53- Not Knowing What's Round The Corner

Since I've been pursuing agents and researching the whole area of getting books published in UK and USA, I've connected with some really interesting people. In fact, one of them (John Hunt) popped in today and, out of that conversation, I've become a publisher, managing one if the imprints (subsidiaries) of O Books (http://www.o-books.com/) - a new imprint to publish business books.

So, if you know anyone who has written a great manuscript about some aspect of business - accounting, marketing, business recovery, leadership, sustainable business etc etc - tell them to contact me and I'll see what we can do. Like me, you never know where it will lead you to!

And now back to Mary's story, continued from the previous blog …

"I am not, I repeat, I am not clambering up any steps, young lady," said Mary interrupting and feeling terrified at the thought of the exertion required to attain those giddy heights. "If I was meant to climb things I would have had crampons for toes. I don't."

"Ah you party poopers!" said Halee skipping up to the bottom of the stairs. "I'll wait till you get in your stuffy lift and then I'll race you to the fifth floor. Quick, here it is!"

The crazy young girl fled up the stairs as Ahmed and Mary took the sensible route, not wasting the technological advances brought to this century. Mary wondered if her health would be better served by a few flights of stairs, from time to time, and she rather envied Halee's energy and unconcern for appearances. Oh well, she though, she'll ponder it from the comfort of a quiet lift and a nice glass of wine at the top. Mary was thankful for Ahmed's silence as she could ponder … well, everything, really - Sam, night-time chases, gentle and bossy Muslim manners, Sam, childish exuberance, Sam, Angus, New Zealand visitors, Sam … the doors started to open and Mary hadn't realised the lift had stopped - another technological marvel - and there stood a panting Halee on the threshold.

"So you beat us …" said Ahmed, smiling.

"Shh, they're here, they're ruddy well coming," whispered Halee quickly.

"Who's coming?" asked Mary, her mind still not unwinding from thoughts of Sam.

"Shhh!" whispered Halee urgently, leaping into the lift and looking around frantically. "How do we get back down in this thing?"

"But they can't be here …" said Ahmed, his usual calm disappearing into lopsidedness again.

"Shut up will ya! They'll hear you!" whispered Halee urgently. "They're following me up. Where's the ruddy down button in this fangled thing? Now!"

Ahmed, stunned by her language and panic, pressed the button for the first floor. As the doors closed they could hear the clattering of shoes coming up the marble stairway, towards them.

"Are we headed for the bottom? We need to get out there!" said Halee, leaning back against the elevator wall, catching her breath.

"I have a friend on the first floor," said Ahmed. "We'll sneak in there."

"They found us in this building, mate, so they'll find us anywhere in it," said Halee, grabbing Ahmed by the lapels. "This is real, Ahmed, don't you get that? They're in here, now, after us."

"And so is my plan very real," said Ahmed, gently taking Halee's hands off him as the doors opened onto the first floor.

"Okay, stop a sec. Keep the doors open and see where they go now," suggested Halee quietly.

"We need to get out and into Mohammed's apartment," said Ahmed quietly, about to step out, with his guiding hand on Mary's shoulder.

"See, they're coming down again! They're like bloody homing pigeons!" whispered Halee.

"Mary, what's this?" asked Ahmed, his poise gone. He leapt back into the elevator, pulled the women in with him and pushed the button for his floor. In his hand was a black, circular plastic thing. "This was stuck on your coat, Mary. Do you think it's a device … I don't know, for following us?"

"Oh hell!" said Mary, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and out of control.

"Well, if it is, leave it here, we get out at the fifth and we send it back to the bottom," said Halee. "They'll follow it back down."

"And pick it up and know we're still in the building," said Mary, feeling her neurons starting up again.

"Yes, good one," said Halee, smiling and scratching her head. "So we go back down, leave it in here, send it back up and we scarper …"

"What if one of them is waiting at the bottom?" asked Ahmed, adding his chilling thought as the doors started to open again on the fifth floor. He pushed the ground floor button, threw the thing out onto the fifth floor landing as the doors closed and they descended again.

"Ahmed, we need to work this out together …" said Mary, as she felt control slipping away again.

"I'm sorry Miss Collins, but I didn't think we had time," said Ahmed, looking embarrassed.

"Okay, no time to discuss. You're right, Ahmed," said Mary, smiling. "So we tear out of this lift, hope there's no one at the bottom, shoot him if he is and then get out of here?"

"Shoot someone?" asked Ahmed, looking aghast.

"Just joking, Ahmed," said Mary, laughing to cover her dread. "Point and pretend to shoot … I don't know … get out of here and then what?"

"What if there's others outside?" asked Ahmed, measuring possibilities as the lift doors opened at the second floor and a couple entered, obviously dressed for a party in a smarter part of London. They giggled at each other, oblivious to the conspiring and panicking threesome. Mary was inwardly cursing the giggling couple in front of her, barring a quick getaway, but was soon thankful. As the doors opened on the ground, a brown, tattooed arm reached in and grabbed the incredulous couple.

"Got ya now, ya bastards!" said the stocky, dark, curly-headed man attached to the arm. "Get out here and give us our stuff, will ya!"

Our Terrified Three were momentarily stunned, unsure what to do next. The problem was solved by the party-going man who reacted quickly and efficiently, ramming his attacker against the wall with quiet fury.

"C'mon!" whispered Halee, leaping from the lift and towards the huge entrance doors. Mary and Ahmed reacted on instinct, as if they were chained to Halee, and fled as they heard a clatter and curses coming down the marble stairs.

"Don't bloody move! Not one inch!" yelled the taller blond man, leaping down stairs, three at a time. Halee struggled with the mechanism of the door which was designed to open with dignity and grace.

As the brown man slid to the floor with blood on his face, the blonde one hesitated between helping his friend and pursuing his quarry, now so close.

Crooked Lives Straightening Out

I'm not sure if you've noticed, but life - our lives - don't actually seem to go in a tidy, straight-line sequence. We do one thing and then another and then another and then something happens that connects to the first event and then something connects us back to event 21 and then event 16 rears it's head again. Things we do that seem so inconsequential or irrelevant at one time have a lovely way of returning and showing us their consequences and relevance - we just don't ever know when that will be.

Writing a book is a bit like that, I've found. I found myself happily writing away for days or weeks on end and then, when I come to read it all back to myself, I realise the whole sequence of events is stuffed up. So, over the last two weeks, I have written nothing - I've just been rearranging the whole book so it runs in a tidy sequence, time-wise … and now I feel better, untwisted and ready to write again!

Merry Christmas to you all!

And now to the next gripping 1,000 words in Arthur's story, continued from the previous blog ...

"Martin! Martin!" came Joan's voice through the small cocoon of maleness. "Stop Martin. I think he's badly injured."

"And what was he about to do to you, Mum?" Martin shot back angrily.
"Martin, he can't do us any harm now," said Joan standing up. "Have a little compassion, son."

"But he's …"

"But he's in a lot of pain, he's tied by the feet and his arms probably don't work," said Joan, pointing out the logic of the situation. "Help him on to this chair, tie his feet to it and we can see what's next."
Martin and Dalek were obviously ready to inflict more pain on this bad man. They looked at each other in brotherly connection, shook their heads sadly and lifted Toby to a sitting position on the chair with less gentleness than they could have managed. Toby's legs were tied to the chair and when Dalek grabbed his left arm, Toby let out another ceiling-rattling scream.

"Stop! Stop!" yelled Joan, pushing Dalek aside. "We've gone far enough. Here, Dottie, you were a nurse. Can you look at Toby's arm, please?"

"It's my shoulder," whispered Toby, looking ashen and pained.

"You be careful, lady, he bad man," said Dalek, hovering helpfully behind her.

