I have no idea whether
there are apartments of the kind described in this chapter in Mornington
Crescent, having never been there. I am
a devotee of "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue" (a long-standing Radio 4 "quiz" game)
and I wondered if I could manage to squeeze the name of Britain's
longest-running non-game into a story. Hence Fred's address.
Chapter Three: Advent
Weak sunlight was shafting
into the room through the wide expanse of glass which led on to the
balcony. The sliding doors were,
however, closed and locked against the seasonal nastiness of a typical English
spring. The profusion of crocuses
bravely pushing their heads through the frosty earth gave the lie to the wintry
weather, but the residents of Mornington Crescent paid them very little heed,
keeping their heads covered against the biting sleet and knife-edged winds,
hurrying to and fro between the warm buildings without so much as glancing at
the ground.
The room was part of a
second floor flat, high enough to deaden the roar of the traffic, if not its
fumes. It was simply decorated: white
paintwork, off-white emulsion, black ash shelves, desk and coffee table, office
quality carpet in sand with matching drapes, a swivel chair for the desk and a
squashy sofa, both in black leather. The low shelves were sparsely filled with coffee table books – natural
history, impressionist art, history of rock music. There was very little else in the room – no magazines, no TV, no
music centre – just a small computer huddled modestly on the desk, a couple of
framed pencil drawings on the walls, and a coloured glass globe about the size
of a cricket ball nestling on the shelves. The kitchen was similar – pots and pans tidily arranged in their draws
and cupboards, fridge very clean and almost empty, not so much as a dishtowel
left unattended. The bedroom gave a few
more clues, but not many. Here, on
attractive limed-oak shelves, was an abundance of books with titles like
"Quidditch Techniques Around the World", "The Art of Glamour Vol. 3 – Advanced"
and "MS Windows 2000 – Quick Reference". The bed itself was relatively tidy but crumpled, as though its latest
occupant had too little time to ensure its orderliness. The nightstand contained more books, a
packet of tablets labelled Ibuprofen, some loose change, a lamp, and a rather
curious clock whose face was completely blank, but which still emitted a quiet
tick.
With a rattle of keys, the
front door opened. Fred Weasley shook
the remaining particles of sleet from his feet and hair before entering the
hallway. He gave a weary sigh and
opened the hall cupboard, hanging his winter raincoat on a hook and kicking his
damp shoes into the purpose-built rack. Padding through the living room, he set a kettle to boil and hunted out
some teabags from one of the cupboards. Minutes later, armed with a cup of hot, weak China tea, he moved back
into the living room and waved his wand vaguely at the coloured glass globe
nestling on its shelf. Immediately,
tiny lights began to shoot from its surface, coalescing into a translucent
spinning tube. As he watched, a face
began to take shape at its centre. Fred
frowned, not recognising the man, but gave a wry smile at his first words.
"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Simpson
from Scopara Manubria Rapida. The
repair on your Nimbus 2001 is going to be rather expensive I'm afraid. You were a little reticent as to the circumstances
of your, er, accident, but the resulting damage to your broomstick is quite
severe and will take at least five weeks' work to rectify." Fred couldn't suppress an amused smile as he
sipped his tea: if Simpson only knew!
"It is possible that you
may prefer to purchase a new broom rather than be without proper transport for
this length of time." Fred gave a bark
of laughter – the man was living in last century. Most witches and wizards had to integrate with muggles these
days, and the muggle transport system, such as it was, was not exactly
difficult.
"If so, I can assure you
that Scopara Manubria will give you excellent terms and top trade-in value on
the, er, remnants of your Nimbus." Shaking his head, Fred dipped his wand at the globe. Obediently Mr. Simpson's face disappeared
and was replaced by the head of a very pretty blonde girl.
"Hi Fred, long time no
see." She said in a broad Scots accent, smiling broadly. "I just want to warn you I'm sending you a
fairly bulky package by owl. It should
arrive tomorrow first thing, so don't leave for the Ministry without it." Fred smiled with genuine affection.
"Looking after me again,
are you Ellen?" he murmured, taking another pull at his cooling tea. "Save that
for Lee – he needs it more than I do." Or was that true? Fred didn't know.
