George couldn't sleep that night.
Mind you, it wasn't a medical issue. It wasn't because the sun, rarely seen through the porridge thick could was keeping him awake. Not because the harsh sea breeze was flowing through his window.
It was due to an idea.
An idea that simply wouldn't go. Wouldn't leave when asked. An idea that forever continued to plague his conscience as the night drew on.
And finally, he could bare it no longer.
Gradually easing his weight onto the window, he was soon out onto the abnormally large window ledge. He was already dressed; an idea on the scale of what had overrun him had anticipated eventual human attention. In a smooth, well rehearsed rhythm, he had grabbed the large, ancient looking drainpipe to his right, and half abseiled, half slid from his window on the first floor to the ground below.
The dew breaking into moisture beneath his feet, he silently padded across the lawn towards the fence at the back of the house. Again, his perfect knowledge of the fence had lead him like a dog on a lead to the gap, and out onto the gravel path behind his garden, and onto his bike.
Nobody stole things, especially not vehicles, not even in the days when the islands were fully populated. The sense of community was simply too strong to support such a crime.
His idea was so great, however, it had even thought of the greatest way around that problem.
For was the nature of his idea, that even the sense of family would be an obstacle in the way.
The islands way.
The people's way.
His way.
After a short cycle ride, he had reached the highest, and most isolated point he could. He lived on one of the Tyssen islands, flanked by east and west Falkland, and beautifully isolated.
Finally, he drew to a halt, and sat down on a bench overlooking the islands jetty. He pulled out a large, battered notebook from his bag, and set about flicking through a myriad of pages, until he finally came to his destination. Upon reaching the desired page, he reached into his bag again, only to remove what appeared to anyone that happened to be watching, a dictionary.
In reality, George had not just selected a dictionary from his bag, but a translated copy of Mein Kampf. As he opened the pages to a bookmarked chapter, scrawlings of highlighter ink and other annotations hurried past his eyes, as if trying to fling themselves from the book pf pure, unrefined evil which they had been left to die in.
And finally, he reached the page, and lay the book down beside him, it's weathered pages blowing, but not quite turning in the wind.
If you had had the chance to observe some of his earlier writings, one might have guessed as to his true, inner nature. As he began to hurriedly scribble away, his idea, like a deformed, rotten, sadistic butterfly began to emerge out of the cocoon of his brain. Marching across the blank pages, sending any hope scurrying like frogs before a lawnmower, it slowly annexed the final pages of his notebook.
As he finally hauled the covers of the book together, the name that he so respected ricocheted around his mind. He could never forget the name of the boy that had showed him the way. It was only a year ago they had met, but it still felt like an age.
That boy.
David King.