"No Dalek … is that your name, Dalek?" asked Joan. "I'm Joan, this is Dottie and my son Martin." As Dottie gently manoeuvred Toby's arm on to his lap, Dalek and Martin shook hands.
"Please meet you," said Dalek, his ferocity softening a little.
"Now Dalek, he's not a bad man. He just did a bad thing and he won't do it again," said Joan with obvious conviction.
"Not bad man, just bad things," said Dalek as if chewing the new idea over. "So I stay if another bad thing he do."
"Yes, it's great to have your protection," said Martin, alternatively rubbing his sore cheek and tenderly checking his painful finger.
"Ah, Mr Arthur, I have paper for you in van," said Dalek.
"Paper?" asked Arthur.
"Yes, paper on Mr Atkinson … Lord Atkinson," said Dalek. "You know, paper in bag."
"Ah, the Atkinson file!" said Arthur as the realisation hit him. "You took it out of the bag?"
"Yes, I think bad thing to happen so I take from bag when you no look," said Dalek. "For your protection, Mr Arthur."
"Ah Dalek, you're a genius!" said Arthur.
"Me genius … genius, what is this word?" asked Dalek.
"Oh, ah, you're brilliant, big brain, Dalek! Said Arthur, tapping his head.
"Ah, me genius, big brain!" said Dalek beaming as he gave Arthur a bear hug.
"Oh Dalek," said Arthur, his words muffled by Dalek, "can you get the file now, please, now that Toby is disabled?"
"Yes Mr Arthur, I go now," said Dalek as he bounded out to get the papers.
"Whew!" said Arthur as he collected himself and got his breath back. He could hear faint sobbing and turned to see Toby looking distressed.
"Dad, I think he's in more pain than we thought," said Martin, sounding worried.
"I think it's a dislocated shoulder - painful but not fatal," said Dottie efficiently. "I'll put him in a sling and we'll get him down to the medical centre. Do you have material for a sling, Joan?"
"Mmm, probably," said Joan as she led Dottie off to find something suitable.
"I'm really sorry …" came a murmur from Toby's direction.
"What?" asked Arthur and Martin in unison.
"I'm really sorry, guys," said Toby, weakly. Joan and Dottie returned with a table cloth and Dottie had it quickly folded and tied up to hold Toby's arm, with accompanying grimaces from Toby.

"Thank you Dottie," said Toby, falteringly. "Thank you all for being so kind. I was not so kind to you at all."

"It was nothing. In fact, it didn't happen, if we're to believe A Course in Miracles," said Joan, smiling.

"Oh it happened alright! Look at Dalek's eyes - both black," said Toby with a little force than before, as Dalek returned with Arthur's file. "My punch to his kidneys damaged them, temporarily, making it black round his eyes. It happened alright!"

"So you little man punch big man and I go down?" asked Dalek with obvious admiration as he handed Arthur the file. "So you teach me that trick or I break your face!" Dalek burst out laughing.

Arthur was shocked but realised it must be Dalek's rough good humour. He was still wary of the big man and so were the others, judging by the way they obediently laughed along with him.

"No problem, Dalek mate, when I get my arm working again, said Toby smiling uncertainly. "But … but I feel so stupid causing all this, thinking I could take advantage of you folk for a quick and large buck."

"A quick buck?" asked Arthur.

"Yes, after we had those two chaps apprehended at work, the word must have got around and a chap with a rough, gravely voice asked me if I would like £2,000 for a morning's work."

"And you have no idea who this was?" asked Martin.

"Not sure … ow! But he put half the money into my account immediately as a show of faith," said Toby shifting on the chair as the others sat down round him. "He paid two thugs to get the files from the office … oh, of course, Arthur, you were there and escaped!"

"Ah, those two," said Arthur as a tremble up his spine accompanied the memory's return.

"Yes, those two," said Toby. "Well, they didn't get the files and I guess this Mr Gravelly Voice thought I had inside knowledge, coupled with discovering I disarmed his two bovver boys with knife and gun."
"You disarmed two armed men?" asked Martin with surprise.

"Well, sort of," said Toby, smiling. "Actually, they kinda' handed the gun and knife over and I took advantage of their clumsiness."

The Karate Kid Appears

His heart wanted him to skip lightly across the twenty yards to his door, to escape the rather unnerving Dalek, and to fall into the welcome arms of his familiar home again. He sauntered, as best he could, and was about to ring the doorbell when a deadness, a dread, filled his stomach. Something was wrong. He just knew it, though he didn't know why he knew. The street, his house and all about him looked perfectly normal but something was amiss. He fumbled quietly in his pocket for his keys and opened the door into the small foyer slowly, very slowly.

The main door was already open, thankfully, and he took the five paces up the passage with a thumping heart. All was quiet. Eerily quiet. He peered round the door and saw Joan on a kitchen chair - hands tied behind her back, ankles tied together and with a mouth-gag tied around her head. Her grey-tinged blonde curls looked as if someone had grabbed hanks of it and her eyes were wide and frightened. She nodded to her left and Arthur looked further round the door to see Mollie, their neighbour, trussed up similarly. Joan was then indicating to him furiously and he determined that she was trying to tell him about something upstairs. He listened and could hear rustling, probably in his office. He dropped the bag and rushed to Joan, untying her gag as the phone rang.

"Get it!" she whispered urgently and he fled with the wings of Pegasus into the living room and picked up the phone.

"Help! hel …" he yelled, then the phone went dead. There was a curse from upstairs and then the sound of someone running along the passage and clattering down the stairs. Had there been time for Arthur to panic or react, he would have done the former and not the latter. As it was, Toby burst into the dining room, wrenched the phone from his hand and twisted him around in an arm lock before he had time to do either. He was then pushed, rather rudely, into the lounge and pushed onto the couch.

"Don't you move an inch!" commanded Toby as he disappeared and reappeared with another dining room chair. "Sit!"

Arthur got up and sat in the appointed chair.

"Now, where do you keep rope?" asked Toby, looking around quickly as if it might be stored in the lounge..

"Oh dear, rope …" said Arthur, pondering. "It's not something we usually carry here …"

"And where's the stuff for the Atkinson case?" interrupted Toby.

"Ah, I took it with me …" said Arthur, instantly regretting his helpfulness. He made a mental note to tell more lies.

"I know that, Arthur!" said Toby. "You must have stuff in your computer …"

"Not much, really, it's all in the files, I'm afraid," said Arthur, thankful he'd taken the precaution of regularly downloading all the Atkinson files onto computer sticks, now hidden in Joan's underwear drawer.

"My god, you old codgers, just not computer savvy are you!" said Toby, obviously impatient at yet another impediment.

"No, I suppose not …" said Arthur.

"So, where's your rope, now?" demanded Toby, returning to his initial problem.

"Ah, it should be in the back shed, behind the mattress and freezer against the back wall," said Arthur, thinking of the most inaccessible place he could imagine.

"Right. So, move a muscle and you're dead. Got it?"

"Oh, yes, dead," said Arthur, trying to look submissive.

Toby fled out the back and Arthur leapt up immediately. In his panic, Toby had obviously not noticed Joan's gag had come loose and she's acted suitably statue-like for him not to notice. Arthur struggled to untie her hands and, when done, bend down to untie her ankles.
"No, no, I can do that," whispered Joan. "Get Dottie's."

"Yes, just a minute," said Arthur, rushing from the room. He quietly opened the front door and motioned frantically to Dalek, who was watching, with great intent, as two young girls walked past. Arthur didn't want to be seen out of his seat or to make any noise before Dalek arrived. He continued to wave frantically and, just as he was about to give up, Dalek looked his way and then burst from the van like fireworks.

"Yes Mr Arthur, trouble?" asked Dalek, obviously relishing some action.
"Yes, aah, bad man out the back," said Arthur, pointing down the passage.

"Right suh! Me deal with bad man then," said Dalek, squaring his massive shoulders and walking purposefully, though cautiously, into the dining room. Arthur turned right into the lounge to see the two ladies fully untied but sitting as if they weren't.

"So Arthur, what now?" asked Joan, constantly peering out the door.

"Hmm, I'm not sure," said Arthur, knowing that was what the two ladies did not want to hear. "Perhaps I should help Dalek and you two could rush up the road and get help …" He was interrupted by yells, thuds, crashes and bangs. Then there was an "Umph!" in a distinctly Czech accent. Arthur felt sick and immobilised. He looked at Joan who shrugged with a quiet resignation as if she knew everything would be alright. Dottie, on the other hand, looked stricken and Arthur was about to go over and comfort her when Toby appeared in the doorway, panting.

"So, where did you get that oaf, Arthur Bayly?" asked Toby. "Any other tricks up your sleeve I should know about?"
"Aah, no, not …"

"And, mysteriously, there's no rope in your wee shed, Mr Bayly," said Toby, his frustration obviously undiminished.

