Hi there. everybody.
Did you hear where the Australian Prime Minister told the Indonesians that two Australian drug smugglers should not be executed because Australia had donated one billion dollars to Indonesia following a Tsunami a few years ago. In retaliation to his insensitive words, along with a ton of twitter rants, local Indonesians took such ire to his suggestion that he had paid for their release they began raising the billion dollars to throw back at the Australian Government … in coins.
Now, is this irony or is this irony – or simply co-incidental? I went to the Council library at Chermside the other day and took out a three disc pack of the u.k. television series New Tricks, and the first episode I put in the old D.V.D. player was an episode where Brian, one of the detectives, was in a library (presumably Council) where he was doing his nutter over the fact that, amongst other things that caused him angst, was the fact that the library was now carrying D.V.D.s.
He was going out of his head with displeasure and I was wondering if the reason for his state of mind was the fact that New Tricks weren’t on the shelf … or then again, perhaps it was because they were carrying it.
And if this isn’t a bit of irony then nothing is. During today’s broadcast of the World Series cricket channel Nine continuously ran an ad promoting the t.v. series Gallipoli. Now I suspect the cynics among you will think it was simply good planning by the television station to gain maximum audience attention, but I am gullible enough to realize it was just a case of co-incidence, or irony if you prefer, that the match – one of the most exiting one day games you will have seen in years, was between Australia and New Zealand. Now I know that Australia and New Zealand fought at Gillipoli during wwi as the ANZACS, but surely that had nothing to do with the channel nine ads, did it? Nah! Just a bit of a coincidence.
I mean, after all …
IRONY! … IRONY … IRONY! There’s irony everywhere. Now its even ventured into politics. Here in Queensland our recently departed state premier (sacked – not deceased) had came into his first (and only) stint as an unpopular state premier, wielding a sword so big it sliced over half of the government departments in one foul swoop. Blood rolled freely down George street and every government employee shook in their Doc Martins as they froze in their tracks – desperately trying to locate where the next blow was coming from in order to escape the premier’s wrath.
Department after department succumbed to the vicious blows from Excalibur, the sword of the mighty Premier Avenger and Law Maker, Sir Campbell of New-man-land, and the list of victims grew like wildflowers. Eventually the peasants began to grow angry at the bureaucratic nightmare that had begun taking over their lives and joined forces with the public servants in order to eject the Premier from the job he so did not deserve. They were so desperate for their freedom they were even willing to allow the previous government back into power, even though they too had been thrown out of office for similar behaviour only three years earlier.
Sir Campbell could sense that the revolution was rapidly gaining strength and he and the other knights threw millions upon millions at the public to try to stem the flow, but to no avail. The day came of the election came and they all but drowned in the wash-up. And then they learnt a new lesson. The general public and the public servants had one thing in common. They both had long memories.
One of the first areas of destruction when the knight had seized power had been the State Literature Awards, an arm of ‘The Queensland Writer’s Festival’ program, a popular annual event that was attended religiously by both the arts and crafts set, and the general public.
“No more money for the arts.” The Premier had decreed, a wicked smile encasing his face, and a fearsome, cackling laughter emitting from his lips, but the sponsors of the festival, including the Queensland University Press, vowed to raise the money to allow the festival to continue … and they did … and it did. The smile disappeared from the knights face, but he cared not. He had achieved his agenda. He had not had to lose face. He had saved the money he wanted to save and if these peasants wanted to waste their money on supporting something he failed to see any reason to have an interest in, then so be it, he thought.
But as I said earlier, like elephants, academics have long memories and when the knight lost possession of his castle he felt a need to chronicle the events of the day and so he commissioned a sympathetic scribe and dictated the words he wanted to be printed in a book he could visualize with a soft, black leather cover and his name and the books title emblazoned in gold on the front and spine.
‘Yes,’ he thought to himself, ‘I may have lost the battle, but I will be remembered fondly by history. Words do not lie. Not in a book of this stature.’
The book was duly written, then it was ready to be printed, bound and distributed. ‘Booker award perhaps? Surely not a Pulizter? No! That would be expecting too much, but … ‘
And in most cases this is where the story of a best selling book would have its beginning. But as I stated earlier there are many, many people of influence who have long memories … and that includes members of the Queensland University Press who decreed that Sir Campbell’s work was not one that could be published by Queensland’s only publishing house. They were sorry, they said, but they would find the idea of publishing the works of a former enemy of the art world to be appalling; would have them feeling, and acting, like hypocrites. The man had shown a side of politics that did not sit well with them in their daily lives and to produce a published article that existed only in order to obtain an income would surely make them feel that they were showing the world that they secretly agreed with his original objectives when it came to dealing with the art. That art was only valuable for its financial value and of no real value to the average person, otherwise there would have been no reason to withdraw the funding previous governments once supplied.
