Post by Lorpius Prime on Jan 30, 2008 1:30:08 GMT -5
Light crept through the open sliver of Jay’s right eyelid. It was a dim light and for a while Jay tried to ignore it. But eventually it penetrated beyond the resistance of his tremendous exhaustion. Groggily, he forced his eyes the rest of the way open.
The gray fog made it hard to see anything. Except more gray fog, of course. Belatedly, Jay realized that perhaps there wasn’t anything to see. Maybe it was all gray fog. That seemed unlikely however, and Jay sat up with a sigh.
And nearly bashed his head on rocky ground when he fell right back down. He was quite awake now and his eyes were locked open, gazing through the fog to whatever distant source of illumination hid beyond it. It took him a moment to work up the courage to lift his head slightly and peek over his outstretched feet.
The woman sitting past them tilted her head and looked at Jay with a curious half-smirk. He lay back again, shut his eyes tightly, and took a deep breath, blowing out his cheeks as he exhaled.
With his eyes still squeezed shut, he sat up slowly. After making sure of his balance he, very carefully, opened his eyes once more. The woman was still there; her honey blond hair fell over her shoulder to rest in her lap beneath her folded hands. She was smiling pleasantly now.
No one said anything. There was nothing for Jay to look at besides the woman, the ground, his own feet, and the fog. He found this immensely uncomfortable and frustrating. Finally, he patted the ground impatiently and spoke.
“Hi.” It was quite a speech.
“Hello Jay Thomson.”
He knew the voice, just as he recognized the woman herself. It was only the expression that was unfamiliar and which made Jay feel so very out of place.
“What are you doing here?” He was becoming frustrated.
Her eyebrows rose, “Me, Jay Thomson?”
“Yes,” Jay sighed in exasperation and waved a hand around at the fog. “…fine, what am I doing here?”
Her grin doubled in size and Jay fought the urge to reach out and throttle her.
“We need you back.”
“What?” Jay frowned.
“My sister’s coming to get you.”
“What?” he repeated, blinking.
She rolled her eyes, “Don’t get yourself caught up in something you can’t control.”
“Wait,” he shook his head, trying to get a handle on the conversation, “you have a—“
But something grabbed Jay by the shoulder and the fog closed in around him.
“Gaah!”
Jay’s lunge was hindered by the sheets and he tore at them, trying to free himself. It took him a few seconds to get his wits about him and calm down. When he did he saw Theodore sprawled out on the floor, rubbing his back and looking bewildered.
“Are you all right, Mr. Blake?” the German’s accent was much thicker than when he had spoken with Jay before.
Jay opened and then shut his mouth rapidly, then rubbed his temple.
“Uh, sorry, Theo… yeah. I just… I was talking to someone…” He squinted, trying to bring the images back into his mind.
Theodore picked up the walking stick he’d dropped and pulled himself to his feet. “Talking to someone?”
“Er, this woman, Wilma Perry, very strange one… odd dream, I guess.” Jay shook his head, putting it out of his mind.
Theodore brushed himself off, “Well I am sorry to disturb you, but I have train tickets to Munich for us. We depart in a little less than two hours. I believe you wanted to send a letter.”
“Letters, um, yes,” Jay looked around the room, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing here. His memories weren’t returning quite fast enough to satisfy him, “What time is it?”
“It was ten minutes before five when I purchased these tickets, that was about twenty minutes ago.”
Jay jerked and hastened his efforts to extricate himself from the bed and to locate his shoes and jacket. He wished he could remember walking into the room, but it was all lost in the haze of exhaustion.
“Please tell me you know where I can find a Royal Mail Post Office? A close one? No proper British company is going to stay open past six, least of all a Royal Monopoly.” He was hopping on one foot now, his right leg still in the death grip of the damnable bed sheet.
“There is one at the train station. Do you need—“
Jay narrowly avoided breaking his nose as he fell flat on his face. A last-moment twist of the neck left him with nothing more serious than a bruised jaw. Still, the unfortunate accident let him see that he had shoved his shoes under the hotel bed.
“I have everything under control.”
Wilson Lawrence Cavendish III of Her Imperial Majesty’s Royal Mail Service could not possibly have cared about the ringing bell which announced that someone had just entered the office for which he was responsible. Mr. Cavendish would not have cared if a derailed train had just entered the office for which he was responsible. He merely turned the page on the tabloid which he had already read three times that day.
