  It sprints off towards the cat. I curse and start after it but Cassie tries to hold me back.

“it’s alright George, he’ll find his way home.” Her voice sounding convincing, so I stop and wait until she joins me. As we turn a corner, I note a dime light above a tobacco shop selling the new 20 pack of Woodbine Cigarettes and John Player Navy Cut tobacco, something my Granddad use to smoke in his pipe. My senses drag me back to the comfort of my Grandad’s lap; the distinctive smell of his pipe as he puffed clouds above my head.  I pause about to ask her something, but my eyes are drawn to a noisy veteran car rattling out of the darkness and vanishing behind us.  I slow, determined to get some idea of what is happening. I need some answers.

“Cassie, do you know where you are going and what date is it?  Everything is so, so 1920s.”  But she laughs and pulls me further into the darkness.

The man in the silver jumpsuit had drifted into the darkness and quietly makes a telephone call from the phone box on the corner of the street to warn Aunty Lucy that the woman had returned.

Detective Constable Fred Smith was annoyed.  He had planned to watch the Hammers play The Arsenal this evening, but his Chief wanted a report on the bank robbery that had taken place on his patch.  As he pondered on how to word the report, his assistant, WPC Mandy Williams came in and grunted, ‘evening Fred,’ then dropped a file into his already full in-tray.

“Chief wants you to look at this asap.”

“Jesus, doesn’t he know were short staffed?”

He pushed the robbery report to one side and quickly read the new file, then thought it a complete waste of time and decided it could wait. As he picked up the robbery file, the words of Frank, his Sergeant crept into his mind as he addressed the station staff.

‘Lastly, there have been a number of strange instances happening lately.  People who have lived on our patch for years have started to vanish without a trace.  Now, I’m not saying we may have a serial killer on the loose in the manor, but keep your eyes and ears open, got it.’

He reluctantly picks up the new file and began to go over it again.

It was near midnight when the door to the office opened and Frank sauntered in with a huge grin on his face.

“Still here Fred?” then casually nodded to Mandy.

“No, it’s a figment of your imagination Sarg.”

“It must be important for you to miss a Hammers game. What’s keeping you?”

“It’s this latest file Sarg from the Chief.  A Miss Broadbent made a report last week about some strange goings on in a phone box opposite the café she uses on Broad Street.

The Sergeant recalled the file.  Probably young kids messing about he thought at the time.

“what have you done so far?”

“Nothing yet.”

Frank turned to Mandy.  First thing in the morning, pop over to where she lives and have a chat with her; find out all you can about the incident. Speak to her friends and neighbours, then fill Frank in.  Can you also ask the girls in archives if they can give you all the files of missing persons during the last four months.   Frank. I want you to put the phone box under surveillance……. I know, we don’t have enough boots on the ground, but see what you can find out about the area. I’ll square it with Jim in Comms to get you some camera equipment.”   As he reached the door, he turned and with a grin on his face called back. “Oh, by the way, Hammers beat The Arsenal 3, 1.”

They had agreed to meet in the café opposite the phone box on Broad Street where Ms Broadbent claimed that something fishy had taken place, at midday.  As Mandy pushed the café door open, Fred caught her eye.

“I spent most of the morning speaking to the old ladies friends,” but Fred could see that she had a puzzled look on her face as she flipped open her notebook. 

“She’s an 82-year-old woman with no living relatives; is well known around the estate. Draws her pension every Friday and plays Bingo every Saturday night, until Saturday the 15^th, when she didn’t turn up for Bingo.  According to everyone I spoke to, the old girl.” She glanced down at her black notebook, “a Fanny Broadbent, would never miss her Bingo, even if it meant climbing out of her death bed. Her neighbours organized a thorough search of the estate, then reported it to the Nick.  I gained access to her flat; nothing seemed out of order, in fact, it looks like she just got up and walked out of her flat and vanished.”

