Chapter One: Friend of a Friend
London. Foggy ol' London; the one place in the world where outdoor life is at its peak when it rains. To some it's a place of history, to others a place of memories, but to me it's just home. Actually I can't really say it's home; home implies that you're accustomed to every inch of the place in which you reside. There are many corners of London I haven't visited, many alleyways of which my eyes haven't had the privilege to have met. However today I'm taking a step closer to rectifying that.
A few days ago I received a letter from an old friend of mine; Alan Turing. Alan and I met whilst studying computer coding at Cambridge University. We became inseparable during our time at the university and both left with several merits and recommendations, but took different paths. Alan pursued a career in the private sector whilst I decided to go public. I've spent the last few years working for various businesses, but nothing permanent ever turned up. Last I heard, Alan was doing something for the government regarding coding and de-coding transmissions. It's because of our different career specifications that I was so surprised when I got the letter. Alan had written saying he had need of my services, that there was a project he'd been taken in by that would 'spark' my interest. He didn't tell me much more, just that it was highly confidential, and could lead to a permanent job for me. Now normally upon receiving a vague letter such as this I would've disregarded it immediately, but this was different. I've known Alan for the last 12 years of my life, so I have a pretty good idea of when something's not right about him, and when I read this letter, something seemed...amiss. Alan's not the kind to be so secretive. Obviously working for the government means that he has to have a few secrets, but this was different; it seemed almost as though he was purposely hiding things from me.
I've arrived at the address enclosed in the letter, one of the few nuggets of information that Alan did give me. The building seems to be on the verge of collapse, yet there seems to be life within. It's an old pub, 'The Phantom Lighthouse' was its name, not that that seems important or even slightly significant. As I walk in I'm met by gazes from all walks of life. The men in suits all sat around a cloth-draped table, drinking merrily as yet another business deal went through. On the other side of the room were the rough and tough men with their darts and pints; a ticking time bomb of pent up anger and rage fueled by cheep liquors. The air is thick, and tobacco pollutes my lungs further with each breath. There is a distinct lack of woman in the bar, apart from the landlady of course. She's standing there with the soulless eyes of a shark, looking down at her 'punters' with a mixed sense of pride, and hatred. Long has it been known that the landlady of any pub here in London is a much more formidable foe than any back-street mugger or any common hooligan you may encounter. As I go to move on from the doorway where I felt much too exposed to the common eye, something grabbed my arm. At first thought I made the assumption that it was an attacker, which in retrospect was highly unlikely seeing as I was in the epicenter of several dozen people, but in circumstances of shock logic evades the brain. I rip my arm from the stranger's grasp and turn to face him with several choice words on the tip of my tongue, but luckily for me they weren't needed.
I found myself face to face with a rather elderly looking gentleman. He had dark brown skin, short black hair with flourishes of white and a short beard to match, rich brown eyes and a pair of thin black glasses. He stood in a grey pinstriped suit with light leather shoes; yet even with all of this, the most distinguishing thing about him was a freckle on his cheek. Although he had many dotted around his face, this one freckle in particular stood out. I don't know whether it was bigger, or perhaps smaller than the rest. It didn't seem any different in colour, shape or form but yet some how it stood out. Before I had chance to further my observation of the man's features, he thrust his right hand out to me.
'Andrew Miller, I presume?' the stranger says, with a hint of hope in his voice. It's clear to see from the awkwardly placed smile on his face, and the uncomfortable eye movements that he was just as out of place as I was in this pub, which is why I think that I can trust him.
'That's right,' I assure whilst meeting his hand hesitantly. 'Do I know you?'
'Not unless Alan told you more than I wanted him to. My name is Charles Porter, but please call me Charles.' The mention of Alan alone reassured me that this man was a friend, although why he didn't want Alan to mention his name did concern me somewhat.
'Please follow me, Alan's waiting for us in the back room.' I follow without question. He pushes past all manner of people who I wouldn't dare even touch for fear of my own well-being. He often says 'excuse me' or 'pardon me' but his polite requests go unheard, and so the more brutal act of shoving comes into play. Eventually we reach a wooden door at the far end of the pub with a sign that reads 'PRIVATE'. Charles knocks three times and the door just swings open for him. 'Please after you' Charles says whilst gesturing me to proceed through the door. As I walk in the silhouette of a lone man emerges, sat at a table in the center of the room.
'Alan, is that you old friend?' I ask quietly, dreading what may become of the situation if I don't get the answer I'm hoping for.
'Andrew my friend, I want to share something with you.' he muttered without turning to face me. 'The world is changing Andrew. Things are happening, amazing things which we couldn't have even imagined.' As I slowly edge closer to who now I'm almost certain is my old friend, I notice there's a large model on the table in front of him. It looks almost like a city.
'What if I told you that there's a Russian, living in America who wants to build a new paradise? A place where the great can be great, without fear of governments and other men getting in their way?' Alan says in an almost hypnotic tone.
'Then I'd say he's one pretentious Russian Yank' I say jokingly, but Alan doesn't seem to see the funny side of it.
'I can assure you son, there is nothing pretentious about Mr Ryan,' Charles says whilst shutting the door. 'Everything that Alan says is true. As we speak thousands of men are piecing together a new city where no government can get to it, where no laws are currently in place. Mr Ryan is building a utopia where the great can create a new society, one without corruption or violence.'
'Complete and utter bollox' I joke as Charles slowly makes his way to the table. 'Surely if such a place were to exists, and on the same scale as a city, then someone somewhere would've noticed it.'
'But that's the beauty of it Mr Miller, our utopia is somewhere undetectable by man, a place where no one will ever think to find such a place.' says Charles as he takes a seat next to Alan, who is currently exploring every possible angle of his model city.
'Really?' I challenge. 'Then where is it?'
'About three hundred and fifty kilometers west off the coast of Iceland.' Replies Charles confidently.
'Right, so you have a utopian city floating in open waters off the coast of Iceland?' I challenge once more, becoming slightly weary of this overly elaborate joke.
'No Mr Miller, we have a utopian city off the coast of Iceland, three thousand meters below sea level. And its name Mr Miller, is Rapture.'