Mr. Cavendish was nearly to the end of his shift. And it was one of the last shifts of his rotation in the Royal Mail’s German offices for which he had volunteered slightly less than two years ago. The nice Bavarian girl whom Mr. Cavendish had thought he was going to marry had left him three weeks ago and he was looking forward to returning home to Liverpool and Liverpool’s pubs.
All of these factors contributed to Mr. Cavendish’s decision not to look up and affect a friendly smile when a shadow appeared over his desk. Instead, Mr. Cavendish decided to grunt into the palm of the hand on which his head was resting. Even had Mr. Cavendish looked up and smiled he probably would not have connected the face of the visitor with the face on the small poster which the soldiers had asked him to paste up and which was still sitting on his desk beneath a pile of old tabloids.
“I need to send a telegram,” said the visitor Mr. Cavendish had no desire to see.
“Forms are on the right wall,” said Mr. Cavendish. If the shelves were empty, he fully intended to tell the visitor that they had run out completely.
“I work for The Times, this will be on their account.”
Mr. Cavendish rolled his eyes. He wanted to shout at the visitor for forcing him to go through the trouble of arranging a private priority transmission, especially at this indecent hour. It was nothing but professional inertia that made him say, “I will need your card, number, and signature for authorization,” as he pulled out the enormous log book from beneath the counter.
To Mr. Cavendish great disgust, the visitor’s credentials were authentic. He closed and put away the log book without reading the modest signature.
“Follow me,” said Mr. Cavendish. He stood up and unhooked the little ring of keys from his belt so that he could unlock one of the private booths. He muttered curses at the visitor under his breath. If the other man heard them, he gave no indication of it.
After unlocking the booth, Mr. Cavendish sorted the wires and keyed the telegraph machine for transmission to the proper receiver, in this case the division of the London central switching station which The Times leased for its own use.
That done, he ushered the newspaper man inside with the curt pronouncement that “We close in ten minutes.” Mr. Cavendish hoped the admonishment would encourage the other man to finish quickly, although he knew from long painful experience that journalists simply weren’t capable of transmitting a brief message. Grumbling about his now ruined evening, Mr. Cavendish returned to his desk and his tabloid to wait.
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-
The gray fog made it hard to see anything. Except more gray fog, of course. Belatedly, Jay realized that perhaps there wasn’t anything to see. Maybe it was all gray fog. That seemed unlikely however, and Jay sat up with a sigh.
And nearly bashed his head on rocky ground when he fell right back down. He was quite awake now and his eyes were locked open, gazing through the fog to whatever distant source of illumination hid beyond it. It took him a moment to work up the courage to lift his head slightly and peek over his outstretched feet.
The woman sitting past them tilted her head and looked at Jay with a curious half-smirk. He lay back again, shut his eyes tightly, and took a deep breath, blowing out his cheeks as he exhaled.
With his eyes still squeezed shut, he sat up slowly. After making sure of his balance he, very carefully, opened his eyes once more. The woman was still there; her honey blond hair fell over her shoulder to rest in her lap beneath her folded hands. She was smiling pleasantly now.
No one said anything. There was nothing for Jay to look at besides the woman, the ground, his own feet, and the fog. He found this immensely uncomfortable and frustrating. Finally, he patted the ground impatiently and spoke.
“Hi.” It was quite a speech.
“Hello Jay Thomson.”
He knew the voice, just as he recognized the woman herself. It was only the expression that was unfamiliar and which made Jay feel so very out of place.
“What are you doing here?” He was becoming frustrated.
Her eyebrows rose, “Me, Jay Thomson?”
“Yes,” Jay sighed in exasperation and waved a hand around at the fog. “…fine, what am I doing here?”
Her grin doubled in size and Jay fought the urge to reach out and throttle her.
“We need you back.”
“What?” Jay frowned.
“My sister’s coming to get you.”
“What?” he repeated, blinking.
She rolled her eyes, “Don’t get yourself caught up in something you can’t control.”
“Wait,” he shook his head, trying to get a handle on the conversation, “you have a—“
But something grabbed Jay by the shoulder and the fog closed in around him.
* * *
“Gaah!”
