Disclaimer: With the exception of the human characters, I do not own any of the characters from Watership Down and Tales from Watership Down, which are the creations of Richard Adams and Martin Rosen. Any similarity to anyone alive or dead is purely coincidental and no profit is intended from this work. Also, there is some borrowed material and reference made to another WD fanfic that gave me the inspiration to write this story called The Cross Bearer by RogueFanKC. Rated PG for some violence in later chapters.
December 24th, 2012
The evening frost had settled on the pavements of Baker Street, London. Being Christmas Eve as it was, everybody was home, celebrating with their families, so, aside from the out-of-service London buses that drove by every few minutes, the street was deserted. The only exception was a tall figure in a hooded winter coat walking alone along the sidewalk, towards a shabby-looking coffee shop opposite the now closed Holmes Museum. The figure glanced briefly through the shop window, before pushing the door open and entering.
He took a seat at a table in a secluded corner, opposite a rather burly-looking man with ginger hair and a matching beard, who was sipping a beer, expecting him. The two men stared at each other in silence for a few seconds before the burly man put aside his pint, crossed his hands and spoke in a rather uneasy voice.
"About bloody time, Al. I thought you'd never come…"
"Good evening to you too, Dr Shaw", replied the newcomer indifferently as he pulled back his snow-flaked hood, revealing a pale, well-built man in his mid-thirties, with unkempt black hair and an unshaven face with a thin toothbrush-like moustache. From afar, he gave the impression of a former athlete, with his broad shoulders and muscles; his only visible physical impairment: the horn-rimmed glasses on his nose, on the other hand, gave the impression of a scholar. His dark hazel eyes, hidden behind his crooked spectacles, seemed to have a haunted look in them, almost as if he was being tormented by some inner demons. He avoided his friend's deep brown eyes.
"Since when am I Dr Shaw to you?" said the man called Shaw, struggling to get his friend Alan's full attention. Dr Alan Johnson, a retired marine of the Royal Navy, was associate professor at the Royal University of London. A keen adventurer and dedicated conservationist, he taught zoology and botany at the university, focusing on teaching his students the importance and value of nature, now under grave threat from human overpopulation and exploitation.
His friend and colleague Dr Derek Shaw, an Irish-born immigrant from Belfast, was a professor of Mechanical Engineering at the same university. A skilled engineer, he specialised in engine and propulsion systems design. Alan and Derek were childhood friends, having met as orphans and built their future together. Alan had even married and started a family, until a little over a year ago, when his life had suddenly taken an unsuspected turn for the worst. He glared back at Derek.
"Look here, Deke, I am not here to play childish games," he snapped back at his friend in utter frustration, "Now, will you please be so kind as to get straight to the point and tell me, why the hell did you drag me down here at this hour? I have much more important things to do at home, you know!" He continued avoiding his friend Derek's eyes, instead staring absentmindedly out the shop window. The Irishman sighed in silent pity at his friend's depression, which he had been so desperately trying to help Alan overcome over the past year, but without success.
"Al, will you quit acting like a fruitcake and look at me, please? For the past year you've become more paranoid than a bloody hermit! You take that bastard Rector's 'advice' and quit your job, literally throwing your hard-earned career out the window without protest, only to reduce yourself to an isolated drunk on the verge of bankruptcy!"
"That was my decision, Derek, not yours," replied Alan coldly, striking a match on the underside of the table and lighting a crumpled cigarette he had taken out of his pocket, even though it was a non-smoking area. He inhaled several deep puffs as if the nicotine were a calming medication, "Ever since the funeral, I just couldn't keep up any more, not with the memory of Mary and Lucy tormenting me without end…"
March 14th, 2011
A jeep was driving down the country lane towards the village of Sydmonton. The Johnson family was on a daytrip, on their way to visit Alan's friend and colleague Dr Cole Drake in his country home. Derek, little Lucy's godfather, was also along for the ride.
It had been a little over three months since the war between the East and West had finally come to an end; after three years of bloodshed and hostilities, the military regime in China had finally been overthrown and its secret nuclear arsenals dismantled. World War III, ας the first nuclear war of the 21st century was known, which had claimed the lives of nearly a billion people worldwide, including more than half of the British population, was over, leaving behind a ravaged world with a ruined global economy to recover.