“Vanished?”  Fred shook his head, then glanced across the road as a tall man in a dark overcoat entered the box, made a phone call, then left. He jotted down the time and a brief description of the man.   His thoughts were interrupted as Mavis, a stout, cheerful looking woman who suddenly started to clear the dirty plates left by the previous customer.

“Want anything to eat luv?”

Mandy shook her head, stood and said that she was heading back to the office.

As she left, Fred flashed his warrant card at Mavis and briefly explained his presence before asking for a nice mug of tea.

It was the third day, around five o’clock in the evening. He had read the Daily Mail three times and when he looked up into the fading light of the day, he noticed that it had started to snow.  He seemed to stare out into the street as the neon lights of the shops up and down Broad Street started to come on.  Suddenly he was brought back to reality with a bump as Mavis, the waitress nudge him with her wide motherly hips, then nodded towards the phone box.

He watched as a young woman matching the description of the missing Miss Goodyear, appear to be enticing a gentleman into the phone box. He nods his thanks, gulps down what was left of his cold tea and makes a dash for the door.  As he races towards the phone box it seems to shake violently. It stops just as he was a couple of yards away.  He skids around the other side of the box and rips open the door and freezes.  There is no one inside! 

He quickly searched around the outside of the box, then remembered that the boys from Comms had put a camera in the phone, box to assist him to catch the vandals who had annoyed Miss Broadbent.

That night as he sat in his office going over his report for the tenth time, thinking no one was going to believe him, Jim from the Comms Section came in.

“Hi, Fred.  Got the pictures of the phone box you wanted?”

Fred took the memory stick and slipped it into his laptop then settled back to study the short film of the mysterious disappearance of Miss Goodyear and the gentleman. When the phone box started to vibrate, the picture became distorted.  When it stopped, the two people had vanished?   Smith felt that gut feeling again that made him a good detective. He plays it several times again, but nothing jumps out at him.  He plays the start of the film slowly and jots down the twenty-three digit telephone number Miss Goodyear had dialled.

On the way home that night, Fred thought that the only way he is going to get to the bottom of this mystery was to try the telephone box himself.  He glanced at his watch as he parked the car a few hundred yards from the phone box, then walked down the deserted Broad Street to the phone box. 

The box smelt of stale cigarette smoke as he pulls open the door to the phone box. He dials the number.  Nothing happens.  He tries again.  Still nothing.  In frustration, he curses and leaves the box to walk back to his car. It was just past midnight; the night sky was full of stars and the street was deserted, yet he felt uncomfortable. Someone was following him.  He turns several times, hoping to catch someone, but there’s no one there.  As he continues, the feelings grew stronger as though someone is about to mug him.

 Copyright Bob French

Personal Well-being: 06

 

 Personal Well-being: 06 Exercise for the Overweight, Infirm & Aged.

  By Barefoot Medic

"If only I had paid more attention to my diet and watched my weight in earlier years, but now it's too late..." an obese lady in her 60's confided.

But, is it too late? Surely there are exercises we can do that would help? Pilates, yoga, Tai Chi, Dynamic tension?

Pilates:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NI66J8X63TE

Yoga:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phuS5VLQy8c

Tai Chi:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oCnCSOWgIUU&t=342s

Dynamic tension:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkJEWMCw0T8

They are always demonstrated by fit healthy youngsters, but if we select what we can and cannot do comfortably from each regimen we can all improve our lives.

That, together with a balanced diet, eating less and daily deep breathing exercises to fully oxygenate our blood would result in rapid improvements physically and mentally.  A lot can be accomplished in bed and will help you sleep…

I recall a motivational mantra but not its origin which doesn't affect its relevance:

Never lay when you can sit.
Never sit when you can stand.
Never stand when you can walk.
Never walk when you can run.

No such thing as can't only won't!

Any activity is better than none. You don't need to spend on an expensive Gym membership, Walking, swimming, and gardening cost nothing. Initially exercise in moderation, and you'll be surprised how much better you will feel.

 

  The Secret

By Janet Baldey

‘A thick blanket of snow covered the ground….’

