The Newspaper Article
I woke up that morning, put on my silk dressing gown and ambled out of my bedroom door to the kitchen. As usual I switched on the Kettle to make my morning black coffee, it started me off for the rest of the day, that caffeine buzz I suppose.
I walked out of the small tiled kitchen to my little sitting room. It was similar to my old apartment, paintings decorated the plain boring walls. A couple of chairs were placed in the room along with a comfortable sofa, and wine cabinet. But it also had that same similar sense of space, and also the similar sense of loneliness. That I expected I suppose, but now and then it seemed to fade away, as if the years of Peter's return had never happened and that one day Steed would come bounding through my door, saying those familiar words 'Mrs Peel, we're needed'. I can only dream, as I know it will not happen, it's been too long, many years have rolled by, long lonely nights. To expect Steed to walk through my door was asking too much. I walked across the carpeted floor to the door to collect the newspaper which lay there, safely delivered by Archie my trusty doorman. 'The Guardian', it was a change to my all to familiar newspaper 'The Times', I felt that I needed a change. It was lucky I did, as I noticed as soon as I unrolled the paper that article.
'Mystery Attack on Small French Town'.
I walked over to my sofa, bent my knees and arched my back, to allow myself to fall back onto the soft sofa support. I sat comfortably as I continued to read.
'A small French filling station, just outside the capital Paris, was attacked last night after a couple of 'youths' drove into the garage. The three youths were killed instantly by an unprovoked attack; an automatic machine-gun was used and two hand-grenades, the attacker was believed to be a young Russian soldier. Eye-witness and Garage owner François Bennidic recalls the events. "I heard the blasts, and saw a young soldier dressed in a Russian uniform running away from my garage." The boys were killed instantly. Authorities will be investigating the mystery attack.'
After the last sentence I paused, 'Authorities will be investigating'. It would be Steed who would be investigating, I knew that much.
The case seemed too familiar though, an unprovoked attack by a Russian Soldier. Ummm. Hmmm. Russian Solider. unprovoked attack. Ahh! Got it, of course. It was one of our cases, back in oh, umm. '65 I think, yes, yes that was it. A little village in Wiltshire, no no it was Berkshire, what was the name. Oh, never mind, but the case was familiar. Steed phoned that time telling me the details. It did sound far fetching mind you. 'A Russian soldier who died of old age, before shooting half of Berkshire in the process.' He attacked a Salvation Army, for absolutely no reason. He'd shot those poor people on cold blood. It was too a complicated case for us to solve, and so was never solved. Now a similar attack has occurred, in a harmless area, killing off four young men in their prime, for no reason. I'm sure after this attack Steed will be able to follow it up easier. Perhaps he would have more details, perhaps he would have more help. Perhaps he would.Oh, damn the kettle. I had been so wrapped up in the article I'd forgotten about the kettle. I got up quickly, tossing the newspaper aside, I ran into the kitchen, tried to take the kettle off the stove. Ooouch! Oh, damn, now where did I put that tea towel? Ah, there. I finally lifted the steaming, whistling kettle from the stove, and set it down on the marble top counter. Back to reality Emma!
I opened my wooden cupboard and extracted a coffee cup and saucer. Placed them on the counter, and reached back again for the sugar bowl. After that I plugged the Coffee Grinding machine into the mains.then swizzle, zzzzzz, spert, buzz!!
Ooops, I forgot to add the beans. Damn. I sighed, now Emma, Steed won't call, stop thinking about it. Get back into Reality, this is now, he will go and investigate the case, he won't necessarily phone you, he won't ask you to get involved, why would he. He's managed this long without you. He's lived this long without you. Oh God its true! He has though hasn't he, lived this long without me. I've lived ten long, hard years without him too. Just as upsetting the other way round. I've thought about him every day since I said goodbye. The moment I kissed him on the cheek, the moment I said, 'Goodbye Steed'. But I never heard a reply, I kissed him, and left. No, I remember Steed saying, my name. 'Emma' then he said. 'Thanks', and that was it. That's all, he didn't even say goodbye. But I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was hurting. I could see it in the tears that tried to escape from his eyes. I knew that I'd hurt him, Steed had been kind, honourable, gentle, loving, decent, a true gentleman. I'd just left him as soon as my dear husband, who had thought to be long dead had returned. I was excited yes, I was happy. But, I was also making one of the most disastrous mistakes of my life, by leaving the one man that could make me happy. Just by smiling at me, he made me feel like myself, an man that made me feel loved, and someone that I loved happily back. But I'd been stupid, excited but down right stupid. I'd left him standing there, left him to just deal with it, not even giving him some sort of explanation. I'd been cruel as well as heartless! How could I have done that to him?