Alan had returned from China, where he had done a tour as an enlisted marine, after having spent many months as a prisoner of war, overjoyed to find his family had survived the bombings back home. After being discharged from the army, he had returned to civilian life, intent on remaining close to his family from here on.
A little raven-haired girl of around with hazel eyes, identical to her father's, shook Alan's sleeve, pointing up at Watership Down, "Daddy, isn't Hazel-rah's warren up there?"
"Certainly is, Squirt," replied Alan, happily ruffling his daughter Lucy's hair with one hand, keeping the other firmly clutched on the wheel. "Tell you what," he said, having come up with a sudden idea to give his family a treat, "After we pick up Cole from Nuthanger Farm, maybe we can climb the Down and have our picnic there. What do you say, honey?" He looked at his wife who smiled.
"We'd love to, darling."
As they approached the rendezvous place – the edge of the footpath that led to Nuthanger Farm – they noticed Drake was nowhere to be seen. Derek rolled his eyes, "Late as usual. Probably holed up in his lab again…"
Suddenly, something strange caught their attention: in the distance were the ruins of Nuthanger Farm, which was supposedly deserted for many years. Yet, now, they could see smoke coming from behind the trees where the farmhouse stood.
"That's odd Deke," said Alan to his friend, pointing at the mysterious smoke, "Who on earth would want to buy that dump, with all those vacant condominiums sold for heypennies back in Newbury?" Derek shrugged his shoulders.
"Beats me, Al. Ιt could be another group of homeless locals using the old place as a shelter, just like that old warehouse we saw back in town. Hell, with half the country bombed to the ground, I wouldn't be surprised if we keep finding transients huddled up in every rat hole still standing for the next ten years…" But Alan, always a man of his instincts, felt suspicious and swung the jeep round, driving down the dirt path towards the farm.
"I'm telling you, there's something fishy going on in there, Deke," he said, as they caught sight of the farm, the outbuildings all boarded-up, seemingly deserted, save for the mysterious smoke coming from the old farmhouse chimney, "It looks almost as if whoever is in there, doesn't want to be seen… What if it's another gang of guerrillas using the place as a hideout?"
Even after the end of the war, there had been many incidents with Chinese suicide bombers, mostly renegade soldiers, determined to make a last stand. Only a few days ago, there had been one particularly nasty incident with an MP's car being blown up in Trafalgar Square, killing a dozen people. Police and military alike had tightened up security all around the country, urging any suspicious activity to be reported at once to law enforcement. And Alan, who had a gut instinct like a hound, could sense trouble in there...one which he couldn't just walk away from like most sensible people would.
"Well, I guess there's only one way to find out…"
They drove down the winding footpath and stopped just beyond the chained-shut garden gate. From there, they had an excellent view of the farm. The place gave every impression of being abandoned; the farmhouse was coated in weeds and ivy, just like the overgrown garden and plantation site, with a Council sign on the rusting fence, warning trespassers to keep out. The only sign of life was the smoke coming from the chimney of the old house. There were no signs of movement anywhere.
Alan got out of the car and Derek followed suit, "All right, love, Deke and I are going to get a closer look. Most likely, it's nothing; but if you hear trouble, get out of here as fast as you can and send for the police," he said, tossing his wife the keys.
"Please be careful, Alan."
"We will, don't worry."
Wading through the overgrown field that had once been the farm's plantation site, they found a hole in the fence and made their way into the overgrown farmyard. Alan chanced a peak through a crack in one of the boarded-up windows but saw nothing but darkness inside. The place was silent and no one answered his knock. Then, suddenly, Derek, who had gone to inspect the ruined barns beside the farmhouse, came running up to him.
"Come and look at this. It's a bloody slaughter house in there!"
He led Alan to the open door of the decaying barn and they both peered inside at a terrible sight: standing in rows, were a large number of bamboo frames, where the flayed furs of slaughtered wildlife, mostly red foxes, were strung up to dry. Several tubs of water that was coloured with blood as well as piles of discarded animal bones and entrails lay in corners. The taxidermy workshop was thick with flies and crawling maggots. Gagging from the unbearable smell, they ran outside to throw up.
"Poachers, Deke," muttered Alan to Derek, who had turned a shade of green, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, "Looks like the black market is booming already in all this post-war chaos."