Alisia stilled.  She tried to frown, then remembered she still had her skin protector on.   With an irritated sigh, she ripped it off.  Although she knew it was necessary, she hated wearing it.  Masking all expression - they made even the most intelligent look bovine.   She spent a few luxurious seconds working the muscles of her face before turning to the screen again.

‘turning the fields into a winter wonderland.’

The teacher’s creeping sense of unease deepened.   She’d asked her class of 7/8-year-olds to write about their weekend.   True, she’d said they could describe something that really happened, or something ‘made up’ but she’d not expected this.  After all, she was three times this child’s age and she’d never seen snow and neither had her parents.  Her lips tightened, that was not the point.   Mentioning snow was tantamount to discussing the ‘old days’ and that was strictly forbidden by the Regime.   People had been disposed of for less.   It sounded severe but the Regime was right;  after all, she had to admit that the boy’s sentence had even awakened a vague longing inside her and could easily promote discontent in others more unruly.  Discontent was dangerous, which had been drummed into her during her indoctrination.  Discontent had led to the downfall of other regimes, with disastrous effects.   She glanced out of the window.  As usual, the never-changing expanse of bright blue sky was total, unbroken by even the smallest wisp of cloud.   At ground level, the dust stretching towards the horizon had its own beauty, she supposed.   At dusk, it reflected the setting sun and glowed blood red, but even so, it would be nice if….  She snapped her mind closed, she was entering dangerous territory.   It was time to deal with the more immediate problem.

  She looked at the name at the top of the monitor, Alex Kapplin one of the brightest in her class.   Even so, his essay was surely about something that had been blocked for years before he’d been born.   He must have heard of it from someone; probably from his father who’d always made her feel uneasy.  His far-seeing deep blue eyes seemed to know things she didn’t, which was strange as being a teacher, she knew more than most.   However, she was aware that although it was the law that all over the age of six should have their memories wiped at regular intervals, it wasn’t unknown that in certain individuals, breakthroughs occurred.  Alex’s father must be one such.   Retrodegenerates, they were called and if discovered, the Regime disposed of them without mercy.

Alisia’s fingers fluttered over the boy’s name and then pressed down decisively.  The screen rippled and the boy’s face appeared.   He had a smear of jam at the corner of his mouth and he looked surprised and, she thought, apprehensive.

‘It’s about your essay, Alex.   Tell me, what made you write it?’

‘Don’t know Miss.’

‘But where did you get the idea from?’  Did you hear about it from someone else?’

‘No, Miss.  I just remembered it in the morning.’

 As he answered her questions she stared into his eyes.   They did not flicker, it was obvious he was telling the truth.

She switched off the screen and sat swivelling in her chair.  Clearly, the boy must have had a dream.   She sat quite still, recalling the boy’s face, his eyes in particular - they had so much light and fire.    Her shoulders drooped, those eyes would be dimmed forever if the Regime were informed, but it was her duty.   When she first became a Teacher she had taken an oath to do all she could to protect the Regime.   After all, it was the Regime that provided for her and for all those who lived under the Dome.   All were protected.  All were gainfully employed.   All had plentiful food, gyms for exercising slack muscles, swimming pools, athletic tracks, football pitches, even a virtual adventure room where one could slay mythical creatures.   And if the Regime appeared harsh on occasions, deep down everyone knew it was for their own good.  For instance, old people were an encumbrance, they were unproductive and took up valuable breathing space.   A switch inside Alisia’s head turned itself off.   Her thinking time had elapsed.

Her chair stopped swivelling as she sat upright.   After all, it wasn’t as if the child would be eradicated – just changed, that was all.   She turned to an array of instruments in front of her and began to key in a number and it was then that it happened.   Images began to flash before her eyes so quickly she could barely breathe.   Bursting like firecrackers before her were ragged clouds, seas of liquid gold, salmon pink sunsets, bolts of jagged lightning, curtains of rain, hailstones as big as marbles, trees swaying gently in the breeze.   All so strange, but so familiar somehow and so, so beautiful….. her fingers slackened and dropped from the keyboard as she sat staring into nothing.