My thoughts were again getting the best of me, I was just remembering all those happy memories we had shared together. Long, happy memories. All I can do now was think about him, his face, his eyes, his lips, his voice. Everything came flooding back to me.
I was still perched on my stool in the kitchen, still contemplating on the cruel irony fate has put upon me. Then I lifted my hand to my face, stray tears rolled down my cheeks, warm to touch, but felt like icicles of pain escaping my body.
I took a gasp of air, and sat for what felt like hours, but I heard the clock chime, it was 8 o'clock. I'd been sitting there for a good fifteen minutes. By now the once hot steaming water had cooled, and I still needed my morning coffee. I set about placing the kettle back on the stove. I was using an old fashioned kettle for a reason, my new age kettle had been broken between moves. I found this one when I was unpacking, so I began using my trusty, old kettle. The fact I could have gone out and bought myself a new one was ignored. Before long, the kettle was boiling. Steaming away, whistling to its heart content. I added the beans this time to the grinder, and shred a couple in a matter of seconds. I then added these to the coffee pot, for one, and poured over the water. This time I used the tea towel to protect me from further burns. I strained the coffee and began to pour the steaming contents into the cup, which was still placed on the saucer. I picked out two cubes of brown sugar from the china bowl, and plonked them into the coffee. As it was too hot to drink, even after a couple of breathes to cool it down. So I decided to get up and retrieve the newspaper from the sofa. On my return I sat on the tall, wooden stool. I looked at the newspaper subheading, 'Mystery Attack on Small French Town'. I began scanning the rest of the front page. There were subheadings in front of me, none of which I could really say afterwards that I'd read them. My mind was elsewhere, I was too wrapped up in the possibilities that Steed may phone. He may, he may not. What if he was going to, what would I say to him? What would he say to me? How would we begin the conversation? 'Oh, how are you after I left you?' What a stupid thought, but I couldn't let it rest, even if Steed did, could, possibly forgive me. But I can't and won't forgive myself for what I did to him.
I woke up that morning, put on my silk dressing gown and ambled out of my bedroom door to the kitchen. As usual I switched on the Kettle to make my morning black coffee, it started me off for the rest of the day, that caffeine buzz I suppose.
I walked out of the small tiled kitchen to my little sitting room. It was similar to my old apartment, paintings decorated the plain boring walls. A couple of chairs were placed in the room along with a comfortable sofa, and wine cabinet. But it also had that same similar sense of space, and also the similar sense of loneliness. That I expected I suppose, but now and then it seemed to fade away, as if the years of Peter's return had never happened and that one day Steed would come bounding through my door, saying those familiar words 'Mrs Peel, we're needed'. I can only dream, as I know it will not happen, it's been too long, many years have rolled by, long lonely nights. To expect Steed to walk through my door was asking too much. I walked across the carpeted floor to the door to collect the newspaper which lay there, safely delivered by Archie my trusty doorman. 'The Guardian', it was a change to my all to familiar newspaper 'The Times', I felt that I needed a change. It was lucky I did, as I noticed as soon as I unrolled the paper that article.
'Mystery Attack on Small French Town'.
I walked over to my sofa, bent my knees and arched my back, to allow myself to fall back onto the soft sofa support. I sat comfortably as I continued to read.
'A small French filling station, just outside the capital Paris, was attacked last night after a couple of 'youths' drove into the garage. The three youths were killed instantly by an unprovoked attack; an automatic machine-gun was used and two hand-grenades, the attacker was believed to be a young Russian soldier. Eye-witness and Garage owner François Bennidic recalls the events. "I heard the blasts, and saw a young soldier dressed in a Russian uniform running away from my garage." The boys were killed instantly. Authorities will be investigating the mystery attack.'
After the last sentence I paused, 'Authorities will be investigating'. It would be Steed who would be investigating, I knew that much.