"It's a detailed financial
analysis." She continued, "I'm not entirely sure what use you can make of it,
but I've isolated some interesting and unusual trends which might be of some
relevance to you. Happy reading!" Ellen's lovely face disappeared to be
replaced by that of a formidable, middle-aged witch who glared out at him
through severe black-rimmed spectacles.
"Mr. Weasley, I am Mr.
Tantalus Brown's secretary." Fred
snorted loudly. As if he didn't
know! He could scarcely count the
number of times this particular dragon had blocked his access to his superior.
"This message is to inform
you that your official request for a security check at Azkaban High Security
prison has been given serious consideration by Mr. Brown. However, he deems such a move to be
unnecessary at the present time." Her
head winked out abruptly. Fred slammed
his fist hard against the wall in frustration.
"Damn and blast it!" he
exploded angily, punching the wall in frustration. Then abruptly he crumpled against it, his head in his hands.
"Damn it all." He
murmured, which meant something different. This was the end of the road, the deciding factor, the final proof that
it was personal. Fred knew that the
situation at Azkaban was not yet acute, but in a few short months it could
easily reach critical mass. Since
Dementors had been outlawed and reclassified as Dangerous Beasts, the Ministry
had ceased to use them in matters of security. This left a gaping hole in the management of Azkaban, which had yet to
be properly resolved, at least to Fred's satisfaction. Tantalus Brown had been reasonably receptive
to reports of the situation when they had come on little sheets of memo paper
bearing the names of Fred's various colleagues. However, the final request for a security check had come from
Fred himself – and it had been refused. At long last he had proof he was being sidelined, and in the end, what
good had it done him? It was time he,
Fred Weasley, started asking himself some hard questions. What was he doing with his life? Okay, so he'd made himself an enemy in a
very high place. That sort of thing had
scarcely worried him in the past: there were ways and means of circumventing
such unwarranted interference. But when
push came to shove, was the game worth the candle? Fred massaged his temples, feeling a headache coming on. What sort of a life was he pursuing
here? Did the Ministry mean so much
that he would sacrifice all semblance of a normal existence to perform his
function – however pointless that function might be? How long had it been since he had taken part in a social occasion
that did not involve work in some way or other? When was the last time he had expressed any interest in the
jokeshop business? Every time George
tried to discuss it, he, Fred, had far more important issues to pursue. What important issues? What was more important than the business he
and his brother had created out of nothing, solely through their own
entrepreneurial spirit? He shook his
head in perplexity. Where was his
social life? His working hours had been
so irregular throughout the past several years that the few women he'd had
passed by like ships in the night. Why
hadn't he formed a relationship with Ellen? A pointless train of thought as he was obviously too late – and she
seemed very happy with Lee. No. The question was why hadn't he? Why had he allowed Ellen – a pretty,
attractive, intelligent witch with a talent for intrigue Fred wasn't certain
Lee would be able to handle – to slip away from him? They should have been soul mates. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had
any pleasant female companionship. Or
any companionship at all. No, wait a
moment. He still had friends, good
friends. They all lived at Harry's
house. So why had he moved out? Fred sighed. At least he knew the answer to that one, he told himself: he had
grown up, that's why. He couldn't stand
living in a goldfish bowl. He needed
his independence, his freedom, his distinction from his twin brother. He needed privacy. And where had it got him? Alone, in a flat in Mornington Crescent, listening to talkmail, all of
which is concerned with work, that's where!
A new voice started from
the Messageglobe and Fred raised his head, his long-term concerns momentarily
forgotten. The unlovely figure of the
dragon had disappeared to be replaced by that of his twin brother. For once George was not smiling.
"Hi Fred." He said in a
flat, tired voice. "Just trying yet
again to touch base with you. If I
didn't know better, bro, I'd say you were avoiding me. Ciao!" Fred dipped his wand and the image froze. He studied his brother carefully. He looked weary, unhappy, as though things were getting on top of
him. Someone else I've alienated? Fred asked himself despairingly. At an emotional loss, he wandered into his
bedroom, picked up the blank-faced clock and tapped it gently with his wand.
