signs, any ticks, flinches, any muscle movement, a flick of the eyes, anything that would give his true feelings away. She was one of the best at finding the truth this way, and this time, she made sure Colin was in control of his emotions and was calm and steady once more.
“Let me start over again.” Heather took a breath to let Colin take in the information, watching him carefully, before she continued. “OK, I work for a very secret section of the United Kingdom’s Military Intelligence. It’s called MI9 and is based in Lancashire.”
Colin was a little surprised to hear this, but continued to listen, the calming influence Heather had on was almost trance-like, mesmerising his emotions into submission.
“Simon Peterson worked for the same section, as a field operative, his rank was a Major.”
“Oh!” Colin replied.
“So, if you could please sign that piece of paper, then I will continue telling you his full background, and then what we need to do to ensure that the safety of this planet, as a minimum, is secured once more.”
Colin listened carefully, and wondered what world of intrigue he was about to enter into.
Heather handed over a pen. Colin felt the warmth, the quality of the titanium casing, the crisp click as he slid the clip down, activating the nib. The paper sat on his desk, a mixture of words that he could easily read, but some didn’t make sense. How could signing the Official Secrets Act, to such a very high level save the planet; the two didn’t mix in any shape or form.
Yet, he still signed his name.
By 8:52 am Colin’s eyes were as wide as they could go, his jaw in a permanent dropped state at the information he’d received from Heather. She’s handed over an already prepared version of the Post Postmortem report, stating that it had been the lightning strike that had killed Simon. Colin read the report out, so that there was a recording of the report saved, then she handed over a small USB stick. Colin was in a daze as he copied the only document on the tiny chunk of flash memory. He saved it in the usual location on the NHS secure drives, signed the paper copy and scanned that back in, thus completing the loop, and the lie.
Before she left, Heather took a few vials of Simon’s blood, stored them in a transportation case she had in her case, flashed Colin her best heart-warming smile before he watched her swish her hips and click-clack herself out of the Morgue.
Colin stored Simon’s body away, ready for the undertaker to come and collect him before he simply sat down at his desk, a mixed feeling of trepidation, strength and honour running through his mind. “What have I done!”
Footie.
“Yo dozy,” Tom Barratt breezed into the kitchen through the open back door of Eric’s house, “So, you’re too busy being a swot of a Friday night to wake up and play on a Saturday now are we?” A thick wayward lock of hair was flicked back into place amidst the Medusa-like tousled mousy coloured mop on Tom’s head. A fairly trim lad of average height, he would have easily blended into a crowd of his peers. That was until he opened his mouth, and his personality would shine above everyone else. He was very bright and cheerful all the time, and willing to gain plaudits and friends with a quick wit and a memory full of jokes. “Morning Mrs.P” He nodded at Eric’s mum before sliding onto the pine bench seat at the far side of the Kitchen dining table, picking up the ready-made breakfast sandwich in one slick movement. “Superb.” He added, salivating over the delicious smells of cooked smoked bacon, the end of a halved Lincolnshire sausage peeked out warily at him.
“Morning Tom.” She replied whilst dropping the grill pan into a sink full of hot soapy water. “There’s sauce there if you want.”
“No need mum” Eric answered.
Emma turned and saw that half of the sandwich had already disappeared into Tom’s eager mouth.
Tom smiled like a chipmunk, his cheeks full of deliciously grilled breakfast. “Dank-ou.” He mumbled.