Anyway, lets cut to the chase. The moral of the story is if you ever want to sell yourself to the world make sure you don’t upset your public relations expert beforehand or they’ll do you like a dinner, and the same applies to publishers if you want to write a book about yourself. And if you know of anybody about to open a new publishing house and requires new talent please remember Sir Campbell of New-Man’s-Land and his biography, but beware … he is suffering from a bad case of irony.
Okay, that’s enough of all things gripey and other silly things. Here is the second instalment of The Night of Darkness and it might just be even sillier. enjoy!
The Edge of Nightfall:
part 1:
The Night of Darkness edit: part 2
For those coming in late;
On a farm that came under the jurisdiction of Trenthamville, a small county to the south of London, witches were calling for their master, but when he arrived they had wished till the moment they died that they had not taken the action that they had.
At the turn of the twentieth century men of the Punjani located the statue they had sought … the statue of their lord and master. But they had not counted on the forces that were at work against their mission, and they too wished their actions had been different.
Several years into the twenty first century the curator of a small private museum in London began to dream about the events that had happened to the Punjani at the turn of the twentieth century … a man who truly believed with all his heart that he was the reincarnation of the guide that took the Punjani on their search for their statue: the curator was a man who believed he was about to be rewarded beyond his wildest dreams for the actions of his great-great-great-grandfather … and he was ready to accept.
But he was unaware that other forces were still at work.
And now the story begins;
Joseph moved the mouse across the pad; the cursor quickly making its way across the seventeen inch flat screen until it rested upon the icon marked‘TX1258’.
Joseph then pressed the left hand button on his mouse. The screen exploded in a kaleidoscope of colours and the computer’s modem whirred busily away as the enquiry made its way through the myriad of information and rubbish that littered the super highway that was the Internet, until it reached the destination that he sought.
‘Today is a day of ultimate destiny for some lucky, or perhaps not so lucky, Scorpions. For those born on the seventh day of the eleventh month, at one a.m., beware because today you, and you alone, will be affected by the cosmos forces – your destiny is finally at hand – but be wary in all that you do, all that you hear, and with all whom you meet … and especially in what you choose to do and say – for your reaction will have a far reaching, and perhaps unexpected, result if you choose wrong, ’ the words read.
“So this is it … my turn to be cool, to save the world.” Joseph laughed to himself, ‘like, as if.”
The creation of TX1258 was a private joke for Joseph. Though not necessarily a full believer in such matters, he never the less liked to check his stars daily, even though he knew that the use of the company computer for private reasons was frowned upon by management. Joseph’s knowledge of the function of computers, other than that to fulfill his position as a clerk at Johnson’s imports and exports, was enough to fill a matchbox, but back in his college days somebody had shown him how to save an auto entry point on the screen, rather than have to go through the process of opening the web every time, and ‘TX1258’ was a code word that he had used to cover himself should somebody else had reason to use his computer. He had based the icon on a science fiction movie that he had seen years earlier, but he was never certain that he had the number right … in fact, he doubted very much that he had, but, at least to date, it had been an effective cover.
Joseph again let his mind wonder why he had never found any interest in computers. He felt it was strange for him not to have at least some interest in computer games … if not more modern things like apps and the web that practically everybody he knew used on a daily basis. After all, he reasoned, he was a child of the eighties … or at least he was according to his birth certificate. Perhaps his parents weren’t into modern technology and he had inherited some of their reasoning.
The thought of his unknown parents saddened Joseph, but perhaps not as powerful an emotional loss as it may have been had he known them and lost them. He was six months old when he had been brought to the Farm-Vale orphanage according to the unknown middle aged man who had found him abandoned on a wild and rugged beach in some long forgotten part of the wild north. Midnight? Midsomer? Middleborough? Craigleborough … yes, he thought to himself, it was something like that.
Wherever it was it had escaped his mind again. Forgotten … or was it something his mind had desperately wanted to become disassociated with and had thrown away, cast it to the winds, as they say? Then another associated thought that constantly crossed his mind arrived and was dispatched – dismissed without answer even faster than the previous thought. His mother was unable to care for him … his father …?