"Yes, let's get the hell out of here! We don't want to be found nosing around here," said Derek in an urgent whisper, "Let's find a phone and send for the police…" They hadn't a single step however, when a voice suddenly rang out across the garden.
"TRESPASSERS! SHOOT THEM!"
Three hooded men armed with shotguns had appeared on the scene, springing at them in attack. Alan, who knew how to hold his own in a fight, having had years of martial arts training, didn't hesitate. Picking up a rusted pitchfork, he threw it like a spear in the direction of the first poacher, as he raised his gun. His weapon found its mark straight into both the man's kneecaps, who fell, howling in agony. Springing at his fallen opponent, Alan kicked the gun out of his hands, before knocking him unconscious with another powerful kick to the face.
Derek, although not a born fighter like his friend, wasn't doing too badly either. As the second henchman came at him with a knife, he grabbed a log from a rotting pile of firewood beside the barn and flung it in his opponent's face. The man fell to the ground, bloodied and choking up several loose teeth.
As the pair turned their attention over to the third poacher, they saw he'd slipped away during the fight, fleeing towards the road. Suddenly, a scream was heard from the direction of the jeep, followed by two gunshots in rapid succession. Mary and Lucy were being attacked!
They rushed back to the gate, just in time to see the jeep speeding off into the distance, the escaping poacher at the wheel. Suddenly, an explosive device lying on the footpath detonated, unleashing a geyser of blood and human flesh, which were the discarded bodies of Mary and Lucy, whom he'd just shot dead. Alan, drenched in the ghastly mess, which, a minute ago, had been his wife and daughter, sunk to his knees, about to be sick. Derek placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Alan. I'm so sorry…"
A few days later, after the coroner had confirmed that the recovered body fragments brought to him in rubbish bags were all that was left of Mary and Lucy, Alan and Derek attended the funeral. The police had found Alan's abandoned jeep in the woods outside Overton, but no trace of the killer. All the evidence recovered from the farm showed it was simply an amateur poaching ring, a very common occurrence in these troubled times, and with no leads on the third poacher, the manhunt was soon called off. The other two poachers had been arrested but had mysteriously died in prison shortly thereafter, apparently from suicide. After the trial, Alan began a new life of solitude, overwhelmed by his guilt.
Derek looked up at his friend with sympathy and said in a low, yet firm voice, "Alan, I am telling you for the last time: what happened wasn't your fault! There was nothing you could have done to save them; neither of us could. You must face facts: what is done is done. It is time you got over it and started anew."
"What is your point, Derek?" asked Alan coldly, "Surely you didn't drag me all the way down here just to give me another of your confounded lectures on how to get on with my bloody life? Like you haven't been doing that enough for the past year…"
"No, it's about this," said Derek, tossing a sealed envelope across the table to Alan, "It was posted to me with instructions to deliver it to you in person. I suppose because you won't open your mail or answer phone calls any more…" Fuming at his friend's disapproval, but, on the other hand, intrigued by all this secrecy, Alan opened it and read aloud. His pale face instantly turned from greyish white to a furious red.
"WHAT! A job for a documentary consultant? Some sick moron thinks he can pay me so he can exploit the deaths of my wife and daughter for publicity? No bloody way! You tell the sender to find another drama boy to promote his show. Merry Christmas, Deke." He got up to leave but Derek grabbed his arm, pulling him back into his chair.
"Al, wait! Listen to me. You can't go on like this forever. Just look at yourself, mate! You're wasting away, both physically and mentally. If you continue this way, in another year you'll be living in a pauper's dormitory, or a mental institution. You need a way out, Alan, and I'm offering it to you as a friend. If you can't do it for me, then do it for them." He gave Alan a pleading look, much like a dog comforting its distraught master. Alan sighed.
"You never give up do you, Deke?" he asked, finally giving in at the mention of his late family, although only half-heartedly, "Fine, I accept the job. However, I'll make myself clear on one thing right now: The deaths of my family are not to be exploited in any way whatsoever for publicity. They are not even to be mentioned on camera. Understood?"
"Very well, you have my word. Besides, I'll be coming with you. They've also asked for an engineering consultant familiar with the bombs dropped over New Forest, so I volunteered." During the war, the former New Forest National Park had been rezoned for military use, serving as the secret location of Station Omega, MI6's key satellite intercept and radio decipher station. When word had reached enemy Intelligence, the Chinese had launched a pre-emptive strike using their prototype TACO missiles – the most sophisticated nuclear weapon on Earth, powered by new, unheard-of atomic compounds mined on the moon during the Chinese Space Program –, levelling everything from Totton to Ringwood and leaving the area forever infested with nuclear fallout, not unlike Hiroshima.