The case seemed too familiar though, an unprovoked attack by a Russian Soldier. Ummm. Hmmm. Russian Solider. unprovoked attack. Ahh! Got it, of course. It was one of our cases, back in oh, umm. '65 I think, yes, yes that was it. A little village in Wiltshire, no no it was Berkshire, what was the name. Oh, never mind, but the case was familiar. Steed phoned that time telling me the details. It did sound far fetching mind you. 'A Russian soldier who died of old age, before shooting half of Berkshire in the process.' He attacked a Salvation Army, for absolutely no reason. He'd shot those poor people on cold blood. It was too a complicated case for us to solve, and so was never solved. Now a similar attack has occurred, in a harmless area, killing off four young men in their prime, for no reason. I'm sure after this attack Steed will be able to follow it up easier. Perhaps he would have more details, perhaps he would have more help. Perhaps he would.Oh, damn the kettle. I had been so wrapped up in the article I'd forgotten about the kettle. I got up quickly, tossing the newspaper aside, I ran into the kitchen, tried to take the kettle off the stove. Ooouch! Oh, damn, now where did I put that tea towel? Ah, there. I finally lifted the steaming, whistling kettle from the stove, and set it down on the marble top counter. Back to reality Emma!
I opened my wooden cupboard and extracted a coffee cup and saucer. Placed them on the counter, and reached back again for the sugar bowl. After that I plugged the Coffee Grinding machine into the mains.then swizzle, zzzzzz, spert, buzz!!
Ooops, I forgot to add the beans. Damn. I sighed, now Emma, Steed won't call, stop thinking about it. Get back into Reality, this is now, he will go and investigate the case, he won't necessarily phone you, he won't ask you to get involved, why would he. He's managed this long without you. He's lived this long without you. Oh God its true! He has though hasn't he, lived this long without me. I've lived ten long, hard years without him too. Just as upsetting the other way round. I've thought about him every day since I said goodbye. The moment I kissed him on the cheek, the moment I said, 'Goodbye Steed'. But I never heard a reply, I kissed him, and left. No, I remember Steed saying, my name. 'Emma' then he said. 'Thanks', and that was it. That's all, he didn't even say goodbye. But I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was hurting. I could see it in the tears that tried to escape from his eyes. I knew that I'd hurt him, Steed had been kind, honourable, gentle, loving, decent, a true gentleman. I'd just left him as soon as my dear husband, who had thought to be long dead had returned. I was excited yes, I was happy. But, I was also making one of the most disastrous mistakes of my life, by leaving the one man that could make me happy. Just by smiling at me, he made me feel like myself, an man that made me feel loved, and someone that I loved happily back. But I'd been stupid, excited but down right stupid. I'd left him standing there, left him to just deal with it, not even giving him some sort of explanation. I'd been cruel as well as heartless! How could I have done that to him?
My thoughts were again getting the best of me, I was just remembering all those happy memories we had shared together. Long, happy memories. All I can do now was think about him, his face, his eyes, his lips, his voice. Everything came flooding back to me.
I was still perched on my stool in the kitchen, still contemplating on the cruel irony fate has put upon me. Then I lifted my hand to my face, stray tears rolled down my cheeks, warm to touch, but felt like icicles of pain escaping my body.
I took a gasp of air, and sat for what felt like hours, but I heard the clock chime, it was 8 o'clock. I'd been sitting there for a good fifteen minutes. By now the once hot steaming water had cooled, and I still needed my morning coffee. I set about placing the kettle back on the stove. I was using an old fashioned kettle for a reason, my new age kettle had been broken between moves. I found this one when I was unpacking, so I began using my trusty, old kettle. The fact I could have gone out and bought myself a new one was ignored. Before long, the kettle was boiling. Steaming away, whistling to its heart content. I added the beans this time to the grinder, and shred a couple in a matter of seconds. I then added these to the coffee pot, for one, and poured over the water. This time I used the tea towel to protect me from further burns. I strained the coffee and began to pour the steaming contents into the cup, which was still placed on the saucer. I picked out two cubes of brown sugar from the china bowl, and plonked them into the coffee. As it was too hot to drink, even after a couple of breathes to cool it down. So I decided to get up and retrieve the newspaper from the sofa. On my return I sat on the tall, wooden stool. I looked at the newspaper subheading, 'Mystery Attack on Small French Town'. I began scanning the rest of the front page. There were subheadings in front of me, none of which I could really say afterwards that I'd read them. My mind was elsewhere, I was too wrapped up in the possibilities that Steed may phone. He may, he may not. What if he was going to, what would I say to him? What would he say to me? How would we begin the conversation? 'Oh, how are you after I left you?' What a stupid thought, but I couldn't let it rest, even if Steed did, could, possibly forgive me. But I can't and won't forgive myself for what I did to him.