"George Weasley."
He muttered. The face glowed, suddenly
coming to life. Hands appeared,
spinning round on their axes, coming to rest at a time ten minutes hence. At the same time, an image started to form
behind the hands. Fred nodded as he
recognised the familiar shape of Harry's House. Abruptly he left the bedroom, striding into the hall and opening
the cupboard. He thrust his feet back
into his damp shoes, grabbed his soggy raincoat and went out of the flat in the
direction of St. John's Wood, miserably aware as he did so of how predictable
he was being.
~oo0oo~
"O-o-o-oh! That's better. Thank you, Ron!" Hermione
smiled as she eased off her shoes, leaned back into the sofa and presented her
sore feet to her husband. Smiling
good-humouredly, he began to massage her right instep, noting how swollen her
ankles had become.
"One of the side-effects."
She told him, following his line of sight and grimacing.
"There was a lot of
standing in the service," He sympathised. "And nowhere to sit down at the reception."
"I don't think they were
specifically catering for pregnant women," She replied, amused. "Or they'd have
avoided the fish – ugh!"
"But it's so good for you,
'Mione, full of vitamins and fatty acids – oh, thank you, Ginny." Ron accepted two steaming mugs of tea and
placed them carefully on the coffee table.
"I don't care, Ron." Hermione was firm. "I'm sorry, but for the moment at least, I can't do fish. Even if it was the Elixir of Life itself, I
still couldn't eat it!" Ginny smiled
gently.
"I thought you coped
really well today." She told her sister-in-law. "Not that I know anything about it, of course, but you looked
blooming, smiled all the time and managed to avoid anything alcoholic. A regular advertisement for
motherhood!" Ron gave his sister a
grateful look, noticing as he did so how thin she had become. His train of thought was interrupted by the
sound of the front door. George stalked
balefully into the kitchen weighed down by bags of groceries, followed meekly
by Oliver who was similarly laden.
"Don't say it!" George
held a hand up and scowled meaningfully at Harry who shut his mouth hastily,
swallowing tempting comments about housewives and future careers. Oliver smiled apologetically, shrugged his
shoulders and turned to help his friend unpack and stow the shopping. Harry pointed his wand at the teapot,
quickly producing two more mugs of tea for the newcomers, but even that didn't
mollify George in the slightest.
"I wish I could dump this
evening's cooking on Oliver," he grumbled, "But I can't, in all
conscience."
"I told you I don't mind!"
protested his friend, throwing tins of tomatoes into an eye-level
cupboard. George shook his head.
"Don't be ridiculous. You've been in Singapore for weeks training
with the team until today, and you're Porting back tomorrow! We want to talk to you, not chain you to the
range!" Oliver's mobile eyebrows
quirked at the choice of words, but he held his peace.
"Spending the spring on
hiatus in Singapore, are we Oliver?" said Ron, grinning. "It's okay for some! I'd be happy for one weekend in three to
myself, never mind two solid months!"
"Absolutely!" grinned
Harry. "What a hard life he has, eh,
Ron? Two months lazing about in a
wonderful place like Singapore, with all of Indonesia beckoning. I wouldn't mind a job like that – especially
during a typical English spring."
"Too right." agreed
George, still not quite recovered from his bad mood but taking it out on the
empty carrier bags. "This weather must
be the worst I've flown in since that Quidditch match against Hufflepuff in my
fourth year at Hogwarts – remember that one, Harry?" Harry winced.
"I try not to, George." He
replied with a chagrined smile. Oliver
took a sip of his tea, waving down the general laughter.
"Hey, it's not all play,
you know." He protested, but got no further as even Ginny and Hermione joined
in the catcalls.
"No, I'm serious!" he
shouted above the noise. "There's a lot
of hard work involved in integrating a new team member. Besides," he sat down in one of the kitchen
chairs, his face assuming a rather pensive expression. "It's really not all it's cracked up to
be." This statement should have brought
forth a volley of heckling, but somehow the others realised he was being
serious and let him continue unmolested.