"The contract says we'll be doing all our observations by air, since New Forest is still cordoned off," Derek explained, "All expenses are covered, plus a £1,500 pay-cheque each. We'll be meeting them both in Newbury this coming Thursday. I'll email him tonight and tell him you've accepted. All right, let's get cracking. I'll call by your apartment tomorrow to help you pack. Goodnight, Al, and a Merry Christmas to you."
"You too, Deke," replied Alan glumly, fighting the urge to yell at his friend to give him a break with his useless sympathy. Derek uttered a sad sigh, "Whatever happened to the Alan Johnson I once knew?" Before his friend could retort however, a fat man in a mechanic's uniform, who had been eavesdropping from the table next to theirs, interrupted.
"Dr Alan Johnson? My, my, check it out folks, Dr Psycho has come calling!" he chanted rudely, chewing at his motor-oil stained fingernails, "So what's the true story behind your late wife?" he cackled, "She wasn't good enough for you or did she have a boyfriend?" Alan's eyes flashed with fury. Although he had been cleared of all manslaughter charges – mostly thanks to Derek's testimony – the newspapers had continued printing hideous articles about him, dragging his name through the mud. Many had even accused him of being an accessory to the murders, prompting the Rector to pushing him into resigning, to avoid a scandal, and further smearing his name in the process.
Derek, always defensive of his friend, stood up, furious. "You shut your pie hole or I'll ram my fist down your gob, you hear?" he growled in a dangerous voice, but the grease monkey, either too full of drink or simply too dumb to get the message, took no notice.
"Hey, wait a minute, let me guess," he chuckled, "You got some hooker pregnant and didn't want to break her heart, huh?" He roared with laughter, clutching his hairy stomach. Something inside Alan snapped and he lunged at the man with the wildness of a deranged bull.
With one swift kick, he broke the leg off the fat man's chair, sending him crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes. In another instant, he had him pinned down, with his foot pressed hard over the man's throat, nearly chocking the life out of him.
"Get this into your skull, meatball," he hissed in a deadly voice at the now terrified grease monkey, who was struggling to breathe, "Never…talk…about…my…family…like…that!" Finally, he released his grip on the man's throat, before he could choke him to death, but not before turning round and giving him one last kick square in the groin. Behind the counter, the alarmed bartender hurried to the phone, to ring the police. Still furious, but not willing to land them both in police custody for assault, Alan turned and hurried out the door with Derek, the fat man's agonizing screams ringing in their ears all the way to the tube station.
Later, at Drayton Court, Chelsea
After disembarking at Earl's Court Station, Alan made his way home alone. His residence was an Edwardian-era apartment on the first floor of an old block of flats, which he'd inherited from his parents. The street was completely deserted and he heard only his own footsteps as he walked along the icy sidewalk to number 31. Shredded war posters still hung in tatters from the lampposts and shop windows, giving the neighbourhood an air of complete abandonment. Grimly, Alan mounted the stairs to the porch.
As he whipped out a key to unlock the door, his eyes happened to glance at the glass window in the door. He could see his own reflection staring back at him; but it wasn't the only one. Beside him stood, what looked like, a human-sized rabbit, smiling back at him… Alarmed, he spun round, scanning every inch of the street, but there was nobody in sight; just a deserted street with snow starting to accumulate all over the concrete pavements. Sighing, he turned back to the door.
"Too much alcohol…" he muttered grimly to himself, "Or maybe I do need a psychiatrist after all…" Swiftly, he entered, slamming the door behind him in frustration. The hallway was dark and silent, all of the apartments deserted, as their owners had died during the war or had since moved away. His only neighbour was Mrs Hanson, his old housekeeper, who occupied the basement apartment.
Without bothering to flick on the light, Alan blindly climbed the stairs to the door on the first landing. His apartment was the largest in the building, taking up most of the first floor, with views on either side of the block. Opening the shabby door, he entered, locking it behind him.