She knew she should turn herself in, together with the child, but she wouldn’t.  The visions were too precious to lose. They would be the secret she and the boy shared.  

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

Drifters Chapter 2b

This is the first answer to Richard Banks’s challenge (see 04/03/21) there will be others posting their chapter 2 to his chapter 1.  You must decide the best by voting…

By Peter Woodgate 

Who is this Aunt Lucy,? I think to myself as Cassandra leads me down a shady looking alley.

    No point in pursuing my inquisition, it was obvious that the answer, according to Cassandra, would be beyond my comprehension.

    We emerged from what was an uncomfortable walk through the alley, where, on two occasions, I was approached by “Ladies in Doorways.”

Cassandra, however, made sure that each approach was merely one of curiosity. I was relieved, however, when we finally emerged from the alley and turned left into what was an extremely busy street

    It was like one of those old black and white photos that showed the street amass with people, the men all wearing waistcoats and flat caps.

There was a mandatory horse and cart that thundered past us and even some young children chasing hoops zig zagging between adults that appeared oblivious to this youthful enthusiasm.

    “Not far now,” Cassandra grabbed my arm as we crossed the road avoiding the man with a red flag who was walking in front of the most amazing antique car that I had ever witnessed.

    “Come on,” Cassandra pulled me away from my moment of amazement before pushing me through an open doorway. Amazed as I was by the sight of that magnificent car, it was pale in comparison to what I now witnessed.

    On passing through the doorway we were confronted by a mirror, well I thought it was a mirror, but, after our reflections appeared to be scanned, they disappeared to be replaced by a neon sign which showed the following words:

 

Astronomical

Unit

Neutralizing

Time

Leaving

Uniformity

Controlling

Years

 

“Here we are,” Cassandra, still holding my hand, pulled me through the neon sign and into a wonderland of pulsating lights and soothing music.

My eyes and ears were bathed in a sensual extravaganza that oozed throughout my whole body.

    “Welcome to Aunt Lucy, George.” Cassandra smiled as she led me through to the reception area

 

 

   

 Drifters Chapter 2a

This is the first answer to Richard Banks’s challenge (see 04/03/21) there will be others posting their chapter 2 to his chapter 1.  You must decide the best by voting…

By Janet Baldey

She tucks her arm underneath mine and guides me up a wide elm lined drive.  I look around but can see no lights.  Where the hell are we? We should be in the middle of the city for God’s sake.  The sky darkens as the trees thicken and bend towards us.  It’s as if they are trying to tell me something and again I get the feeling of weird.  Then, I get it and almost laugh out loud at my stupidity.  This is obviously an elaborate practical joke.  That toffee was obviously drugged.  But why?  Is Cassie trying to impress me?  I glance at her, noting the perfection of her profile, and face the fact there is absolutely no need, I am already completely smitten.

         After we’d been walking for at least a mile, a huge house appears in the distance.  I say house, it’s a mansion with lots of pointed gables and crenulated towers.  It’s a mishmash and I wonder who designed it; obviously someone with more money than taste.   I shake my head; I really am taking this too seriously.  Someone in design let his imagination run away with him, that’s all.  It’s not a real house, it’s just a backdrop.  

         However, my faith in that theory is somewhat shaken when we arrive at the front door, which is huge and obviously hewn from solid English oak.

         “Here we are,” says Cassie, somewhat unnecessarily, and pulls at a heavy-looking metal chain.  We stand listening to the muffled tolling of a bell and from somewhere deep inside I hear that damned dog again.  My stomach starts to churn as the weird feeling returns.

         Almost immediately, the door swings open to reveal a uniformed lackey.  I note the sheen on his wig and his emerald velvet coat sprigged with gold and feel seriously impressed.  If this is a joke, then no expense has been spared.

         Then, Cassie breaks the spell with a casual “Hi, we’re here to see Aunt Lucy.”  I look at her and think that if this is a stunt and Cassie’s an extra, then she deserves the boot.