"The life of a
professional player/manager is really exciting and good fun for the first few
years," he began. "But after a while it
begins to tell on you. I've travelled
all over the globe with the Swifts, and the only place I can call home is
here. But I'm scarcely ever around to
talk to anyone, let alone help decorate, keep the garden tidy or cook a meal
even. I'm approaching thirty." This
elicited taunts and insults from the men. Oliver frowned.
"It'll happen to you all
one day. No, shut up, I'm serious!" He
sighed. "I'm beginning to feel it's
time to hang up the gloves, find somewhere to put down roots and all that stuff,
you know? But sadly that's not going to
be possible, at least for a while. To
be honest, the lack of a proper social life is really beginning to bug me."
"Are the Singapore girls
too choosy then, Ollie old chap?" Ron
was deliberately trying to lighten the tone, but Oliver merely looked at him
gravely.
"You tell me, Ron." He
responded, staring into his mug of tea. "I just don't have the time to find out!"
Ginny and Hermione
exchanged a look. Ginny crossed behind
Oliver, still absorbed in his own self-examination and wound her arms around
his neck, pressing her cheek against his. He jerked his head slightly in surprise, and relaxed into her soft
embrace, putting a companionable hand on her arm. He sighed gently and smiled.
"Thanks Ginny." He said gratefully.
"I'd do the same,"
commented Hermione, getting up from the sofa with an effort. "But I'm not sure
I could reach you over the bump!"
"Oh come on, Hermione!"
Harry scoffed. "Anyone would think you
were the size of a house!" Ginny
laughed, hugging Oliver more tightly and kissing him on the cheek.
"Cheer up!" She told
him. "'Mione and I will cook." She looked up as the kitchen door opened to
admit Lee and Ellen. Ginny smiled in greeting.
"There you go, Oliver."
She said lightly. "George is right you
know. You really should catch up with
everyone while you can." To Oliver's
regret, she removed her arms, ruffled his hair and followed Hermione over to
the range. Oliver quickly suppressed
the feelings of chagrin he often experienced on seeing Ellen together with Lee
and busied himself making a fresh pot of tea. Lee wandered over to George, absently picking up and stowing packets of
pasta and rice.
"Did you manage to catch
up with Fred?" he asked in all innocence. George frowned.
"No." he growled shortly,
going back to his earlier ill-humour. He all but kicked a large Savoy cabbage into a cupboard in
frustration. Lee held up his hands.
"Whoa there! What's got into you two?" George sighed and shook his head.
"I wish I knew, Lee." He
said in a resigned tone of voice. "I
just can't seem to pin Fred down for more than a few seconds at a time. And it's been going on for months!" Lee scratched his head reflectively.
"Come to think of it, I
haven't seen much of him at the Ministry either." But George's head had jerked like a pointer spotting a bird.
"Speak of the devil." He muttered. "Perhaps it's just as well the cooking's being taken care of
tonight. Something's obviously up." Lee turned to see a tall red-haired figure
dripping freely over the kitchen floor.
"Any room for waifs and
strays?" he asked ironically, but the comment was somehow devoid of his usual
bounce. With a wide grin, Oliver thrust
a steaming mug of tea at him while Ellen put his raincoat on a hanger and set
it to dry near the fire.
"Did you get my message?"
she asked. He nodded, smiling faintly.
"Yes, thank you, but to be
honest I'm not sure how much anything I produce is ever going to achieve in the
short or the long run." Ellen looked at
him in astonishment.
"What on earth has
happened, Fred?" she demanded. He shook
his head and smiled.
"Take no notice, pretty
lady." He replied, looking straight into her eyes. "I get like this when I forget to take my medication. Pretty soon they'll be sending the men in white
coats to take me away, but you'll deal with them, won't you?" Ellen returned his smile uncertainly but
allowed him to walk away towards the window without comment. As she watched him go, George wandered over
and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. Ellen hooked Fred's coathanger over the edge of the mantelpiece and
frowned, staring into the flames. When
she and Lee had entered the kitchen, the first thing she noticed was Oliver's
mournful puppydog "how in hell did I let that one get away from me?" look. Ellen was used to it by now and had learned
to ignore him, but it had shaken her severely to see the self-same expression
in the depths of Fred's eyes.