Jay’s lunge was hindered by the sheets and he tore at them, trying to free himself. It took him a few seconds to get his wits about him and calm down. When he did he saw Theodore sprawled out on the floor, rubbing his back and looking bewildered.
“Are you all right, Mr. Blake?” the German’s accent was much thicker than when he had spoken with Jay before.
Jay opened and then shut his mouth rapidly, then rubbed his temple.
“Uh, sorry, Theo… yeah. I just… I was talking to someone…” He squinted, trying to bring the images back into his mind.
Theodore picked up the walking stick he’d dropped and pulled himself to his feet. “Talking to someone?”
“Er, this woman, Wilma Perry, very strange one… odd dream, I guess.” Jay shook his head, putting it out of his mind.
Theodore brushed himself off, “Well I am sorry to disturb you, but I have train tickets to Munich for us. We depart in a little less than two hours. I believe you wanted to send a letter.”
“Letters, um, yes,” Jay looked around the room, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing here. His memories weren’t returning quite fast enough to satisfy him, “What time is it?”
“It was ten minutes before five when I purchased these tickets, that was about twenty minutes ago.”
Jay jerked and hastened his efforts to extricate himself from the bed and to locate his shoes and jacket. He wished he could remember walking into the room, but it was all lost in the haze of exhaustion.
“Please tell me you know where I can find a Royal Mail Post Office? A close one? No proper British company is going to stay open past six, least of all a Royal Monopoly.” He was hopping on one foot now, his right leg still in the death grip of the damnable bed sheet.
“There is one at the train station. Do you need—“
Jay narrowly avoided breaking his nose as he fell flat on his face. A last-moment twist of the neck left him with nothing more serious than a bruised jaw. Still, the unfortunate accident let him see that he had shoved his shoes under the hotel bed.
“I have everything under control.”
* * *
Wilson Lawrence Cavendish III of Her Imperial Majesty’s Royal Mail Service could not possibly have cared about the ringing bell which announced that someone had just entered the office for which he was responsible. Mr. Cavendish would not have cared if a derailed train had just entered the office for which he was responsible. He merely turned the page on the tabloid which he had already read three times that day.
Mr. Cavendish was nearly to the end of his shift. And it was one of the last shifts of his rotation in the Royal Mail’s German offices for which he had volunteered slightly less than two years ago. The nice Bavarian girl whom Mr. Cavendish had thought he was going to marry had left him three weeks ago and he was looking forward to returning home to Liverpool and Liverpool’s pubs.
All of these factors contributed to Mr. Cavendish’s decision not to look up and affect a friendly smile when a shadow appeared over his desk. Instead, Mr. Cavendish decided to grunt into the palm of the hand on which his head was resting. Even had Mr. Cavendish looked up and smiled he probably would not have connected the face of the visitor with the face on the small poster which the soldiers had asked him to paste up and which was still sitting on his desk beneath a pile of old tabloids.
“I need to send a telegram,” said the visitor Mr. Cavendish had no desire to see.
“Forms are on the right wall,” said Mr. Cavendish. If the shelves were empty, he fully intended to tell the visitor that they had run out completely.
“I work for The Times, this will be on their account.”
Mr. Cavendish rolled his eyes. He wanted to shout at the visitor for forcing him to go through the trouble of arranging a private priority transmission, especially at this indecent hour. It was nothing but professional inertia that made him say, “I will need your card, number, and signature for authorization,” as he pulled out the enormous log book from beneath the counter.
To Mr. Cavendish great disgust, the visitor’s credentials were authentic. He closed and put away the log book without reading the modest signature.
“Follow me,” said Mr. Cavendish. He stood up and unhooked the little ring of keys from his belt so that he could unlock one of the private booths. He muttered curses at the visitor under his breath. If the other man heard them, he gave no indication of it.
After unlocking the booth, Mr. Cavendish sorted the wires and keyed the telegraph machine for transmission to the proper receiver, in this case the division of the London central switching station which The Times leased for its own use.
That done, he ushered the newspaper man inside with the curt pronouncement that “We close in ten minutes.” Mr. Cavendish hoped the admonishment would encourage the other man to finish quickly, although he knew from long painful experience that journalists simply weren’t capable of transmitting a brief message. Grumbling about his now ruined evening, Mr. Cavendish returned to his desk and his tabloid to wait.
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-