         It turns out that Aunt Lucy is as impressive as the house.  If the human form could be likened to a building, she would definitely be a castle.  I stand before her feeling like a broken-down shed as she raises her lorgnette and appraises me.  She’s dressed in some sort of period costume, Edwardian, Regency, Georgian?   I rack my brains but history was never my forte.

         “So,” jet flashes as she turns to look at Cassie. “I take it that this young man wishes to know why he has been brought here.” Her bosom heaves and I am momentarily dazzled by the gems sewn into her attire.

         “Yes, Aunt Lucy.”

         Cassie is standing with her eyes cast downwards. She is definitely on her best behaviour.  She probably realises she’s goofed and is worried about her take-home pay.

         I sense Aunt Lucy’s eyes on me and jump to attention. Dammit, why?   I’m the victim here.

         “Young man. “ Her voice has softened and she sounds almost human. Damn again, she is human.  I grit my teeth, Cassie may be lovely but this is all one big scam and I must not buy into it.  Aunt Lucy is speaking again and I do my best to pay attention. This had better be good.

         “I had hoped that I wouldn’t need to have this conversation.  I had hoped that my head hunters would be sufficiently well trained to cope with any questions thrown their way. “

         I don’t need to look at her to realise she is frowning at Cassie.  A head hunter, is that what she is?   I feel as deflated like a burst balloon.

         “At least, I hope she didn’t mention space/time continuums.” Aunt Lucy read my expression and tutted.  

         “Well, forget all that nonsense.   What we do here is something much more important. Exponentially so.”

         “Excuse me, but where exactly is ‘here’” I break-in.

         “Somewhere… nowhere.”  She sees my expression and laughs.  “To be honest, it doesn’t matter. We could be anywhere.  What matters is what we’re doing.”

         “And that is……?”

         “It’s complicated and difficult to explain.  But you obviously want an answer and so I’ll try to show you.   Just close your eyes – count up to ten, then open them and try and find me.”

         I do as she says and when I open them, she’s disappeared.  I look around.  Where has she gone?  I didn’t hear anything and my hearing is sharp.

         “Have you found me yet?”

         I jump.  Her unmistakable plummy tones are behind me.  I whirl round but see nothing, except for a tiny mouse that is staring at me.  Slowly it raises one paw and salutes.  I feel waves of faintness washing over me and pinch myself hard.  The mouse has stopped saluting but its mouth is opening and shutting almost as if it’s talking.  How do they do that?

         “I’m sorry about that.  Didn’t realise you had a thing about mice.  Now close your eyes again, please.  During transference, my clothing sometimes goes adrift and I wish to preserve my dignity.”

         I do as the voice commands and when I open them Aunt Lucy is there again, with her clothes intact.

         “So now you know what I am talking about.  Surely you’ve heard of ‘shape shifters’?”

         I dig deep inside my mind and nod.

         “Good.  Well, that’s basically what we are.  In a nutshell, young man, we have a great opportunity for you.  We are recruiting, for a limited time only, intelligent individuals with good intent.”

         It’s the word ‘intelligent’ that sings to me and I start to show interest.

         “But, why?”

         “To save the planet, of course!”   Her voice deepens and rings with fervour.  “Let me explain. Tell me your deepest, most earnest desire.   As you lie in your bed at night, who or what would you most like to be?   What life would you like to live?  And remember it can be anything.”

         I open my mouth but she interrupts.

         “No, don’t say anything now.  Just think about it.  But be assured, if you pass the interview we will reward you well.  As you have seen, I myself can be an Edwardian lady, a mouse, a computer, anything”   She pauses and looks at me. “For instance, there is nothing that Cassie enjoys more than becoming a tree; an ancient oak or a redwood preferably.  Now, trees are splendid but they don’t have a great sense of time, which is why she disappeared for three months when she only meant to be away for two days.” 

         I goggle at her.  How did she know that?  I drag my mind back to the question in hand. The idea of being something different is appealing and I am tempted.  After all, my job in the Inland Revenue is less than riveting.   I put my thinking cap on.