"Hey, look at this!"
Hermione triumphantly unearthed an unopened packet of Arborio rice. "I think it
must date from when I was living here!" A huge smile spread across Ginny's face.
"Now you're talking! With that leftover chicken and the packet of
prawns in the freezer …"
"Let's see if George
bought any ham …"
"Oh great! Salad onions and mixed peppers …"
"Mushrooms! Are these for anything in particular,
George?" Hermione turned enquiringly to
her brother-in-law. George shook his
head, a slow smile spreading over his face.
"'Mione dear, if you're
volunteering to cook tonight, you can use anything you can find, with my
blessing!" The two girls looked at each
other and exchanged a nod.
"Paella!"
The kitchen exploded into
activity – even Harry was drafted in. Fred's usual role in these endeavours was to slope off to the
off-licence and return with several crates of alcohol of varying kinds. However, tonight Ron and Oliver took on this
task. Things were obviously greatly
amiss between Fred and George and their friends, in unspoken agreement, left
them to it.
~oo0oo~
Fred gazed unseeingly out
into the darkness of the garden. The
rain pelted against the windows, flowing in rivulets down the glass like
tears. George shifted uncomfortably.
"Look, Fred, I know you've
never had quite the same interest in the Jokeshop business after the Ministry
recruited us, but this stuff is really quite important. I need some answers now, and I need your
signature on various documents before we can expand our interests, and let me
tell you now: if we don't expand, we'll miss a golden opportunity which our
competitors will jump at." Fred sighed
and tore his gaze away from the window.
"George, I'll sign
anything you want, you know I will." George made an exasperated noise.
"I know you trust me,
that's not the point. The point is I
need your help, your advice. I can't
run this thing without you, bro. After
all, it was your inspiration, your brass neck that got us into it in the first
place!" Fred stared at his brother in
astonishment.
"George, your modesty and
downright humility will be the death of me! Flamel's Stone, you've been running the place single-handedly for years
without the slightest bit of useful input for me. Where's the difference now?" Fred was almost laughing. "You
took what was a joke, a bit of a laugh – two overgrown adolescents fulfilling a
childhood dream – and made it into a viable business. You've looked after its interests and juggled them against your
duties at the Ministry as though you were born to it. You're making a steady profit and all your decisions have been
well thought out and sound. What more
do you need from me except my signature?" George was quiet for a few moments while Fred went back to staring out
into the garden. Then, unexpectedly,
Fred began again.
"I've grown out of it,
George." He said quietly. "I seem to
have grown out of most things I took joy in. Is that what growing up is about, do you think? Or have I really "burnt out"?" George shook his head.
"You've always been the
clever one, Fred." His brother opened
his mouth to deny it, but was silenced by a look.
"It's true," George
continued. "And you needn't let modesty
get in the way. You've always worked on
intuition, but only when logic wouldn't get you the answers. You've always put in the hard work, but your
very quickness and creativity makes you impatient. You've never really been able to settle, not fully, and that's
one of the reasons Tantalus Brown doesn't trust you." Fred turned to his brother, his jaw practically on the
floor. George smiled smugly, pleased at
for once having surprised his twin.
"I may be more interested
in the Jokeshop than the Ministry, but that doesn't mean I don't keep my ear to
the ground, Fred." He told him. "I know
you're frustrated, I know you feel you're being held back, but it's not going
to be this way forever." He shrugged.
"In many ways, I'm
probably the luckier of the two of us, despite my apparent limitations in
comparison with you." Fred stared but
George continued placidly.
"I'm pretty much a plodder
when it comes to work." he continued. "I'm a fairly contented person anyway, and I really enjoy the jokeshop
business. To be honest with you, I was
never that interested in politics or intrigue – or making things happen, to be
honest, although that probably sounds like heresy to you." Fred gestured to him to continue, apparently
lost for words.
"I'm happy here, Fred." He
stated flatly. "I like Harry's House
and I like the business. If you think
I'm doing a satisfactory job without you, then that's good enough for me. But I know you need more out of life."