“Well,” he thought to himself, “that is something I will, most likely, never know.” The man who had brought him to the orphanage had said the note that had accompanied the baby had been blown out of his hand and disappeared into the dark murkiness of the water that lined the pebble and muddy beach. ‘Blown away and gone forever’, he had said, ‘before I had a chance to read it all,’ But not before he had established the mother had said she was dying and there were no other relatives … and it was imperative that he took the child to the Farm-Vale Orphanage.
‘That was all I know,’ he had told the orphanage receptionist, ‘I received a phone call telling me it was important for me to go to the beach at six that evening … there would be something for me to collect and then they hung up. I never knew who called, but, out of curiosity I went, and got the shock of my life when I found the baby and followed the instructions. It was fairly desolate, that stretch of beach. God knows what would have happened to the poor child had I decided not to go. In all my time there I went to the beach a lot. I had a lot of thinking to do and the solitude and calmness of the place made it a perfect spot for me to spend my days. But in all that time I only ever saw one solitary person – and even that was once only. A middle aged woman who spoke to me, but never revealed anything about herself. Whether or not she was the one that sent the note, I couldn’t say.’
That was all that the orphanage had been able to tell Joseph when he became old enough to ask them. Not even his saviour’s name. It had not been much of an answer, but it had been enough in the circumstances. At least he was certain that life would not hold any surprises for him. His father could come back into his life – if he was still alive. But he very much doubted that was likely to happen. Either he had already been dead when Joseph’s mother had made arrangements for Joseph’s future, or as he had not become involved in Joseph’s life for the past thirty four years and six months, Joseph doubted that he was likely to do so now even if he was still alive.
Joseph was equally certain no siblings would turn up out of the blue either. ‘Surely,’ he thought, ‘they would have ended up in the orphanage with me.’ Then he had a second thought, “Perhaps they were old enough to look after themselves … but if that is the case why didn’t come looking for me? If my mother had the foresight to make arrangements for me surely she would have done the same for them, and with that kind of foresight she would have told them where to find me.”
Frustrated, Joseph finally dismissed the last of his stored up thoughts about his parents and moved his mind to the orphanage itself.
Life in the orphanage had been good, the staff had been kind and helpful, both to him and the other kids … and that was something else Joseph wondered about whenever his mind wandered off into its current location … he couldn’t remember any single child being adopted. There had only ever been about a dozen orphans at any given time, of different ages, and different sexes, occasionally coming and going over the years, but they would always arrive mysteriously and eventually, like himself, they would leave the orphanage when they were ready to go to university … but nobody was ever adopted … at least no one that he knew about.
There was always in-fashion clothing and edible meals provided and popular presents at Christmas and birthdays, always supplied by the benevolent charity that supported the orphanage, he had been told, and the same charity ensured they all had a good education and their university fees and books were provided for, as well as providing them with a generous weekly living allowance. And that was something else that Joseph found hard to understand … the orphanage had somehow known Joseph’s birthday and time of birth, but no other record of his birth.
Once Joseph had finished at the university his present job had been made available. It had not been the type of job that Joseph would have preferred, but it had been suggested during his interview that the charity had suggested him for the position and perhaps he was honour bound to follow their advice. To, at least, ‘give it a try for a couple of years,’ they had suggested. Joseph had had no real idea what he really wanted out of life so he took the job and had been resigned to his fate ever since … but something unexplained occasionally stirred inside him, some inner longing, but he put it down to boredom, ignored the feeling and went on with his dull but safe life.
Once he had begun working at Johnsons, Joseph had not been in contact with the orphanage since … except on one particular occasion. The actual incident was not an unfamiliar story, but the story of how Joseph became advised of its happening was rather peculiar to say the least. He had met a girl, Rowanna Stokes, a pretty young thing who giggled a lot at his inane jokes and made him feel special. Rowanna was not exceptionally bright, but she made him laugh and she made him happy. They became engaged and planned for a spring wedding and a honeymoon in Paris and they would most likely have done so – had it not been for the unexpected phone call from somebody saying they were from the orphanage and they had a bit of bad news for him, “Go to the Regent Hotel at three this afternoon”, the unfamiliar voice had said, “go to room 610 … don’t knock … just go straight in.” Then they had hung up.
Curious, Joseph had followed the instructions and had nearly passed out at the shock of finding his fiancée – and his intended best man, naked and locked in a passionate embrace on the bed.