          “Where’s the catch?”

         “No catch.  The only thing we ask is that when you eventually die, as we all must, we get a bit of your soul.  The best bit.   And your legacy will help us save the planet. “

         “How on earth…..” I bite my tongue, it seems that every time I speak, clichés come spewing out.

         “We are offering you the chance to live your dream, young man.  In turn, we are following the science.  Our scientists say that if we work hard on our recruitment drive, eventually we will have enough best bits of soul to create a perfect human.  One with abilities that will be channelled to save the world; which your lot are presently doing their best to destroy.”   She snorts and fans herself vigorously. 

         From deep inside the house a clock chimes and the dog barks again. This reminds me.

         “Why do I keep hearing that dog?” I ask.

         Aunt Lucy’s eyebrows lift.  “Oh that…. used to be an extremely successful banker. Chose to be a dog because he wanted his wife to love him like she loved her pooches.  Then he discovered he liked being just a dog, so he ran away and now we can’t catch him.” She shakes her head. “Nothing worse than an ill-disciplined dog.  Never mind, what he doesn’t seem to realise is that dogs don’t live very long so we’ll have his bit of soul sooner rather than later.  It’s in his contract.  Typical banker.  They think they’re so clever but they don’t read the small print.”

         I stand staring at her, the cogs of my brain whirling.  I’d always wished I could fly like a bird. Perhaps now is my chance. I could be an eagle and swoop down and perch amongst Cassie’s branches.

         I look across at Cassie and she smiles at me.  Suddenly, I'm a believer.   I also decide to forget the birds; a tree hugger is a much better idea.

Personal Well-being: 05

 

  Personal Well-being: 05 Bringing up trapped wind.

 

 By Barefoot Medic

Trapped wind can be uncomfortable at best and at worst downright painful.  It has at times been mistaken for a heart attack.  Not much fun at all!

 

Bruce Forsyth passed away last year.  Thinking about him reminded me of his appearance on the Michael Parkinson chat show twenty odd years ago.

Somehow the conversation turned to things that impair a stage performance.  One of the most unlikely things mentioned was 'trapped wind'.  Bruce then proceeded to demonstrate his method of relieving 'trapped wind' :

His instructions were to Lean forwards until your torso is parallel with the ground.

Drop your left shoulder suddenly and at the same time twist your torso so you're facing to the right.   "Burp, Bururp!"  Not something you do in polite company or on a TV chat show, but Bruce did and it caused uproarious laughter.

I remembered it and when I next needed to relieve trapped wind I followed his instructions and it worked!

 

I have used it ever since without fail and passed his advice on to others who suffer from wind on occasions...

It works, and it costs you nothing so, next time you feel that uncomfortable pain, give it a try!

 

 A LOST OPPORTUNITY 

by Richard Banks                   

Gavri turned from the bustle of the crowded main road into a side street and took refuge in the deep shadow of a shop awning. For a few minutes, he pretended an interest in the contents of the shop window while deciding what to do. His mind was confused, struggling to take in what had happened, his mood one of bitter despair. The game was over, they had failed, best to get out of the City, to lie low in one of the villages. That's what the others were doing, brave revolutionaries no longer, self-preservation their only concern.

       Nedjelko was at the police station being interrogated, having the shit kicked out of him. If he started spilling names the hunt would be on. What a mess it was. The plan was good, thorough, it should have worked. The Duke was in an open-top car. Nedjelko had only to lob his bomb into it, to briefly observe the death of the oppressor before taking his own life with the cyanide that had been issued to himself and the others.

       Gavri heard the explosion and thought the deed done. Then to his horror saw the Duke's car speed past too quickly for him to draw and aim the 22 calibre Browning concealed beneath his jacket. Of the seven-armed conspirators, only Nedjelko had acted.