"George," Fred's eyes were
dark with emotion. "I'd sign over the
whole thing to you this minute if I thought you'd thank me for it." He sighed and put a hand through his hair.
"It's not that I crave
excitement – Merlin knows I've had enough of that to fill a lifetime." Fred fell silent, brooding. George waited, knowing instinctively not to
interrupt.
"Somehow it all seemed to
have a purpose in the beginning." Fred's eyes became shadowed, unseeing, as his mind travelled back in
time. He shook his head.
"Going into the Ministry
was the last thing I wanted to do."
"Too right!" George agreed with a grin, catching his
brother's eye as they remembered the scorn they had poured on their pompous
elder brother Percy's ambitions. Fred
smiled reminiscently.
"Training as an undercover
operative, working in intelligence – it wasn't just the glamour, it was the
feeling I was doing something that mattered. Even though we were both still wet behind the ears during the year
You-Know-Who was defeated, I felt so alive knowing that I was doing something
which might make a difference. I was
good at it too. And in the years after
the War, there was so much work to be done mopping up pockets of resistance,
tracing those missing in action, liaising with the European intelligence
services, the muggle government – so much still to do." He paused and looked up at his brother.
"If the general wizarding
populace knew half the atrocities that were committed during the War," he said,
slowly and reflectively, "They'd never recover from the shock. Terrible things." He shook his head again slowly, pensively. "And I was part of it, George." Fred's eyes strayed over to where Ginny was
holding out a spoon of paella for Harry to taste.
"Harry's seen some action
in his time, and a lot of danger, especially during the last year of the War,
but he's not been to the places I've been or done the things I've had to
do." Fred turned despairing eyes to his
brother.
"There's blood on my
hands, George." He said quietly. George stared in perplexity then opened his
mouth to reply, but at that moment a heavy hand descended on each of their
shoulders and they looked up into the grinning face of their youngest brother.
"Sorry to break this up,
fellas, but dinner is served – so the girls tell me." he pulled a doubtful face. Ginny waved a ladle at him.
"Never judge a broomstick
by its handle!" she cried in mock ferocity.
"Absolutely!" bellowed
Ron, turning back to her. "Always look
for the word 'Firebolt' – and make sure it's not an illegal copy!"
Altogether it was a very
convivial meal, despite their general weariness and the sombre tone of the
afternoon. Hermione, who was still
experiencing periods of extreme fatigue, stayed for a brief half hour afterwards,
then prevailed upon Ron to take her home, yawning prodigiously. The others continued to drink coffee and
talk, but no one wanted to make a night of it and they were soon drifting off
to their respective rooms. All except
for George who, seeing that Fred was making no move to go back to his flat,
quietly brewed another pot of coffee, even though he didn't really want it.
"Don't forget to call in
home before you go to the Ministry." Ellen told him with a smile before bidding
him goodnight. "The information in my report
isn't likely to remain current for too long." Fred nodded, giving her a wave and smiling absently. George poured the rich Java-Sumatra blend,
adding milk to his own, leaving Fred's black. Fred accepted it without comment, but remained silent. George sat patiently, waiting. Finally, Fred looked at him.
"You should go to bed." He
stated. George shrugged.
"You seemed to want to
talk." He replied easily. "I'm not
tired." Fred nodded but seemed
unwilling to start. George shifted a
little in his seat.
"You said you'd seen some
action, some things you – weren't happy about?" Fred shook his head, smiling grimly.
"What I said,
George, was that there's blood on my hands." He stopped. George waited, but
his brother didn't continue.
"Is it true?" There was a very long silence before Fred
spoke again.
"Yes." He whispered, gazing into space. After a while, Fred glanced up, his
expression almost angry.
"Well?" he accused,
"Aren't you going to say anything?" George looked at him and spread his hands in perplexity.
"What do you want me to
say?" he countered, "What can I say? My twin brother just admitted to homicide. How am I supposed to react? Shout and scream? Throw a
fit? Demand your repentance? Fred, you're my brother and I love you. Nothing's going to change that. Whatever you've done, I know that you had
good cause." For a moment, George
thought his brother was going to lose it. Fred swallowed with difficulty, blinked several times and cleared his
throat. He shook his head slowly over
and over again.