"But what about Dalek? Have you killed him?" asked Arthur, relieved to have the thought of a diversion from his previous diversion.

41 - Being Open And Unknowing

For some reason, it's taken me nearly 50 years to realise just how bad at geography my religious teachers were. In a conversation last weekend I remembered the images we were presented with at Sunday School - a blonde, blue-eyed, white, radiant Jesus surrounded by ecstatically happy, ruddy-cheeked children on a verdant hillside with spreading oaks, beeches and willows and a stream (populated with trout and salmon) flowing past while a few Romney sheep contentedly grazed while their coats shone like newly-washed cotton wool.

At the time my infant mind couldn't believe the scene. I'd never been to Israel or England by then but something inside screamed "mismatch!" Now I know why - Jesus lived in Israel (mainly) and they don't have verdant hills, oaks, beeches, willow, trout, salmon or Romney sheep there … and Jesus sure as heck wouldn't have been blonde or blue-eyed.

What we've done, I realised, is made Jesus in our own image - the image of the painters of these religious scenes. In the same way, we've made God in our own image, not the other way round, as per the Bible. That's why there's no mystery about why there are so many different Gods - friendly ones, angry ones, spiteful ones, fatherly ones, loving ones, vengeful ones, forgiving ones - and why there's an equal number of versions of Jesus.

We see what we want to see, what we expect to see, what we've always seen. The only God (or Jesus) we can conjure up is the one from our past. It's like making up a picture of what a radio announcer looks like, from his voice. Then we meet him and he looks quite different. However, we cannot shake off the made-up version, despite the evidence of the real version.

If we've grown up with an angry God who then does something loving to or for us, do we notice? If we've grown up with a sullen God who then does something deliriously funny, do we notice?

Maybe, just maybe, if we decided, based on the lack of tangible evidence to date, that we haven't a clue what God could be like, would we be open to the grandest, most loving version of God that's possible? … and, by extension (if we are created in his image) the grandest, most loving version of ourselves?

Maybe, just maybe, being open and unknowing can lead us to where we could never have imagined going. Just a thought …

And where is Arthur Bayly going? His story continues from the previous blog ...

"Oh, yes, of course," said Arthur, relieved that he could talk to the Lord and a little intimidated that he was actually going to do it.

"Now, Arthur, the touchy bit, I'm afraid," said Mary, obviously faltering while she phrased the next bit. "Your situation is a little … a, interesting. There is a possibility, just a small one, that you could be followed at some time."

"I already am, Mary, by an Australian and his gang," said Arthur, smiling. That bit sounded quite exotic, quite … well, 007ish.

"You are?" asked Mary with evident surprise. "And we thought they … oh, he, was from New Zealand. Gosh … so you know you could be followed again?"

"Yes, I suppose I do," said Arthur, with the exotic label quickly fading while the fearsome one lit in bright neon lights. He wiped his brow.

"So, Arthur, we have a plan," said Mary, who loved plans, Arthur knew. "You're not planning on going anywhere today, are you?"

"No, no, I wasn't …"

"Good, so the plan is this," said Mary. "A tradesman's van will pull up outside your house at 10.30 this morning. He will knock on your door and you're to let him in. Understand?"

"Yes. Is that it?" asked Arthur.

"No, Arthur, I just want to make sure you understand every bit of the procedure," said Mary. "Now, you and the tradesman will exchange clothes and you can then go out and hop into his van. There will be a passenger who will give you driving directions. You can drive, can't you?"

"Uh yes, oh yes, I can drive though it has been a long time," said Arthur, wondering if it was all that much fun being James Bond.

"Now, the tradesman will be Toby McGuire, my secretary. He's younger but about your size," said Mary, obviously ticking things off a list as she conveyed them to him. "You'll be away for an hour or so, if your wife wouldn't mind plying him with cups of tea for that time … and please don't take your cell phone. It can be traced. Do you follow all that?"

"Ah, yes, I think so," said Arthur.

"Good," said Mary. "And good luck."

As Arthur put the phone down he realised his apprehension over meeting - and getting to meet - Lord Atkinson was not his only problem. He had another problem - Joan. How was he going to explain this strange turn of events, especially when she wasn't keen on him starting the project, anyway? As well as that, she'd asked little about the project and he'd told her little. And now, in forty minutes' time, a stranger was going to come through the door, exchange clothes with Arthur and stay in the house while Arthur drove off in his van to destination unknown. How much to tell and where to start? What a conundrum … and one that wasn't going away!

Oh well, gird the loins, take a deep breath (a very deep breath) and wing it - just say whatever comes to mind. 'Yes, one must do just that,' he thought. His brain froze, his body rose and he wondered how he'd got himself in this pickle - life was so regular, ordered and predictable two weeks ago and he'd disliked it. Now, well, yes, it was anything but regular and predictable and, yes, he had to admit it, it was just the tiniest bit exciting. And fearful.

Putting on his sternest face, he strode up the short hallway, turned down the stairs and called for Joan before he reached the bottom.

"Yes dear," said Joan, from the kitchen. "Can it just wait a minute? I was just about to ring Dottie and thank her for her help over the funeral."

"No Joan," said Arthur, frowning rather seriously to himself. "That will have to wait. I'd like to talk to you now, please."

"Oh Arthur, you do sound masterful!" said Joan appearing in the doorway of the lounge where he was standing, waiting. She was wiping her hands on her floral apron. "What is it that's come over you? You're diff …"

"Joan, I'm sorry, but I don't have a lot of time," said Arthur, indicating her chair.

"Right, yes, if you insist …" said Joan, unused to such direction from Arthur.

"Now, at ten thirty a young man I don't know will come to the door," he said, discovering his mouth (or was it his brain that was in charge?) was diving straight in. No preamble at all. "I will let him in, we'll exchange clothes, I will drive off in his van and he will stay here with you until I return. Probably about an hour."

"Right, yes," said Joan. "This stranger - he's quite safe, is he? He won't be torturing me or anything will he?"

"No, of course he won't," said Arthur, not sure if she was joking or being very logical. "He's Mary's secretary, a nice young man by all accounts."

"That's good," said Joan, smiling. "What else did you want to tell me, dear?"

"I … ah, well, that's what's going to happen," said Arthur, expecting objections that didn't eventuate. "I can tell you more if you want to know more."

"not really, if you don't have enough time, Arthur," said Joan. I'll have a whole hour with this charming young man so I can drill him, can't I?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose you can," said Arthur, now wishing she did want to know more so he could tell her. "It's about this Atkinson case, actually."

"Yes, I had guessed that," said Joan. "I'd like to know more about it some time but there's probably not the time now, is there?"

"Well, I could make a start," said Arthur, wondering where that bossy and demanding Joan had gone. A quite pleasant one had stepped into her body somehow, recently.

40 - Basket Case At The End Of The Money

Now that I've got to the end of my money and am now living from credit cards (with no certainty of any conceivable income) I'm having to take a long, hard look at what got me to this situation and, more importantly, what thinking patterns have created this scary predicament.

My conscious mind tells me, "There is no way I would have chosen this … even for my own worst enemies!" So, if I wouldn't choose it for my worst enemies, why did I choose it for myself? Am I my own really, really worst enemy of all time? Obviously, the logic says I must be my own worst enemy and so I must ask why I choose to live in such precarious situations - is there, at some level, a delight in the fearful, the unpredictable and the sleepless nights that go with it all? Maybe, in some bizarre way, I'm a thrill-seeker, a boundary stretcher and a basket case!! A basket case as I really do not like living this way … though, as my friend Nick says, the evidence does not lie - the facts of my life give undeniable testament to what my thinking has created. That's obviously right but I do wish I knew what (hidden) part of my thinking keeps me here.

Also, living with such stress is not a good recipe for creativity. I'm trying to write a fictional book and the best way to get the words to fall to the page is to be calm and open with oneself … a stance I'm finding very difficult at the moment!

I just wish I could have a wander round inside my head and have a good spring-clean of the all the dirty, negative thoughts there, so my life can be on a more sure footing ... how can I do that?

Arthur Bayly would also like to have a more sure footing on his investigation - his story continues from the previous blog ...

