What Memories are made of.

The telephone rang at 11 o'clock on a cold
December night; the man in the dark fire-lit room
picked it up after the first ring. "Yes?"

"Sir, Officer Pezzini was found murdered in
an alley off Mott Street about ten minutes ago. I
thought you would like to know."

"Well done. And the family?"

"They will receive notification in about an
hour," he said deferentially.

"Very well." He hung up the phone and
checked his ever-present pocket watch. Just
enough time for what needed to be done. He picked
up the phone and made a phone call.

"Hello? Do you know what time it is?" the
sleepy voice on the other end of the phone asked
querulously.

"Yes, I do actually," the man said mildly.

"Sir I'm sorry," he said, suddenly awake.
"What can I do for you?" The change that came
from recognition was instantaneous.

"The boy.you have the medication he was sent
with for his nightmares. I want it given to him
immediately. He and his belongings are to be sent
to the airport, where a chartered plane will meet
him. I expect him on that plane within the hour."

"But, Sir, he is doing fine.There have been
no nightmares, and it is only two weeks until the
end of term, surely."

"Surely, you will do as I have asked," he
replied, the threat implicit in his cultured tone.
"Now."
"Of course, Sir," he said, resignation and
not a little fear in his tone. "Is there a
message? What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him I require him at home. Tell him
she needs him."

"Who, Sir?"

"That is none of your concern," he said
shortly. "He will understand. Go now, time is
very short." He hung up the phone and began
making preparations.

Across the ocean, a disheveled headmaster
rose quickly from his warm bed, hurrying to deal
with the tasks he had been assigned. After all,
Kenneth Irons was not a man to cross, even
accidentally.