Although his apartment was gloomy and melancholy, its large rooms still had the air of a place that held many memories. He strode through the high-ceiling parlour, down the carpet-strewn corridor, to his study, where he had spent most of the past year, drowning away his sorrows in privacy.
A large 18th century Chippendale desk stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by tall bookcases that lined the walls. Their shelves housed a vast library, as well as an impressive collection of biological samples, sitting on display in sealed glass jars and beakers. The tops of the bookcases were decorated with replicas or collectable scientific instruments of the ages. A pair of French glass-windows behind the desk led outside onto a veranda overlooking the building's courtyard, which had been converted into a greenhouse. This was Alan's home laboratory, where he'd grow plants under different experimental conditions for his research. However, the place had been left unattended for months, following his resignation, the plants all having since rotted away into a foul-smelling mess.
He sat down at his messy desk, looking down at an open photo album, where his grim life's story was recorded in photographs: himself in 1988, aged ten, with his father Jack and his estranged older brother Royce (their mother had died giving birth to Alan); on a family safari trip in Kenya in 1989, where their father had died of malaria; himself as a teenager in 1996 alongside Derek Shaw and two other friends from the orphanage where he had grown up, posing together for the photo. Later photos of his older self in a tuxedo with his wife beside him at their wedding in 2003; a photo of him with Mary in 2004, their infant daughter in his wife's arms; himself as an enlisted man in 2008, and finally, a photograph of their short-lived family reunion in 2011. Then followed a large number of empty pages from when he had stopped keeping photographs.
In spite of his painful memories, his friend's words kept repeating themselves over and over in his head: Get on with your life. But what was the point, when he had nothing left to live for? Feeling pissed off with his own misery, he slammed the album shut and went to the kitchen, to pour himself some cold tinned broth from a saucepan sitting on the hob. Picking up a beer from the fridge on his way out, he went into the lounge, making himself comfortable on the sofa, to eat his supper.
As he looked around for the telly remote to switch on the news, he noticed his favourite book, Watership Down by Richard Adams, lying on the coffee table. A faint smile formed across Alan's face, remembering how many times his daughter, an avid fan of the story just like her father, would ask him to read it to her at bedtime. Picking it up, he walked into his daughter's bedroom, which he kept untouched as a shrine to her to this day, and placed it onto her empty bed, a tear rolling down his face. How much he missed her... Walking back to the lounge, he heard the newsman speaking.
"…The mysterious weather phenomenon observed over New Forest National Park for the past three days still persists. Starting on the evening of the 21st, this magnificent sight, which resembles an Aurora Borealis, continues to light up the skies over the restricted zone every night. Its origin remains uncertain, although experts suggest it might be electromagnetic discharge from the radioactive fallout still present in the area, as well as several whispered rumours associating it with the foretold 2012 event. This is the BBC News Home Service…"
Feeling exhausted, Alan switched off the television and dragged himself to bed, for his nighttime hell. His nightmares, which had haunted him every night since that fateful day, paid him their usual visit; only, this time, as he stared at the ground where the bodies of Mary and Lucy should be, they had been replaced with some giant, humanoid rabbits, lying mutilated in a pool of their own blood. One stretched out its paw in his direction, as if begging him for help. He tried to reach out to them only to find he was frozen stiff as a board, unable to do anything other than continue watching this scene of massacre. In the background, he heard the sinister voice of the poacher, roaring with malicious laughter, tormenting him. Unable to bear it anymore, he screamed…
Alan sat up in bed, drenched in cold sweat and shaking violently. Nightmares had been his frequent night companions for the past year, but they had never been this bad before. Maybe his decision to go on this trip would do him more harm than good?
Unable to get back to sleep, he got out of bed and went back to the kitchen, seeking his finest remedy: booze. Rumbling through the nearly empty drinks cupboard, he found a leftover bottle of Jack Daniels. Grabbing a can of soda and a glass from the sink, he returned to the lounge. Making himself comfortable on the sofa and putting on a movie, he drank his cocktail, taking it down in large gulps, like water through a sieve.
Soon the alcohol started making him drowsy. His vision swam, as he stared at the pictures of his dead relatives that decorated the walls of the living room: his parents Jack and Susan, his brother Royce, who had always been resentful towards him because it had been his birth that had taken their mother away from them. He had perished at sea during the war, without ever making amends with his younger brother. Also, there was his brother-in-law Miles, a chronic drinker and drug addict, who had also died from a heart attack a little over a year ago, and finally, his wife and daughter. A family of the dead.