The fire brigade report confirmed fire and smoke damage as per the police report, and concluded the fire was started by a petrol-soaked rag which had been tossed through a broken window of the office, near the tyre marks on the lawn.

The report from the ambulance people confirmed the injuries and discomfort as per the police report and that they were ordered from the property by the second group of police. This, again, was most irregular and the ambulance driver and medical assistant both reported their concern, in writing and verbally, to their supervisor at the hospital. The Lord and Lady were later brought in to the hospital by persons unknown in a civilian car. Lord Atkinson's arm was put in a plaster and sling and his rib cage was bandaged. He was released and soon returned with his daughter and son-in-law, who all took turns to be with Lady Atkinson. Lady Atkinson was still suffering from lack of breath and was put on oxygen and was kept in hospital for 26 hours for observation.
A succinct report from MI5 confirmed that they were called to the house, found unqualified and unauthorised people attending the scene. These people were sent away and they then tried to obtain evidence from the Atkinsons as to why they would try to set fire to their own house and what were they trying to hide. The Atkinsons proved to be particularly uncooperative and were dispatched to the local hospital for attendance on their wounds. The report also briefly mentioned that the daughter and son-in-law (Melinda and John Maranui) had been taken to the Croydon office for questioning and no results of that were indicated.

What the MI5 report did not mention was that Melinda and John Maranui were questioned (interrogated?), separately, for four hours without break, in a military-like establishment on the outskirts of Croydon. They were asked about every moment of their lives for the past six years. They averred that they had nothing to hide but the relentlessness of the interrogation team suggested MI5 did not believe this. The guards on the gates kept everyone away until then and, though they were efficient in their duties, their presence awakened an unknowing press contingent that grew by the hour and made it impossible for the incident to remain secret. The more these authorities tried to batten down any information, the more the rumours and misinformation spread.

The report also omitted to mention that a Mr Brown (later presumed to be the lead character of the MI5 team) initially refused to allow Ahmed and his two assessors to enter the property. The insurance team was eventually allowed in, thanks to pressure from the persistent reporters, on the second morning. Ahmed and his team found no smashed windows or doors, but newly-repaired ones. The lawn near the corner of the burned library looked like it had been run over by a hundred different vehicles and no tyre treads could be traced in the remaining slush. Their discoveries differed from all other reports on evidential grounds. Ahmed had also added subjective, speculative notes, suspecting that the MI5 chaps had not found what they were looking for and had given up.

Lord and Lady Atkinson had written a statement, along with his insurance claim for property missing - none of it particularly valuable and all of it portable. Their statement confirmed that, at 10.30 pm, they were about to leave for Heathrow airport to pick up their daughter and son-in-law when they heard a crash downstairs and, shortly after, four men in black (including balaclavas) burst into their bedroom as they were putting on their jackets and tied them up. The four men, who could not be identified as they said nothing and their faces were covered, proceeded back down the stairs to ransack the office downstairs. A vehicle, probably a four-wheel-drive, by the sound of it, drove off at high speed and the smell of burning was soon detected.

Arthur felt that it was all quite clear but for the dissenting report from MI5, which could not be ignored. And, what were they doing at the scene, ordering everybody about? Lord Atkinson may have been a politician but a break-in was hardly cause for such tactics or such high-level investigation … unless they knew something no one else did. Surely such a high profile person as the Minister of Immigration wouldn't risk his reputation and position with silly misdeeds.

The uncomfortable truth - something he did not really want to admit to himself - was that he needed to meet with Lord Atkinson and hear his story. Arthur had the claim he and his wife had completed but there was something behind the facts, the bland objectivity of a list of items missing and actions taken, that Arthur needed to get to. In order to accept or reject part or whole of any claim, there had to be clear evidence (or lack of it) to substantiate his decision. With the FSA breathing down his neck, he could not take any chances or have any ambiguity. Somehow, he needed to talk to Lord Atkinson and/or his wife. As these unwelcome thoughts crowded his mind, his phone rang.

"Good morning, Arthur Bayly speaking," said Arthur.

"Arthur, how are you? How is it all going? Any progress?" asked a breathless Mary.

"Yes, yes, making progress …"

"Good, good, Arthur," said Mary, interrupting. "Now, I have a favour to ask and I know it would help. It would speed up your investigation."

"Oh?" said Arthur, thinking this was beginning to sound like a request he couldn't refuse.

"Now, I hope you don't mind, but Lord Atkinson wanted to know who was dealing with the case," said Mary, in full flight. "I gave him your name."

"Oh! Mary!" said Arthur. "Is that a good idea? Should we be talking to him directly?"

"Arthur, we're insurance investigators, not solicitors," said Mary, as if telling off a young child. "We're not acting for his prosecutors, we're assessing his insurance claim and we need all the facts we can get, from any source available."

39 - Loss, Lack and Let-Down

We went through the cost and hassle (and, boy, what a hassle!) of moving from Surrey to Oxfordshire as a university promised me a job and a particular income, in writing. Then, unbeknown to me, they couldn't get enough students and then cut the promised income to a quarter of the original sum … perhaps. The start date and many other aspects of the position became much more uncertain. In the end, I decided I needed to be treated with more respect and that we didn't need to be living in a swamp of uncertainty and indecision - I resigned the position and trusted in God that something else would come along … they will come!

Now, we could have felt anger, bitterness and unfairness about all of that - and what would that have done? Just got us feeling anger, bitterness and unfairness!

Actually it did - we were very angry, bitter and revengeful about them … and very fearful for our very uncertain future.

However, the university ain't gonna change. So, with the help of our friend, Nick, we realised we had LOSS, LACK and LET DOWN floating round in our minds and, out of that, we had created LOSS, LACK and LET DOWN in our lives! As Nick said, the evidence does not lie … the fact of our lives is irrefutable proof that LOSS, LACK and LET DOWN are inside us. How else could we manifest it?

So, having realised that, the three of us gave those three Ls, in prayer, to the Holy Spirit to undo and, after that, all the stress and all other negative thoughts went ... and then I got a call to have an interview. Since then, I've had another call - I obviously got the CEO's approval - and so we're off to Swindon for a 2nd interview, to see if the branch manager likes me too! They have come!

And now Arthur's ideas have come, with "three or more" gathered together to bring in the ideas. His story is continued from the previous blog ...

"Uh, we have search agents ... oh, my gosh, of course!" exclaimed Arthur. "It's what I've done for the past thirty years! How stupid of me! Why didn't I think of it before?"

"Because you needed your highly intelligent son to do it for you," said Martin, smiling. "Must be something in the air - we're all losing it! But that's OK, isn't it. Emily?"

"Absolutely," said Emily, looking very relieved, Arthur thought. Maybe the possible solution Martin proposed has given her hope. Maybe Martin has given her hope, somehow. Whatever the reason, Martin felt hugely grateful for his son and sweetly happy for Emily. The poignancy seemed to touch as a gentle silence filled the room and no one seemed to want to disturb it.

"Look, I've got some contacts who might be able to help," said Martin, eventually, his usual restlessness reasserting itself. "And you must have some, Dad. So why don't we get together in a few days' time to see where we're at and take it from there?"

"Excuse me, Mister, but could I go to the car races with you?" asked Chloe.

"Oh my God, I'm not going to get away with this am I!" said Martin. "Look, it's now Wednesday and Brands Hatch is this Saturday and I think my mate, Stuart the steward, could wangle some tickets for us. Why don't we all go for the day on Saturday - kids and all - and we can see what we've turned up about Chloe's grandad then."

"Emily, do you want to join us?" asked Joan.

"Oh, ah," said Emily as if rising from a trance. "Yes, that would be lovely. Absolutely lovely!"

"Look, I've got to go and pick up the kids from school, so let's swap cell phone numbers, Emily, and you can give me all the details I need later on tonight," said Martin, picking Chloe up and dumping her playfully back into his chair. She giggled and leapt up to grab his leg. "Sorry, kiddo, but the silly crying man has to go now."

Joan stood up to give Martin a hug goodbye and she held him for a long time, crying gently.

Arthur stood to shake Martin's hand but Martin grabbed him in a bear hug.

"Oh, oh ..." said Arthur, taken aback.