Joseph’s shock at what he had seen had passed in time, but it had severely dented any thoughts of any new relationship. In the end he had been happy that he had found out in advance, before he learned the hard way about her waywardness, but even more concerning for him, when he had time to think about what had happened, had been the phone call from the orphanage. How had they known? Were they spying on him? Why?
Joseph had rung the orphanage, but got nowhere. ‘I am sorry,’ the Matron had told him, gently, but firmly, ‘but I think you will find the orphanage has been used as a cover by somebody in order to get your attention.’ and had hung up. For a minute Joseph had believed her, but then he began to wonder who it could have been and he realized he had only ever told two people of his upbringing in an orphanage – his ex-fiancee and his ex-best man and he sincerely doubted that either of those two would have revealed themselves that way … unless, of course, they had told somebody else, but his instincts made him think otherwise.
He could be wrong, he realised, and that used to make him even more curious as to who had made the call, but it was all history to him now. He heard later that Bertie had moved to Australia only two weeks after that day, not because of being caught out, but to escape the clutches of two very pregnant single women who were both claiming him to be the father and Rowanna had moved to Brighton after Joseph had fended off any chance of reconciliation over the following days.
Joseph sighed and for the umpteenth time dismissed the past from his mind and began to re-read his stars. Joseph was resigned to his bachelor ways; his social life was virtually non-existent. Reasonably handsome, he lacked the charisma and auto charm that other men often exuded, and Rowanna had long ago sapped him of his confidence in starting afresh with someone new.
At the time his heart had been broken, but eventually he had learnt to throw his days into his work and his nights and weekends into a mundane existence that ranged between reading, television, coffee houses and going to the movies.
The time that he found the hardest to cope was his weekday midday break when he was virtually forced out of the office for the best part of an hour to avoid becoming the victim of office workers who were ready and willing to openly chastise him for working too hard or trying to show them up if he stayed at his desk. They may have been jesting, but Joseph was a sensitive person and wasn’t willing to take the possibility on trust. There were some, he considered, who were just being playful, but he was fairly certain that some were simply office bullies who knew no bounds … and he was equally certain that they meant their malice. Joseph had not experienced bullying in his childhood and he had no idea how to cope with his concerns as an adult; he had no idea who to turn to or what could be done.
He wondered if the way he had been given the job; if the influence the orphanage had applied was somehow behind their attitude, but without any backing or support he found the daily hour long escape was sufficient to create a situation where he was left alone msot days.
He followed a routine where he had a permanent reservation at the Di Monde Café, a popular restaurant located a few blocks away from where he worked. Here he usually spent the hour, his mind and time occupied by a toasted ham, cheese and onion sandwich, a couple of lattes, a scratch it card and the daily paper … and always alone.
But today was different, and Joseph could not believe what his eyes were seeing. It was the Thursday before the Labor Day holiday weekend and he had dropped into the Di Monde Café for lunch expecting the usual lukewarm coffee, and slow service … but not the beautiful girl waiting for him at the table that he had reserved on the balcony.
Joseph preferred the balcony to sitting inside. The air was fresher out there; it felt less confined – less like the office, and he liked to occasionally observe the passing crowd below. Joseph had an imaginative mind and he sometimes gave way to flights of fancy as he mentally tried to guess a stranger’s occupation, their present train of thought, or their daily routine. His mind was already beginning to assume this mode as the waitress finished speaking and it was only then that he realized that she had been speaking to him.
“I’m sorry – what did you say?”
“The lady said that you were expecting her.”
The waitress was making a flippant comment, rather than an explanation. Joseph was a regular customer here, and women of any type, never mind one as beautiful as this one, were not a regular feature at his table.
“Who is?” he asked, his words falling on deaf ears, as the waitress had absolutely no idea who the woman was, and no real interest either.
As he approached the table Joseph’s eyes were bulging, or at least that was the impression that he had of his own subtlety. He thought that he was probably dribbling too. The stranger that awaited him was more than beautiful; she was stunning. Her long dark hair was pulled back at the sides, ending in a massive wave curling upwards midway down her back. Large, dark brown eyes complimented both her tresses, and her Mediterranean, olive toned skin. She was dressed in a low cut red outfit, black laced stockings, and matching leather shoes that Joseph guessed would easily have been worth his wages for three months.
So striking were her looks, she could easily have been mistaken for a model, however, she was not on the catwalk; she was here, at his table, and Joseph was both stoked and confused at her being there, but he knew for certain she was there by mistake.