       It did not take long for the news of what happened to spread along the entire route of the procession. The bomb had been deflected by the arm of the Duke onto the rolled-down canopy of the car. From there it had dropped onto the road exploding beneath the next vehicle injuring several of its occupants including two of the Duke's aides. The would-be assassin had been seen to drink from a phial, vomit, then throw himself into the Miljacka river that ran parallel to the road. If he was seeking to drown himself he was again unlucky for the river was only inches deep in water. Within minutes Nedjelko had been dragged from the river and bundled into a police van. The Duke unharmed was now at the City Hall where on his arrival he had angrily berated the Mayor waiting to welcome him. There were rumours that the official programme for the rest of the day had been cancelled and that the Duke would be leaving the City with an armed escort.

       A golden opportunity had been lost and one better might never occur. But still Gavri lingered. Other revolutionaries could play the long game, let years go by before trying again. But time was not on Gavri's side. The inflammation in his lungs could no longer be ignored. In a few months, he might be dead. He knew this as well as any doctor; had he not watched six siblings die of disease and malnutrition. If Gavri was to change history it had to be soon. He was a good shot; given another opportunity that day he would take aim and fire without fear for the consequences. While the Duke remained in the City so would he.

       It was 10.30, too soon for lunch but not for coffee. He retraced his steps to a café at the top of the road. From there he could observe the main road, listen to the chatter of its clientèle, be ready for that precious piece of information that might put him within shooting distance of the Duke.

                                          **********

       The Duke was calm again, determined to fulfil the role for which he had come. His diplomatic mission was one of goodwill, reconciliation. When he came to power there would be reforms, not too many but enough to convince the people of this turbulent country that life within the Empire was preferable to union with Serbia. He must smile, be gracious, show himself to the people without fear. One dangerous lunatic in the crowd was one too many but the crowds that greeted him were respectful some cheering. His mission was to them. He must see it out.

       Potiorek, the Military Governor, was back from the police station where he had assisted in the interrogation of Nedjelko by the breaking of several fingers. After confidential discussions with senior staff, he approached the Duke. The terrorist, he said, was a member of the Black Hand, a fanatic, a Serbian separatist. Despite all attempts to make him reveal the names of his accomplices, the fanatic insisted that he had acted alone.

       “Is this to be believed?” asked the Duke.

       Potiorek hesitated. His security report before the visit had described the City as safe, the terrorist threat negligible. A single terrorist did not invalid that judgement but if there were more, if it was even thought there were more, his career would be over, his reputation in tatters.

         Potiorek smiled reassuringly. The terrorist, he said, appeared to be deranged; instead of making his escape, he had thrown himself into the mud of the Miljacka. A mad man was unlikely to have accomplices. If his Highness wished to fulfil his remaining engagements he had every confidence this could be done safely, without further incident. He had a closed carriage standing by. This time the Duke would be provided with a military escort.

       The Duke said that if there was no further threat he would continue to use the open carriage. The military guard was not needed. He had come to Bosnia as a friend, a benefactor. If the people were to trust him, he must show his trust in them. He was, however, unwilling to expose his wife, the Duchess, to danger, no matter how small. She would remain at City Hall until it was time to return to the railway station.

       The Duke's thoughts turned to those in the following car. On being assured that there were no fatalities and that the injured were being treated at the hospital he resolved to visit them instead of partaking of the refreshments on offer. Instructions were issued to the Duke's driver to make ready the same car as had been used before. Within minutes they were ready to go. As he walked down the ceremonial carpet that almost matched the blue of his uniform he was unexpectedly joined by the Duchess. She pretended to scold him.

       “What kind of a husband is this who abandons his wife only days before their wedding anniversary.” The Duke's reply was impeded by the forefinger of the Duchess which pressed lightly against his lips. “No argument now. This is our first official visit together. We started it together, we will finish it so. The Court may think me unworthy, but I am your wife. My place is with you, no matter what.”

       The Duke took her hand in his and kissed it affectionately. “It will soon be different,” he whispered. When he was Emperor no one would dare speak disrespectfully of her. Did their Hapsburg blood make them better than her? He thought not. She was worth more than all those wagging tongues put together.