"Thank you so much, Dad," said Martin. "Just for being there. You don't know how much it means." Martin then shook Emily's hand, formally, awkwardly, ruffled Chloe's hair and sort of skipped from the room. "I'll be in touch with you all," he called as he went out the front door.
______________________

Arthur found it most difficult to concentrate on his work but he just had to get it done … and quickly. He'd yearned, just a little, for more excitement in his life and now he had that, along with fear and confusion … in spades as he'd heard them say.

Joan had helped him move the bed against the wall in their third bedroom and they'd set up the desk in front of the window. It was most fortunate that a builder, some forty years ago, had had the foresight to place both a power and a phone switch in that corner and he now has a lovely aspect, with his desk, computer and phone, looking over their small back yard, over to the St Mary Magdalene church, with the afternoon sun smiling in at him.

Yes, most pleasant had it not been for the unnerving situation he now found himself. He'd spread the files out on his bed, in vaguely logical order, and tried to reconcile them all. It seemed that Lord and Lady Atkinson had both been tied up while their house was being burgled and then burglars had set it alight as they left. Unfortunately, Lord Atkinson had resisted, most strongly, and his arm and rib had been broken in the struggle. Though their property, Darmley House, was large and unseen from the road, their daughter and son-in-law had just returned from New Zealand, wondered why they'd not been met at the airport and, sensing something wrong, immediately took a taxi from Heathrow to the property near Kings Wood in Surrey. That seemed quite clear to Arthur. The reports he had, however, weren't so clear.

The local police reported that they had been called by a John Maranui, the son-in-law, along with an ambulance and fire brigade. The bottom storey of one wing of the house - containing the office, mainly - had been extensively damaged while the rest of the house was untouched, except for smoke damage. Lady Atkinson was having difficulty breathing, with the shock and her asthma, and Lord Atkinson was in considerable pain but would not leave the house to have his arm and rib attended to at the hospital - the ambulance people treated him as best they could, with a temporary brace and sling. He insisted on helping the police inspection of his burned office and was looking for an item or items (undisclosed) quite frantically. Tyre marks were noticed across part of the lawn, near the office and Sergeant Tomlins felt it was most likely from a four-wheel-drive vehicle. He had no chance to confirm this. A half hour into their investigation, four more police turned up.

Initially, they were thought to be the finger-print experts who had been called but, it turned out, they were from a higher branch of the police, though they would give no clear details of who they were. The local police were ordered to leave the premises and were told not to report the incident. This was most irregular and the Sergeant Tomlins insisted on completing a report, on behalf of his team, and forwarding copies to both his supervisors and to the Atkinsons' insurance company, AIL.

34 - Bouncing Happiness Brings Bouncing Prosperity

I've just interviewed Mr Uwe Brackmann, the CEO of a large German company, for an article I'm doing for the Czech Republic magazine, Trade and Industry, and I'm feeling so light and happy! I didn't expect that a German industrialist would add happiness to my life but he did.

The company makes huuuuuuuuuge industrial buildings, schools, car-parks and factories - it employs around 2,400 people and its profits are over €1 million a year. Uwe (pronounced like the vacuum cleaner without the H - oover - he said) is in his late 50's and exudes a childlike enthusiasm for what he's doing … something he's been doing for a long time. The company was started in 1969 and the founder retired 4 years ago - he has no company jet, villa in the south of France or other expensive hobbies … he's passionate about building machines that cut, bend and shape steel and so his hobby is his business … like Uwe, he's always been doing what he loves doing. Out of that passion, he has attracted Uwe and a massive team of equally passionate people. And, out of that bouncing happiness has come the bouncing prosperity that he and his company have enjoyed.

It's so good being around happily successful people and I can just feel his bouncing joy all over me … tee hee hee!

So, is Arthur feeling the joy, or just confusion? His story continues from the previous blog ...

Emily protested that it was all too much for Joan and Arthur and they didn't even know her and she didn't want to trouble them and they had enough with everything else that had happened to them and, well, her father would probably turn up soon anyway and and and ... However, Joan quietly and insistently got a resistant Emily to sit down, have a cup of tea and a piece of lardy cake while Arthur, under instructions, was fetching cordial and toys for Chloe.

"Now, Emily, please," said Joan, sitting next to Emily on the couch.

"You're right - we've had a little drama here, lately with Arthur, Martin and we just buried my mother yesterday. Yes, it's a lot, Emily."

"It's too much, I would say!" said Emily, looking tearful.

"Yes, we might look back and say that," said Joan, smiling. "But while we're in the middle of it, we just go day by day, hour by hour."

"But I'm imposing ..."

"Emily, you're not, I promise!" said Joan with her hand firmly on Emily's knee. "You're actually doing us a favour."

"A favour?"

"Yes, a favour, isn't she Arthur?" said Joan.

"Ah, yes, a favour ..." said Arthur, looking up from helping Chloe get the Lego set out of the box. He couldn't hide his perplexed expression.

"You're giving us something to take our minds off our situation," said Joan. "You see, we can't do anything about my mother or Martin or Arthur. We could feel hopeless with all that. But, with your father, there's probably something we can do. It'll help us feel helpful again."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of it like that!" said Emily, brightening visibly.

"And, besides, I do love a project, don't I Arthur love?" said Joan, smiling.

"Oh yes, she does love a project," said Arthur, chuckling while he tried to fit wheels onto a Lego block for Chloe.

"So, my friends, a battle plan!" said Joan, clapping her hands with glee. "What do we know?"

"Well, we don't know much at all," said Emily, uncertainly.

"Mmm, we probably know more than we think," said Joan. "Now, what were his hobbies? What did he do outside work?"

"Oh, I'm not sure," said Emily. "His work was a big part of his life. He usually took it home every night. And he visited us often. I know he liked folk music."

"Folk music?" asked exclaimed Arthur, incredulously, trying to imagine Sam Lord in his Versace suit, Gucci shoes and immaculate fingernails mixing in with bearded hippies. "Folk music?" I would never have imagined it!" Seeing that Chloe was fully engrossed in her toys, he got up and took a seat, all ears on the adult conversation now.

"So, where did he go for his folk music, Emily?" asked Joan.

"Oh, I don't really know," said Emily, frowning. "He did mention different clubs, sometimes ... usually in Camden, I think."

"So, folk clubs in Camden - how do we find people there?" asked Joan. Silence. No one knew. "OK, so we put that question on the list for God, for The Universe. The answer will come."

"Joan, dear, what's this about God ... The Universe?" asked Arthur, perplexed again.

"Oh dear, I have a confession," said Joan, smiling at Arthur. "I haven't told you I have been studying A Course in Miracles."

"Miracles?" asked Arthur, immediately regretting his first question, knowing this was headed somewhere he didn't know ... somewhere he didn't want to know.

"A Course in Miracles," said Joan, patiently. "It's a book to help you change your life, for the better. I read it each day when you're at work and we have a fortnightly group meeting - five of us."

"Why didn't you tell me this?" asked Arthur, feeling a panic rising.

"Because I thought you'd be uncomfortable with it," said Joan. "I just thought you'd find out when you were ready and, well, you must be now. You've just found out!" She smiled at Arthur and patted his knee. "I haven't turned into a werewolf, have I?"

"No, no you haven't at all," said Arthur softly. "Actually, dear, you seem different, softer, happier than you used to be. Not so, ah, brittle."

"Well you can blame the book for that. It's actually brilliant and I'd really have liked you to read it with me but I didn't know how you'd be with it," said Joan.

"Ah, Joan, this book mentions God. Is it Christian? asked Emily. "I've had some bad experiences with the church ... one of the main reasons I'm separated."

"Oh dear! I'm sorry about that," said Joan. "But no, it's not Christian. In fact, many Christians would be challenged by it and many follow it." Joan laughed.

"But it mentions God ..." said Arthur, rubbing his temples.

"Yes it does love," said Joan. "It tells us that any decision that we need to make, if we hand it over to God and listen to the Voice for God, that still, quiet voice inside, the perfect answer will arise."

"That sounds like Christianity!" said Emily with a forced smile.

"It sounds like every religion that has ever been!" said Joan. "And, for me, I don't care what religion it is, it works for me. It's very practical. It's how I dealt with Mum's death, with your redundancy, with Martin's breakup and it's how I'm dealing with this. I know it works."