As Joseph arrived at the table the woman raised her head in recognition of his appearance; her face broke into a smile that sent shivers down his spine and his ego raised ten notches as he realized the impact that her appearance at his table, not to mention the smile, would have on other men who sat nearby or those that passed the café on their way to whatever business that they conducted … and he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to her. And inwardly, he thought that if did know what to say it would be a waste of time trying to say it because he was certain that his tongue would simply freeze and hang limpid out of his mouth.
“Hello, James,” she said, her low, sultry Italian accent nearly melting him as he automatically leaned forward and reached out to take her hand, “I am Rositta.”
Joseph looked at the girl. ‘She is absolutely gorgeous’, he thought to himself, ‘No’, he corrected himself, ‘she is stunning.’ Joseph was instantly bewitched, mesmerized by this beautiful young woman: Without looking, Joseph knew he was the envy of every male within viewing distance of his table. He knew that every male’s eyes and heart would be focused on him and Rosita. The men’s eyes would betray their jealousy and they would despise Joseph simply it was him that was standing, talking, with this beautiful, young woman and not them. Joseph was confused by the way his mind was working. It hadn’t taken him long to realise this was a case of mistaken identity, but he was surprising himself with his delight at being in this situation. He was not only enjoying the reaction on the other men’s faces that were sitting in direct line with his sight, but he found himself enjoying her company to the point he didn’t want to cut her loose with the truth, but he knew he must before things got out of hand. ‘Surely a minute or two more couldn’t cause too much of a problem?’ He pleaded with himself as he unwillingly released her hand and settled himself into his chair.
But Joseph snapped out of his thought process just as quickly as he had slipped into it. He knew he had to accept this meeting was an error; a case of mistaken identity, not serendipity … and he knew then that both Rosita and whoever she was supposed to meet needed to be together much more than she needed to be at his table pandering to his bloated ego.
“I’m sorry,” Joseph replied softly, and slightly nervously, “my name is Joseph, not James. Do I know you?”
“My apologies, Joooooooooseph!” she purred, flashing him a coy smile. “I forgot. Martin said that you might use a different name” Rositta’s smile suddenly changed to a look of genuine concern. “We are safe here – aren’t we? Martin assured me that we could talk freely here.”
“I’m sorry, Rositta, but I haven’t got a clue what you are talking about,” a perplexed Joseph objected gently, as he stumbled around in his mind for the right words, “I don’t know any Martin. I am only a clerk down at Johnson’s. Perhaps you could tell me who you are, and what you and this Martin, want?”
“Oh, you are good!” she replied, misinterpreting Joseph’s eye movements. “Where are they?” she whispered.
“I think that you may have the wrong table,” Joseph offered a shade too sharply. The last iota of ego had left Joseph by this stage and now he was beginning to feel totally uncomfortable in her company. But, at the same time, he seriously wished he could help Rositta with her problem – whatever it may have been. New feelings were beginning to run through Joseph’s veins. Feelings he couldn’t explain, even to himself. Feelings of softness, of sadness of despair and he wondered if he was picking up something from Rositta. A type of e.s.p..
Sensing that something was wrong, Rositta decided to change tact. ‘Perhaps they were being watched, despite Martin’s assurances.’ She wondered. “James … sorry … Joseph … Martin said you could help me retrieve some items that … how should I say it? They may have been misappropriated by a well meaning, but interfering party.”
“Me?” Joseph replied in shock disbelief.
“Oh, please stop this pretending, Joseph.” Her voice had become tense and it threw Joseph off a little, “I’m sorry if the security here is not safe, but I am becoming desperate.”
Something in her tone tugged at Joseph’s feelings. Although he had no idea just who she thought he was, or what she thought he could do for her, he impetuously decided to play along. Joseph knew that he could not handle the situation if she started to cry … anymore than if she suddenly realized he was not who she thought he was, and that was what she was threatening to do as far as he was concerned.
In an instant Joseph decided that if he got her to explain what was going on, then perhaps he could find someway of giving her a bit of advice without hurting her feelings and then she might leave him alone. But she would need to hurry up. He was on his lunch break – not a rostered day off. If he was late getting back again he was sure to be in trouble.
Conveniently, the patrons seated a few tables away started to get up to leave. Joseph took advantage of the situation. He looked in their direction for a couple of seconds, two fingers covering his lips before retuning to face Rositta.