       The Duchess slipped her hands around his arm and they walked towards the open door through which they had entered only twenty minutes before.

                                             **********

       Gavri drank slowly, making the coffee last as long as possible. Outside the café, the main road known as the Appel Quay was still busy with the many sightseers who had come to see the Duke. A rumour that he had been wounded by the bomb was refuted by those who saw him arrive at City Hall and ascend its steps to the portico where the Mayor was waiting to greet him. A man on the table next to Gavri was loud in his support for the Duke. Gavri wanted to tell him about poverty in the villages. What had Austria and the Duke done about that? Only when Bosnia was free of the oppressor, when it was one with Serbia, would there be freedom, an end to poverty and hunger. The man was an oaf and Gavri could no longer bear to be in the same room as him. As he left the café by its entrance in Franz Joseph Street the crowd on either side of the main thoroughfare was beginning to stir, voices raised, bodies turning towards the road, vying with each other to get closer to it. “The Duke is coming,” he heard someone say, “the official programme has resumed.”

       Gavri retreated to the doorway of the café and ascended the several steps that led to it. From there he could see over the crowded pavement on the Appel Quay at the steady approach of the Duke's car. There was no time to lose. He needed to be kerbside, in the front row but that was now impossible as more and more people flooded out of shops and cafés to join the ranks of those already gathered.  A short distance to his left the buzz of voices erupted into loud cheers, cries of “long live the Duke.”

       In a few seconds, the car would be passed, another chance gone. There was nothing for it but to shoot from where he was over the heads of the crowd. His position was poor, ten feet back from where he wanted to be, but if he fired rapidly, discharging all six bullets, he might still be successful. He reached into his jacket for the Browning but before he could grasp its handle a customer exiting the café inadvertently sent the door hard against his back, tipping him face down onto the pavement. For a few moments, he lay there too stunned to be conscious of the sharp pain in his chest. He struggled to his feet and regained his position on the step.  All was lost, of that he was sure. In his mind's eye, he saw only an empty road, the Duke gone, hidden behind the façade of the café. Instead, he saw the car turn into Franz Joseph Street.

       Potiorek was shouting at the driver. “Stop, stop you fool. This is not the route. Get back on the main road.”

       If Leo, the driver, had been allowed to speak to his illustrious passengers beyond a polite confirmation of an instruction received he would have said that this was the route. The itinerary had been handed to him early that morning by Merizzi, the adjutant. That was his job. If there was a change Merizzi would have told him.

       The car shuddered to a halt and Leo engaged reverse gear. More shouting from Potiorek as the car slowly backed up towards the café where Gavri waited, gun drawn. His first shot hit the Duchess as she moved protectively in front of her husband, the second severed the jugular vein in the Duke's neck. It was done. The next bullet would be for himself. As Gavri pointed the gun at his head he felt a moment of euphoria. The time of lost opportunities was over, a new age was about to begin.

Postscript

The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg by Gavrilo Princip on 28 June 1914 was the opening salvo in a conflict that claimed the lives of over eight million combatants. The defeat of Austria and the other Central Powers in World War I precipitated the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the formation of the Serbian Kingdom that included Bosnia. 

Princip's attempt to take his own life was thwarted by passers-by who wrestled the gun from his hand. Too young under Austrian law to be executed, the nineteen-year-old member of the Black Hand was sentenced to twenty years imprisonment. He died in prison of tuberculosis in April 1918. Nedjelko Cabrinovic also died in prison of tuberculosis.

Lt Col Merizzi was one of the aides injured by Nedjelko's bomb. Taken directly to hospital he was unable to inform the driver, Leopold Loyka, of the change in the Archduke's itinerary. Had someone else thought to do so the assassination and the war that followed may never have happened.

At the lying in state of the Archduke and Duchess the body of the Duchess was placed on a plinth eighteen inches below that of her husband – a final slight by the Austrian Royal family who despised her for being the daughter of a Czech aristocrat.

   Copyright Richard Banks