"Oh dear," said Arthur, smiling at his wife. "Just when I think I'm beginning to know you, you pull another rabbit out of the hat!"

"Poof!" said Joan laughing and slapping Arthur's knee playfully.

"So, I know nothing about this miracle book ..." said Arthur.

"A Course in Miracles," corrected Joan.

"Sorry, A Course in Miracles book," said Arthur. "I know nothing about it bit it's caused a small miracle in you, my love, if you don't mind me saying so. So let's try it here. What do you think, Emily?"

33 - Does Money Make You Happy?

I was just talking to one of the painters working on the house here and learned that he's done all sorts of interesting jobs:

He's painted the royal throne … actually, he decorated the bathroom of the royal box at one of the race-courses here … and is proud that he was first to sit on the queen's new toilet.

He was working on Windsor Castle when it burst into flames - one of the cleaning ladies was cleaning a painting and then went for a cup of tea and left it too near a heater. Boom! One of the painter's friends saved a £3 million painting - he burnt his hands and had to be off work for six months but did the queen thank him? Oh no, not a word of thanks or a penny for his trouble!

The painter wallpapered the bedroom of some Arab sheikh who is big in race horses here. Each roll of wallpaper cost £4,000 … it was made by taking the hair from this chap's horses and weaving it into the paper, somehow. Apparently it was easy to put up and, when up, he just brushed it to make it look nice!

The painter also helped decorate the house of Formula 1 racer, Jodi Schechter. Jodi paid £15 million for the place and then spent another £15 million redecorating it. The bath in his wife's bathroom (not including taps, feet, surround … just the bare bath) cost £6,000. However, all that money did not make Jodi happy. Jodi's father, from South Africa, made his money from arms sales and, because of that background, Jodi lived his life in constant fear - he even had his children ferried to school, each day, in a black van with heavily tinted windows.

So, those of you desiring lots of money, beware! The money will not make you happy. Happiness comes from other places than our wallets, apparently! And guns won't save you either, it seems.

Though Arthur Bayly is starting to live his dream of a life like James Bond, it's not bringing him any happiness at all - just stress. Arthur's story continues from the previous blog ...

Having escaped his office, two heavies and two policemen, Arthur's brain was still in panic mode, conjuring up all sorts of consequences for Joan and him.

As these conflicting thoughts stampeded through his brain, battling with each other, he kept a wary eye on everyone in the carriage. Would James Bond have stood casually at the door, ready to leap off, or would he have sat down, mingling anonymously with the crowd. Yet another herd of thoughts charging round his brain.

"Hello mithter," said a small voice at his knee. He looked down and remembered the tousle-haired little girl who had offered him ice cweam in the park.

"Oh, hello, young lady," he said, "how are you today?"

"My mummy and me, we've just been to the shops to buy a gun," she said. Not quite panic but Arthur's heart leapt out of the carriage and back in again. He looked up and around and saw the girl's mother - Emily, was that her name? - smiling at him. She put her hand in a plastic shopping bag and pulled out a gun. Arthur flinched. It was a plastic water pistol … well, he hoped it was.

"Sorry to scare you, sir ... Arthur, wasn't it? She asked.

Arthur nodded, recovering his composure.

"We're off to a birthday party this afternoon for Chloe's cousin," said Emily. "He loves guns and this is the most inoffensive one I could find!"

"Yes, yes," said Arthur, acting more casual then he felt. "Boys do seem to like guns at that age, don't they."

"The last time I saw you, you were a very shaken hero," said Emily. "How have you been since then?"

"Oh good thank you," said Arthur, with his standard reply, and realised it wasn't strictly true. "Actually I've had quite some happenings of late - lost my job, my mother-in-law died, my son's wife left him, I got my job back, sort of ... yes, a few things and in only five days." He smiled at the memories as the film clip of those five days played themselves through his mind.

"My gosh!" Emily said. "You have been having a time of it! And how are you coping with it all?"

"Remarkably well, I thought," he said. "And how have you been?"

"Well, to be honest, not very good," she said gently. "Four days ago my father disappeared and nobody knows where he's gone ..."

"Your father? Gosh!" said Arthur, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes, we usually talk on the phone two or three times a week and he visits every few weeks," she said wistfully. "He's very busy as a director of an insurance company but he always makes time for Chloe and I."

"An insurance company?" asked Arthur quickly. "Not AIL is it?"

"Yes, that's his company! Do you know it ... or him?" asked Emily.

"Yes I do indeed!" said Arthur, forcing a smile. "I've worked for the company for twenty six years. Mr Lord, your father, was the one who gave me the ... who let me go, as they say."

"Oh dear, that must have been very hard for both of you," said Emily, looking concerned. Arthur had not considered that it would have been hard for Mr Lord.

"Do you have any idea where he could have gone?" asked Emily hopefully.

"Heavens no! No idea at all," said Arthur. "I thought he'd been sacked or made redundant or something. Seems like he just didn't turn up on Friday and I assumed he'd been asked to leave. Seems most strange."

"Oh dear, that makes it even worse," said Emily. "No one at all seems to know where he is. I've told the police and got what I thought was a rather cold reception from them. Just made it worse, really. I don't think anyone's looking for him."

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Arthur, finding himself at a loss with this tearful woman. "Would you and your daughter like to come back to our place for a cup of tea? It's a short walk and my wife is very good with things like this."

"Oh Arthur, that's very kind ... but I couldn't ..."

"Of course you can! I insist," said Arthur feeling unusually masterful. "A cup of tea and a nice chat might be just what you need."

"Well, if that's alright with you ..."

"Well," said Arthur, feeling a sense of mission rising in him. "Perhaps if we all put our thinking caps together, we can come up with something. You're not alone," he said, wishing someone would say that to him from time to time.

"Oh Arthur! You're a sweet man!" she exclaimed, loud enough for all the carriage to hear ... or so it seemed to Arthur. His extreme embarrassment was overshadowed by the approaching station, Croydon (although, as Arthur thought in a small part of his brain that wasn't trying to deal with his embarrassment, that station wasn't approaching at all. It wasn't going anywhere, the train was approaching it!).

As they walked up Addiscombe Road, Chloe skipped along between them and Arthur felt light. He hadn't been mugged on his way home by KGB agents and he would soon be in his familiar home with his familiar Joan and all the coziness and peace they evoked. Danger obviously added a poignancy to the people and things he cherished and, well, he might possibly do something to help someone else. He smiled at Emily who seemed to catch his mood and looked happier than when he first saw her on the train.

31 - Mixed Up Poppycock

A little birdie told us that Mercury is in retrograde which, in astrology-speak, means that communications are all stuffed up. Now, I don't quite know if this astrology thing is for real or not but the communications we've been having lately have been mixed up big time!

We've been looking for a new place to rent and, eventually, found one. One of the many problems was the inventory check. We assumed that, like other agents, the inventory list would be part of the service. Oh no!

Unlike other people, we were determined to get to the bottom of this scam and it took several hours of questioning but, finally, the truth came out. Now, the tricky part: if you call an animal a cat and a pussy, it's not two animals but one animal with two names. If the inspectors do one inventory check and call it different things (an inventory and a check-in) they think we'll think it's two separate actions. It's not. What happens is that the real estate agents get someone else to do this inventory check - remember, a little unfurnished house! - and the landlord pays £86 for it. If we turn up at the (little unfurnished) house when it's being done, we also get the privilege of paying another £86 to these inspectors. By paying that we then get the law's protection. If we don't turn up at the allotted time, we are given the inventory list and, if it's wrong, we have no come-back. So, if we don't turn up and the inspector ticks the wrong box and says, in error, that there was a vase on the mantelpiece in the lounge, we then have to go out and buy one. If we turn up and correct the inspector when he ticks the wrong box, he gets another £86 for us doing his job for him.

Now, I do not know how anyone can find the justice in this … except the inspector who gets £172 for doing an inventory check in a little, unfurnished house and having someone help him do it properly.

Someone, please, tell me what part of this is logical … what part of this is fair … what part of this is necessary … what part of this is anything but totally mixed-up poppycock???

So how do Arthur and Mary deal with the communication mix-up? Their story is continued from the previous blog ...

