PROLOGUE

The stench of charred flesh and rubber clung to my senses. The taste in the back of my throat made me heave. Resting my elbows on my knees, I covered my ears and closed my eyes praying I would wake from this nightmare. But no awakening came. There was no release, no escape from the reality of my situation. Sitting in the cell of a military guardhouse waiting to be taken to a civilian anti-terrorist police station, is a far cry from my usually quiet existence.
   At least for now I was inside, warm, dry and safe, waiting for the Duty Officer to question me, before Special Branch officers took me away. I was reliably informed that it would be a long wait, since I wasn’t likely to be taken before morning. At least I had plenty of time to contemplate my life, my future and my recent past.
   There didn’t appear to be any way for me to clear my name, no matter how much I protested my innocence. I knew nobody would believe me. The only people, who might have been able to help, most likely wouldn’t want to, for fear of being incriminated.
   Whichever way I looked at the problem, I failed to see a viable solution. What’s more, I knew there was a strong possibility that my life could come to an abrupt end, if I didn’t maintain my self-control. The urge to give in to feelings of desperation could lead me to take drastic actions.
   Thoughts of grabbing my captors’ weapons and escaping flashed through my mind, like scenes from an action film on television. Pacing the concrete floor and deep breathing eventually helped me dismiss the insane thoughts.
   Six people had lost their lives that cold, damp night. My good friend was, for all I knew, dead or dying; and while I sat there alive and well, all I could think about was how I had reached this point in time and how I could record the story.
   Military policemen are intimidating at the best of times. When they think you’re a terrorist, they’re positively scary. Wearing pistols on their belts and carrying machine guns, you instinctively know they would be only too happy to dispatch you from this world. Nevertheless, somehow I found the courage to badger my guards and eventually they granted my request for a pencil and notepad.
   Struggling to get comfortable, I started making shorthand notes to transpose into my diary later on, if I ever got to see it again. Thoughts about how I came to be in this predicament swirled around my mind, making it difficult to find a starting point. Having a fair idea of who was responsible for the deadly explosions I’d witnessed, enabled me to imagine them creating their devastating devices.
   Anger and the need for retribution clouded my thoughts for a while. If I could have reached the people I suspected, I would very likely have tried to end their lives, but I am not a naturally violent person, so my only means of expression would be the written word. My notation became erratic and garbled lines of abuse, only serving to relieve my anger. When those angry clouds evaporated, my words started to form coherent sentences and at last the story started to take shape. Eventually I realised when it all began and took myself back to that time, just four days earlier.

CHAPTER ONE
MONDAY

Wisps of smoke rose from a soldering iron, as its owner carefully fused the legs of a component to a circuit board. The droning beat of trance music filled the room as he worked. Slowly and methodically he worked his way towards the completion of his creations. Pale latex gloves gave an almost ghostly appearance to his hands. To his right a black crash helmet sat on top of an inactive computer monitor and a pair of motorcycle gloves lay across a keyboard. On his makeshift workbench an open copy of a vehicle workshop manual lay partially obscured by a hand drawn electronic diagram and the circuitry he was working on. Stripped and unused boards of various sizes were strewn about the worktop, mixed with scraps of paper and salvaged components. Cigarette smoke mingled with the acrid plumes from his iron, illuminated in an otherwise dark room by a magnifier lamp, positioned between his unseen face and the circuitry. To his left an open can of Cola sat on an electronics catalogue. The music faded into silence, as he lifted the can into the darkness and his waiting lips, then returned its empty shell. With a strange metallic echo, his cigarette stub hissed as he dropped it into the can, then he covered his work with a motorcycle magazine and switched off the lamp.

My eyes were closed, but shadowy figures flashed across my retina like banshees dancing through the night. The stark images appearing in quick succession made me flinch, as my memory served up a painfully horrific display from my past. Eventually I could bear no more and I opened my watery eyes. Sighing heavily I rubbed my cheeks in an effort to ease my burning flesh, then swallowed hard to remove the lump trying to strangle me from inside my throat. ‘Traumatic stress, grief, time will heal,’ empty words spoken by well meaning doctors, counsellors and friends, but they can’t chase away the painful memories. For me blinking, at times like these, changes from an unconscious reflex action, barely noticed by most people, to a vivid slideshow of horrific images. My eyelids closed for mere microseconds, but each time a picture flashed through my mind with explosive force. I strained to keep my eyes from shutting, wanting only to avoid the pain and the tears, at least for a while. Leaning forward in my chair I peered at the computer screens on my desk and tried to focus on anything but the memories straining to surface from my subconscious. On one of the three monitors I noticed her walk into view and my thoughts changed quickly to the present.
   There’s something about silk stockings. Nylon doesn’t have quite the same effect for some reason. Perhaps it’s the way they sound as a woman walks? Whatever it is it works for me. I can usually spot the difference from fifty yards; she was definitely wearing silk, or at least that’s what I imagined. Her long coat blew open a little with each step she took, offering me tantalising glimpses of the woman beneath. Beautifully slim legs gracefully transported her almost hourglass figure, topped with a mass of long dark wavy hair. She checked a scrap of paper against the house numbers, while I took in her vision of loveliness. I hoped she was looking for number ten, or ‘The Rookery’, a name I inherited with the house. Inwardly I prayed her name would be Maria, as I stood up and went to my window. Pulling my curtain back a fraction I wondered hoped and watched. Her handbag swayed rhythmically as she crossed the road. Eventually she paused at my gate, enabling me to take in one last look through my curtains before answering the door.
-----
That's all for now folks...

HOME