"No one has good cause to
take anyone else's life, George," He whispered. "Even if it is in
defence." He paused for a while,
ordering his thoughts, then looked straight into George's eyes.
"Several years back, I
went for some intensive training – do you remember?" George nodded.
"Well, it wasn't for
promotion exactly, although that's what I told you. I did a stint in Special Operations." George's eyes widened.
"So that's how you know
Caesare Brooks so well." Fred nodded.
"He was my C.O.," he
explained. "And a very good leader he
is too. The powers that be think he's
too old for field work now, of course – load of rubbish, but that's another
story." Fred swallowed and began again.
"We were on an
assignment. We'd received a tip-off
about a suspected break-out from Azkaban, so we set a trap and lay in wait for
them. It should have been easy, there
should have been no struggle, no violence, just a quick, simple capture." He
sighed.
"Needless to say, it
wasn't. One of the perps thought he
could take my partner, so he tried. He
had a muggle pistol – nasty looking thing. He – didn't manage it. The
advanced self-defence they teach you when you join Special Ops gets so firmly
ingrained it becomes second nature. I
killed him with my bare hands, George, before I'd even thought about it. Well, bare hand singular – heel of the hand
up into the bridge of the nose, hard. No one gets up after that." George was silent: he didn't know what to say. Fred sighed again.
"I'd never killed anyone
before, never even wounded anyone in anger." He continued. "I started having nightmares, panic
attacks. Eventually I was sent for
counselling. They managed to sort it
out more or less, but my career with Special Ops was well and truly over –
thank goodness." He shuddered, adding:
"They're not assassins,
but they might just as well be to my mind!" George nodded, steepling his fingers.
"And you think you've
burnt out because of this?" Fred shook
his head violently.
"No, no." He replied quickly. "It really has nothing to do with the – the
killing, but everything to do with the counselling to help me get over
it." He paused to take a sip of coffee,
grimacing when he realised that it was only lukewarm.
"I've suspected for a long
time that I was being marginalized." He continued, placing his mug back on the
coffee table. "Assignments that were
very obviously in my special field of experience were being allocated
elsewhere. It started on a small scale,
but after a while it became quite noticeable. Then Lee came to me. He'd
stumbled on something, a memo saved where it shouldn't be – something like
that. He was so astonished by it that
he printed it out. Good job he did
because twenty minutes later it had been erased."
"What was it?" George was
interested.
"It was a note about
me." Fred said between his teeth. "It wasn't signed or dated and Lee couldn't
discover anything about its origin. It
merely stated that as a result of my need for counselling after the – incident
I told you about, I was compromised: unstable, lacking in mental
resilience." Fred spread his hands
helplessly.
"Since then, I've been
sidelined more and more frequently." He said. "I've spent some considerable time and effort trying to find out who,
and today I had my final proof – Tantalus Brown." George gave a bark of grim laughter.
"I could have told you
that!" he replied. Fred nodded.
"I know, but I needed to
be sure. So now I really am up Whatever
Creek, seriously minus paddle, outboard motor or even punting pole." George was shaking his head.
"But Fred," he
protested. "Even if you are right about
Brown, he failed to become Minister. If
Wingford-Hill is anything like as good as people are saying he is, Brown's days
are numbered." Fred pursed his lips.
"That may be so, George,"
he replied. "But by the time it
happens, I'll be too far down the list to be of use to anyone. I'll be on the scrapheap, pushing paper for
the rest of my life, maundering on in the Staff Restaurant about how things
used to be. I've seen 'em –
pathetic!" He got up from the sofa in
disgust, stretching his arms and yawning.
"It's late, bro." He said,
clapping George on the shoulder. "Thanks for listening, but I really don't know how I'm going to get out
of this one. I'm sorry we didn't
discuss the business properly, but I tell you what – owl me the documents and
I'll get them back to you by return, okay?" George smiled and nodded, giving his twin a mock-salute. Fred crossed to the hall cupboard to fetch
his broomstick and, with a light wave, went out into the night. George yawned, sighed and collected the
coffee cups before retiring to bed.
~oo0oo~