"Oh dear," said Toby approaching them, his lanky legs taking one step to her two. "Isn't that confidential, Ma'am?"

"Yes, yes it is, Toby," she said, mouthing call the police to him. "But it seems these gentlemen have special permission to take it." No they haven't she mouthed as the two fine gentlemen caught up with her.
Toby's frown turned into a welcoming smile. "Pleased to meet you," he said, extending his hand to them. "I'm Toby and you're?"

"Just give us the key!" said Crewcut, without the graciousness of a fine gentleman.

"Ah yes, um, the key," said Toby, thinking aloud. "The key ..."

"Yes, the key mate!" said Crewcut. "Just give it now and we'll be gone. Nothing said."

"Yes, they key," said Toby, backing towards his desk. He smacked his palm to his forehead as if a blinding flash of inspiration had hit him and he laughed noisily. "Of course, I'll just need to phone our security desk. They'll know where the key is!" He backed around the chest-high counter, sat and phoned.

"Look, lady, you said you had the key to da file," said Shorty. "Are you pulling our tits?"

"Pulling what?" asked Mary, genuinely confused.

"Pulling our ... oh, shittin' us, lying to us," said Shorty. "We want that key now or else we'll just have to take the whole damned filing cabinet. What's it to be?"

"Ah, oh dear, I thought it was here," said Mary, stopping in an attempt to keep them as far from Toby's phone conversation as possible. "I forgot security look after all that stuff. I haven't been in this job very long ..."

"You're stalling lady ..." said Crewcut.

"Mary, if you don't mind," said Mary, determined to keep up appearances of being in charge. "And I'm not stalling. But let's be clear about what's going on here. You've barged into our office, uninvited and unannounced. You've demanded, with threats, that we do something which is illegal - hand over confidential files. That will get me into a whole heap of trouble - I could lose my job - and could cost the company a whole heap of trouble with the Financial Services Authority. And you're whining that I'm a bit nervous about all this!"

"Look lady ..." said Crewcut.

"Mary thank you!" said Mary, tartly.

"Uh, look Mary, we got orders, see!" said Crewcut. "We just gotta pick up da file and deliver it. Den we get paid. See?"

"Delivered to whom? Paid by whom?" asked Mary, realising that Toby was trying to smile and nod at her without it becoming evident to the men.

"To George Sand..." said Shorty.

"Hey bozo, we don't gotta say who we're working for! OK?" said Crewcut tersely, grabbing Shorty's collar.

"Oh yeah, I forgot," said Shorty. "It's conden..., it's confild..., oh, secret. See?"

"I see," said Mary. "So what if the whereabouts of the key was confidential ... like who your contact is?"

"Ah, that's goin' to be a big problem," said Shorty, looking at his partner, perplexed. "Mr Sanderson is going to be mighty fierce with us."

"Ah, you dumbo!" sais Crewcut. "Shut your mouth, you're spilling the beans."

"Ah, oh, yeah, guess I did," said Shorty. "Forget I said that."

"Yeah, well, if we don't deliver, we gotta be in a whole heap of trouble, you might say," said Crewcut. "And we prefer you's in trouble den us, so give us da key and we'll be gone and no trouble!"

"Right, yes," said Mary, still wondering what Toby seemed to be trying to tell her - something hopeful, she hoped, but what it could be she had no idea.

"So lady ..." said Crewcut.

"Mary!"

"Oh, sorry, Mary," said Crewcut, missing his place in his script.

"So Mary what?" asked Mary, walking up to him. "So Mary, if we break her arm or smash a hole in this wall, the key will magically turn up, you'll get your precious file and we'll all be deliriously bloody happy! Is that it?"

"Uh, no, not quite," said Crewcut, stepping back a pace. "We don't want to hurt anyone. We were told no damage to people or property. Just get the file."

"You have no idea how relieved I am about that!" said Mary, stepping forward again. "But, right now, you'd love to bust a limb, see some blood, hear a scream. Right?"

"No Ma'am, we just want the file, easy like," said Shorty, coming to his friend's rescue.

"Easy like," said Mary, turning on him and savouring his phrase. "Easy like. All just little lambs in here, these pathetic little clerical types. Say boo and they run. Is that what you thought?"

"Well, yeah, ah no," said Crewcut, looking everywhere except at Mary.

"Yeah, well we don't just bow down to cowards like you trying to muscle in here and stuff us around!" said Mary venomously. "You think you haven't hurt anyone?"

"Well, no ..." said Shorty. "Nobody been harmed."

"You've scared the living bejeezers out of a dozen people, you've stuffed up our day here with your stupid antics and we're all going to have to work late, for no extra pay and we're going to have to beef up our security from now on. You think there's no cost?"

"Well, y ..." said Shorty.

"Well, hell, of course there's a cost!" said Mary, turning on him. "I predict that we're going to have a lot of people calling in sick over the next week or so - your intrusion is traumatic and unwarranted and a lot of people here are going to be upset for months. I hope what you get paid is worth all the heartache, pain and cost you're causing!"

"Look lady ..." said Crewcut.

"Mary!" said Mary, turning back on him.

"Ah shut up! I'll call you what I like, LADY!" shouted Crewcut.

"Ah, so the big man has finally found some balls," said Mary, quietly.

30 - The Smile On The Face Of God

I'm not quite sure what brought this on for I've thought about it before - just not in such a tangible conscious way before.

I've been applying for jobs and, to do that, must submit a CV of my qualifications and experiences. If I'm applying to be a lecturer, I submit my lecturing persona.; for accounting jobs my accounting persona and for writing jobs my writing persona. With five qualifications and may unrelated jobs to my credit, there are many variations of the three main personas I can adopt - business writer, book publisher, personal development facilitator, business coach, university lecturer, book editor, facilitator of men's groups, change manager, accountant, accounting lecturer … they go on, depending on what I think the job advertiser may want to hear.

And where has that got me? Well, I don't have a job yet! So nowhere, really.

All of these qualifications and experiences are, in reality, no more me than the party mask I might put on for a masquerade ball. None of them are who I am - they're just what I've done. They're my history, my used-to-be. They may contribute to who I am (perhaps, perhaps not) but they're not who I am, that changeless being as a creation of God.

And then it hit me, very gently. I am the smile on the face of God. That I have always been, am and ever will be. It needs no explanation, no analysis, no pretending. I drop the masks and it is who I am - the smile on the face of God and, realising that, I know I will be "faced" in the right direction for the next stage in this adventure called life. :)

So, what is next for Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins in their adverture - continued from the previous blog ...

"The alternative is hammers and crow bars, if you insist," said Mary, sensing their uncertainty. "But we don't have those here either and I gather you're in a hurry. Keys are much quicker. Come this way and we'll leave Arthur to get on his way!" As she strode past him she whispered to Arthur, "Go, go now!" and she marched off up the corridor to the lift, fully expecting the two men to follow her. They fell in line with her expectation and followed her obediently.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. He was free of them! But, he thought, Mary isn't. What should he do? As relief, fear and confusion swept over him in alternate waves, he felt a tug at his sleeve. He jumped.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir," said an antipodean accent behind him. He turned to see the cheery elfin figure of Halee there with his briefcase. "Sir, right now, you need to take this and go home."

"But where did that come from," asked Arthur, confused. "It disappeared before ..."

"Ah, that's easy, sir, I disappeared it for you!" said Halee with a grin.

"You did?"

"Yup! I did!" said Halee. "They seemed to want it and Mary had warned me someone might want it and shouldn't have it. So I disappeared it for you. Now you must go and all will be well, I promise you."

"But Mary's with those ... those rough men ..."

"Mary's fine, Arthur, just you go or she won't be."

"What?"

"You want me to spell it out?" asked Halee, with urgency. "That bag, in this building, is a lot of trouble for Mary. So you just get going and make it safer for her. You understand?"

"Uh, I think so," said Arthur not understanding at all but knowing that he didn't have to. He just needed to go. "Thank you Halee. Thank you so much."

"That's no trouble at all, sir. Just you get yourself going and don't stop till you're home."

 Arthur turned and walked into two large men in police uniforms.
"Oh, gosh," said Arthur with a feeling of déjà vu.

"That's alright, sir, we're looking for a Mary Collins," said one of them.