“I’m sorry. I was a bit uncertain – still it is better to be prudent; it seems safe now. Please go on.”
Rositta’s face immediately relaxed, and once again it was emblazoned by a beautiful smile. “Gracias! I don’t know where to begin.”
“Well, perhaps the beginning …” Joseph suggested.
“It’s not that easy, Joseph, but I will try. My father is a renowned archaeologist, as well as coming from a very well respected, and wealthy Italian family. It was due to his being financially well off that allowed him to spend most of his life on his passion for archaeology. A few months ago he came across a discovery of immense value to those that are interested in such items and …” Rositta paused for a second and took a deep breath, “also to those that still believe in pagan gods.”
Joseph’s eyes lit up with interest at this unexpected direction that the conversation had begun to take.
“The sheer value of them made a public acknowledgement of their discovery out of the question.” Rositta continued, “Many small museums would have had little interest in having items with such a high-risk value on their premises and the bigger museums might also be hesitant because of the risk of theft, so he had to be meticulous in his choice of museums to offer his findings to. On the other hand, some collectors are renowned for their unscrupulous methods of obtaining such an item for their collection, so it would not have been prudent to bring the findings to their attention. And finally there are the Punjani.
“The Punjani?”
“My father told us a little about them in an e-mail, just after the discovery. They are a rarely heard of Eastern religious sect, with roots said to be linked directly to the Devil himself. The items that my father found are said to be the exact same ones that were used during the creation of the cult hundreds of years ago, and later stolen by one of their own. Legend has it that the thief, and his helpers, died less than a day after the theft, but the items were never recovered … and the Punjani has never stopped searching for them.”
“So what were these items?” Joseph’s imagination had now begun working in overtime, wondering what it was that he had he stumbled into.
“The Punjani dagger, supposedly the weapon used for sacrificial purposes. And the statue which is believed to be a life size statue of the god that the cult pays homage to … Rangor the Punjanti: The devil from the skies.”
“But why is it so valuable?”
“In the e-mail my father told me that the dagger, and its scabbard, are encrusted in jewels – and the statue is made of solid gold; adorned with hundreds of large diamonds and rubies. It took six large men to carry it out of the cavern on a specially made stretcher where it was found. It was shipped here to England, then put into an armoured van on arrival and taken to a special hiding place until my father could figure out what to do with it. Eventually he located a museum whose sponsor agreed to take out the necessary insurance to cover the items – and he was in the process of arranging to move the items to their new resting place when both the dagger, and the statue, mysteriously disappeared,”
Rositta paused for a second to catch her breath and wipe away a tear that was beginning to form in the corner of her eye. When she resumed her voice began to quiver, “and so had my father.”
As the tears began to stream down her face, Joseph struggled to rummage through his pockets to obtain a handkerchief, hoping, with all of his heart, that it would appear to be clean and reasonably well pressed, and duly handed it to her. Rositta nodded her head in acceptance and proceeded to dab her eyes with it, while Joseph, so panicky within himself as to the cleanliness of the garment, found himself unable to look at her.
When he finally had the courage to return his gaze, he was pleasantly surprised to find her applying some make-up to her face.
“Thank you, Joseph.” The tone of Rositta’s voice was much softer; she had been slightly taken back by Joseph’s sensitivity to her feelings and discomfort and looked hard at Joseph and for the first time she took more notice of the man from whom she was seeking help.
“You are welcome.” Joseph replied, relieved that no embarrassment was going to be forthcoming.
Joseph was feeling rather strange. His life, and especially his midday meal were always decidedly dull, and now, suddenly, and completely by a case of mistaken identity, he was being bedazzled by the most beguiling woman that he ever seen … and the story that she was revealing to him had him riveted to the spot. Reality told him to cut her short, before she told him too much; to explain he really was someone other than whoever she thought he was, but the excitement of the tale intrigued him so much he let caution fly in the wind. He had to know more.
“Please go on when you are ready,” he encouraged, unconsciously reaching out and taking her hands in his.
Rositta was even more thrown off balance by this outward display of concern, but was not in the least displeased.
“You are full of surprises, Joseph. I had expected a hard-nosed, professional … I was not expecting someone who would show compassion. Gracias. It is, how you say … nice.”
“You are embarrassing me.” Joseph complained, barely managing to contain just how close to the truth his words were.”