In his drunken state, Alan saw the people in the pictures suddenly come to life, bursting out of their glass frames, as if about to grab him. He screamed, throwing his hands in front of his face, trying to defend himself, but then realised he was only brushing away thin air…
He looked around again and realised it was morning at last; another long night of nightmares and mental torment was over. Then he suddenly became aware that he wasn't alone; Derek was standing beside him, the waste bin in his hand, with the empty whiskey bottle smashed inside it where he had thrown it. The perfect wake-up call.
"Bloody hell, Deke, what are you trying to do, you wanker, give me a heart attack?" Alan groaned, sitting up and rubbing his sore temples, fighting the urge to be sick from the hangover, "How did you get in anyway?"
"Mrs Hanson let me in," said Derek, holding up the bin that contained the pieces of the broken bottle in disapproval, "Cor blimey, Al, did you have to hit the booze again?" The batty old housekeeper had become so upset with Alan getting dangerously drunk all the time that she had entrusted Derek with a spare key to the apartment for whenever he didn't answer the door, firmly refusing to go in herself. Alan sat up.
"I just wanted to get a buzz, so kill me," he groaned, as he walked down to the kitchen and put some water on to boil. If his friend was going to start with another of his damned lectures so early in the morning, he could take it and shove it for all he cared. Then, feeling the contents of his stomach about to spill, he rushed to the bathroom and threw up. Derek shook his head.
"No, thank you, Al. Τhe police are already well on their toes with a case of disappearance to be wasting their time hunting me down for doing your sorry arse in." Alan, the poison flushed out of his system, reappeared with a box of antidepressants, prescribed to him by his psychiatrist.
"Huh, what disappearance? Who?"
"Your old boss's family, Dr Drake's. Like they just vanished into thin air," Derek replied, tossing Alan a copy of the Times. The headline read:
'SCIENTIST'S FAMILY MISSING
WIFE AND SON OF DR COLE DRAKE VANISH WITHOUT A TRACE. KIDNAPPING SUSPECTED.'
Dr Cole Drake, a famous British scientist of Russian ancestry, was one of Alan's old colleagues, head of their department at the university. A Nobel-awarded leading expert in bioengineering, as well as another keen conservationist, he and Alan had formed a close partnership together. His research focused mostly on cloning genetically enhanced species, in response to the rapidly crumbling environment, with Alan combining his own research.
The outbreak of the war had forced them to postpone work; after the war, Alan had been about to resume his research with Drake in earnest, when the deaths of his wife and daughter had caused him to give it all up, and they'd since lost touch.
"Drake gave a statement to the police. Apparently, they left home yesterday to go to a concert at the Albert Hall and never came back. Some suspect it might be a case of kidnapping, although nobody has made any demands so far. Weird, huh? Why would Drake's wife and son take off like that? Although, knowing how he was always more attached to his work than to them, they might have just walked out on him…"
Alan looked up from the newspaper, "Who cares, Deke? Look, lets just forget it and get down to business. The sooner this crap is over, the happier I'll be." Indeed, he wasn't in the mood to discuss Drake at all. That man and his work were no longer his concern; they had both disappeared from his life the day his wife and daughter had died.
They spent the rest of the morning putting Alan's neglected apartment in a little order and packing. After lunch, Derek returned to his own home in Hammersmith, to do his own packing, returning to Alan's apartment in the evening, who had agreed to put him up for the night. After ordering in a pizza for dinner, they settled down, enjoying their evening together and talking about old times.
That night, with Derek snoring like a foghorn in the guest room, Alan drifted off to sleep, his usual nightmares returning to torment him, as they had done every night for the past miserable year…
Author's note: Hallo and behold Watership Down The New World! The war mentioned is a fictional Third World War (2008-2011) between the United States and China (I started writing this story in 2008, so everything occurring from that point onwards is fictional in this story). Although some locations mentioned in this story are real, such as the coffee shop on Baker Street and Alan's apartment in Drayton Court, some others such as the flight club in Sandleford Park are fictional. Also, the character Derek Shaw is created in the memory of actor Robert Shaw, whose son Ian provided the voice of Hazel in the WD TV series. Please review! All reviews are appreciated and the more I receive the quicker I will update.