The boys soon finished their sandwiches and headed out the door. Emma Peterson watched them leave, noting how Eric had caught up and passed Tom in height and build in the last 2 years since the accident. She smiled remembering all the times Eric had arrived home miserable stating that he was never going to see Tom again because he’d called him “Shorty” or “midget.” She’d consoled him so many times, saying he was only playing and telling him how cruel kids were, and one day he would grow and be taller than Tom. What she also added was that when that day finally came, Eric shouldn’t resort to the same tactics and to never call him those names, as it wasn’t nice. As they walked down the street towards the park, playfully pushing and nudging each other, she believed that she’d done a reasonable job in bringing him up, especially after all they’d been through. Emma could now clearly see that her strapping, handsome Son that had just left the kitchen was getting ready for the big bad world, and was a young man, not the boy she’d comforted 2 years earlier during those tragic times. She drew in a long deep breath, knowing what was lying ahead of him, hoping that she’d prepared him enough to be the right person that his destiny demanded. This was something she’d been told may years before, in what seemed like a different life, and she knew that what she and Simon had done with their lives, was for all the right reasons. It had cost her husband his life, yet the cost of one life, even one so precious to her, was inconsequential when weighed against the prophecy that she truly believed in.
Eric had flicked a foot under the front hedge, dragging a well-kicked football out to take with them as they set off down Steelgate Drive towards the park.
“Are you going in the nets?” He asked.
“I don’t think Eric the poacher Peterson will get many past Tom safe-hands Barratt today, young man.” Tom replied in a voice mocking a mixture of commentators, his head wobbling with his confidence at his goalkeeping abilities.
“We’ll see.”
They carried on quietly, Eric’s thoughts still lingering on the dream.
“What’s up?” Tom asked.
“Nothing really.”
“You’ve had that dream again, the one with the hoodies injecting your dad?” Tom had heard the story many times from his best friend, and he never complained, as he knew it helped Eric get over the death of his father.
Eric looked at Tom, knowing they’d become very good friends in the last two years, knowing each could finish the others sentence, even if it wasn’t how they would have said it.. “Yep, same dream, same hoodies, same blue stuff.” He sighed and his head dropped.
“Why blue?”
“The shrink said it was probably the colour of the bolt of electric that arced through my dad and into the ground.” He bounced the ball a couple of times as they walked. “He also said that it’s a powerful colour, and all I’ve done is simply associate the strong feelings of my dad dying with that colour.” Eric grimaced and shrugged his shoulders, not fully believing the answers he and his mum had been given to the nightmares he’d had.
“I quite like blue.” Tom replied, matter of fact. “It’s probably my favourite colour, well, a Royal Blue is, not a Sky Blue, but a nice Royal Blue.” He held his head up a little higher, walking with an air of distinction for a few paces.
Eric snorted a laugh.
“I would have thought it would be something like luminescent green that I’d see.” Tom pondered the psychological dilemma of the colours in Eric’s dreams.
“Anyway,” Eric continued. “I was still knocked unconscious and my dad still died, so it doesn’t matter what colour it was, does it?” A hint of anger in his voice, not at Tom, but at the deep nagging thought that he did see what was in his dreams, and no matter how many therapists and psychiatrists he saw, they’d not get rid of that feeling that he was right, and they simply didn’t want to believe him; that was what made him angry.
“I know mate.” Tom patted his friend’s arm sympathetically. “So, do you think you’ll still get more than 5 past me today?” He asked, changing the subject before knocking the ball out of Eric’s hands
and racing onto the football pitch at the park, heading for the upside down “U”, the simple metal pipework structure which made up the goal posts that were permanently set up at the far side. He toe-bunged the ball as hard as he could into the back of the empty goal, the ball clanging against the metal wire mesh structure built into the back. He continued running raising his arms in the air and screaming “GOOOAAAALLLLLL!” at the top of his voice.
Eric smiled as he jogged over, watching his friend use his best character trait to distract him again from his worries. He knew Tom cared and would listen to the same story every day until they were both very old, but he also knew that he had to move on. He jogged over to the goal and over the next hour proceeded to bang 18 goals past his friend. On the way home they decided that Tom’s footballing name needed to be changed to Tom no-hands Barratt.
Check-up
“How is the protege?” The gravelly voice of K'nash sent shivers down the spine of all who heard it.
That was all except Eklan. “I'm on my way there again, right now.” She'd been able to keep outside of his clutches for 2 years, always out of communications reach, always on a mission away from the Council and her Supreme Commander. Yet now, she was sitting across the desk from him, looking at his harsh angular features.
“Tut-tut.”