Far more relaxed than she had been earlier, Rositta continued with her tale. “I won’t embarrass you anymore, Joseph, “Rositta said quietly, a broad smile covering her face; her hands not pulling away from Joseph’s soft but comforting grip, “I promise. My father was eventually located many miles away from the farm where he had been staying. He was unconscious when they found him by the roadside. He regained consciousness long enough to say the name ‘Vittorio Borga’ then relapsed into a coma. It could be years before he becomes himself again – if he ever does.”
“Who, or what is a Vittorio Borga?” Joseph asked enquiringly.
“Borga is my uncle’s name. He and my father are stepbrothers. The same mother but different fathers. My father’s father, my grandfather, died the day that my father was born. My grandmother remarried about three years later and Vittorio was born a year after that.
Once they were old enough to play together, my father and Vittorio became inseparable. When my father developed a taste for archaeology, my uncle also took an avid interest in it. It wasn’t a case of his having no mind of his own – it was more of a unique bonding of minds. They were both on the same wavelength. So much so, it seemed at times that my uncle was my father’s clone. He was working with my father just before the relics disappeared. We haven’t been able to find him since the attack. We think that he is in hiding with the relics, and we fear for his safety.”
“Who are we?”
“My mother and I – and Martin of course.”
“And what makes you think that he is hiding and has not simply run away with the statue? You said it was very valuable.”
“He would never do that. My uncle is a good man … and I told you, the statue is too large for one man to move – so it must be hidden somewhere. We – Martin and I, that is, think that he may have witnessed the attack on my father so he knows who is after him and what they want, but has managed to escape them – at least for the moment … but he is not safe.
Like you, Martin has contacts, and his sources indicate that the Punjani were responsible for the attack on my father, but they failed to get what they were after, and they are still looking for the relics.”
“Do you believe that they attacked your father?”
“Yes. The Punjani now reside in London … it would be easy for them to spy on him and try to steal the relics … and attack him if they needed to. His condition was not as a result of a physical attack. Blood tests showed traces of Ramanes.”
“Ramanes,” Joseph interjected, “the drug they discovered in the Easter Islands, the one that can extend your life by ten or twenty years?”
“No, that is rapamycin, ramanes is an ancient drug that was used to make the receiver suffer hallucinations and forgetfulness for years after being infected. It is the preferred choice of the Punjani when attempting to destroy an enemy’s ability to harm them, without killing him. There is a cure for it, but few people beside the Punjani know what it is. That is where you come in. It is obvious that they did not kill my father because they could not find the relics. Martin said that you might be able to help us track down my uncle, then locate the Punjani and do a trade – the relics for the cure.”
Now Joseph was in a dilemma. He wondered if it had already become too late to convince her that he was not the one that she had expected to meet. He knew that there was no way that he was going to come up with a quick fix solution – this was way beyond his daily routine.
“How did you decide that it was Romanus if it is so rare?” Joseph asked as he tried to think of a way out of his predicament.
“Ramanes,” Rositta corrected with a laugh. “Not Romanus. The Doctor happened to be originally from the Middle East and had done a thesis on ancient drugs during his university days.”
“An amazing coincidence – I should have thought,” Joseph asked in a mocking voice. “to have your father drugged with some rare drug and then just happen to have him examined by someone with experience in it!”
“Do not worry – there is nothing suspicious there,” Rositta replied in a disarming tone, “Martin had the same suspicion, but the Doctor was just as surprised as anyone when he made that discovery. It was only after he had my father’s blood analysed that he recognised the composition.”
“And he had no antidote?”
“No,unfortunately, His studies had only gone as deep as identifying the components and uses for the ancient medication,he hadn’t looked for remedies. He never thought he would have needed one.”
“Pity,” Joseph looked at the time and realized he would only just make it back in time to save his job. Then as he began to rise out of his seat he looked deep into Rositta’s large, round, sad, brown eyes and it is very doubtful that Joseph would ever understand why he made the rash statement that he did next.
“Rositta, do you know the Casmira Hotel on James?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me there at six tonight: The Marble bar.”
“Grazie, Joseph. Six o’clock at the Camira. Ciao.” The smile on Rositta’s face was as warm as the touch of her lips as she leaned over and gave Joseph a kiss on the cheek: Joseph carried an embarrassed look on his face that would last for several hours as he made his way back to the office.
The undiscovered and unwashed lipstick would also leave a new impression on some of his co-workers.
See ya in a week or so
Tony
tonystewart3 - Short Fat Stubby Finger Stories 