"Come with me, gentlemen, and I'll see you later, sir," said Halee waving him away surreptitiously.

Arthur walked rather briskly from the building, down the street and onto the waiting train. The journey home was the longest he had ever known.  Apart from the possibility of being discretely manhandled at the point of a gun at the next stop (thankfully, there was only one stop before Croydon - Clapham Junction), there was the delicate matter of telling Joan ... or not telling Joan. How do you keep something so ... well, so exciting, scary and potentially harmful to her - perhaps to his family and neighbours ... oh my God, where did it end? How do you bottle up such an experience and save others from worry while they should be warned?

-----------

As she led the men up the corridor to the lift, Mary wondered what on God's earth possessed her to do this. What was she going to do with them? What was she going to say to them? She smiled bravely at them as she waved them into the lift. They waited for her - suspicious sods, she thought. The ride to the seventh floor took seventeen seconds but it seemed like a day. She smiled awkwardly at them and they smiled awkwardly back at her but their smiles turned to grimaces as they frowned at each other. Mary wondered if they were as confused as she was. She knew their day had not gone as planned - pop into the office, scare a clerk into handing over a file, disappear from said office, hand over file to Mr X, collect cash and be at the pub celebrating by 10.00 am - and here they were, still in the building, going in the opposite direction of the said file while being led around by the noses by a bossy young woman with no idea of where the file, or its offending key, was. Mary was tempted to laugh but she stifled it on the grounds of health and safety. Her health and safety.

At last they reached her floor, with a momentary hesitation as everybody waited for everybody else to get out. Stupid English, she though, so insanely polite, it's no wonder nothing gets done and the place is falling apart ... but then, neither of them appeared to be English ... oh dear, maybe, just maybe, they're suspicious and want her in front of them so they don't fall into a trap. She almost giggled at the thought as she was, at that moment, quite unable to formulate any plan beyond the next three seconds, let alone make a trap for them! Again, on health and safety grounds, she stifled the giggle ... just.

As she strode off down the oak-panelled passage to her office, she was surprised that these two large men had trouble keeping up with her. Mind you, most people did. She also noticed her secretary, Toby McGuire, rising from his seat with a large, toothy smile to attend her every whim.

When she'd moved into Sam's office, she decided changes needed to be made - not least to help expunge some of her wonderful memories of Sam - so she had told his clueless and probably quite beautiful (in a clueless sort of way) secretary that as she was so meticulous about constantly cleaning and preening herself, she would be perfect to work in the cleaning team, on her ridiculous salary. Strangely, the girl didn't turn up for her first day of cleaning duties. In the meantime, she had plucked young Toby from the third floor processing team where she had noticed, for some time, that his typing skills were exceptional, that he seemed to have a functioning brain and, most importantly, the bounding enthusiasm of a young puppy. It was nice to have a bloke around. It was only later that she discovered he was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. She wasn't sure she'd ever need his brick-chopping skills, but it was, somehow, comforting.

"Ah, Toby, these fine gentlemen are looking for the Atkinson file to take away with them," she said loudly down the corridor, while trying to mouth help silently to him.

29 - The Panic Goes pffttt!

The mind's a funny thing, isn't it! A month ago we were asked to leave our accommodation and job as our wealthy employer has been feeling the bite of the credit crunch - she must now rent her cottage out and cannot afford to employ anyone.

At the time, it was a little scary but, coincidentally, in line with our wishes. We arrived here on Anna's birthday, 5th September 2009, and decided we'd do the four seasons and leave at the beginning of September 2010. A month ago we were told we'd have to leave by 3rd September! Perhaps we actually created the whole scary situation by our stated intention to God, the universe and many friends … who knows?

It's all very well having these wonderful intentions but, when they happen and we've actually got to face the spectre of change, it can be scary.

So, as the 3rd September loomed closer and closer, our stress and adrenalin levels increased, higher and higher, in perfect relationship to the closing of the gap. And still no job has been found and, without a job, we cannot get accommodation as they will not let houses to unemployed people. The 3rd September moved closer, with each passing day, and our stress increased and sleep was harder to have and it was harder and harder to remain in the place of peace that A Course in Miracles suggests for us. The gap closed and the stress and fear grew.

Then, yesterday, eight days before D-Day, when we should have been stressed to overload, something went ppfffttt and then nothing. No stress. No fear. No adrenalin. No anger. Just stillness. Just peace. Just a quiet smile, resignation and, weirdly, we have no answers and really don't care. Maybe the stress is just too much for our tiny minds to encompass so it gives up and stops caring … stops knowing how to care. Maybe it's insanity setting in but who cares! We're currently in peace, in the void and in surrender, which is what A Course in Miracles suggests for us. Maybe we're finally getting it, that nothing matters and it's all just a silly game played out to amuse us while we realise the bigger (real) game of being our true Godliness.

Who knows? I sure as heck don't and knowing that I do not know does nothing but bring the peace I've been looking for for aeons. Aahhh!!

So, what does Arthur do or think when his back's against the wall? His story is continued from the previous blog ...

He thought of Joan and how she'd like him to act - cool and decisively. This was not a natural state for him but, for her, he tried to pretend. He noticed the clock on the wall said 11.37 and that time stuck in his head.

He noticed the black suits, nearly identical, and he noticed that one man, the one who stepped forward - the one with blonde cropped hair and who could have easily passed for an American sailor - had a faint scar from his left ear to his mouth. As he extended his hand a tattoo showed on his forearm, under his cuff-linked shirt cuff.

His colleague was slightly shorter and broader with a shaven head. Arthur noticed that he kept his right hand clenched and was sure the fourth finger was missing.

Then a strange thing happened - perhaps because his focus was strongly on some things and not on others. Anyway, a shadow, a flicker - maybe it was a trick of the light or the dread in his brain - passed the left corner of his eye. It was there and gone and he felt a faint whisper of wind, a zephyr. His left hand felt lighter but he daren't look down; he needed his focus on these men who, he assumed, were Financial Services Authority auditors. Rather more rugged looking than he'd imagined, they had obviously caught the scent - as auditors are wont to do - of whatever intrigues surrounded the Atkinson case. And here he was, Arthur Bayly, walking from the crime scene with the stolen jewels on his person, so to speak.

"Arthur Bayly, I presume?" said the blonde man, a missing tooth marring his smile.

"Ah, yes, correct. Arthur," said Arthur. "And you are?"

"You got da Atkinson stuff ..."

"The Atkinson file," said the shorter man, interrupting his friend. "We just want to ascertain the whereabouts of that information, Sir."

Arthur felt the prickly heat intensify and spread down his neck, as the man moved closer, his sickly deodorant filling Arthur's head. His legs felt a little unsteady. He was determined not to betray the precious information he carried but he couldn't help himself. He glanced down quickly ... and glanced again. The briefcase was not there! He knew he'd carried it out and now it was gone, like a phantom. He glanced around and saw Halee, the receptionist, smiling sweetly at all three gentlemen.

"Excuse me, sirs," she said in her New Zealand accent, "would you like to talk to our director about that?"

"Your director, whose dat?" asked the blonde man.

"Mary Collins, sir, she's our director."

"But we were told ... we need to talk to Arthur Bayly about this," said the shorter one.

"Who should I tell her you are?" Halee asked with great efficiency as she held up her handpiece, ready to call.

"But it's the Arthur Bayly we need to see," said the blonde man, looking a little uncertain.

"Did you have an appointment with Ms Collins, sirs?" asked Halee, apparently unable to hear their wish to see Arthur.

"No, no appointment. We just here to see Arthur Bayly and get the Atkinson file, thank you young lady," said the blonde one, losing his smile.

"Yes Ms Collins, they're here at reception now ... no, they don't seem to have any warrant or authority to take any client files ..." said Halee into her phone piece. Arthur was sure she had not dialled anyone or that anyone was at the other end of the line. However, the two men stepped back a little. "The police? You think I should call the police, Ma'am?" said Halee into her phone.

Arthur suddenly found himself suspended and being carried towards his office.

"Yours is the second on the left, here, isn't it?" said the shorter one, the stench of his bad breath mingling discordantly with his strong deodorant.

"Ah, yes, just here," said Arthur, wondering how he knew.

"Right, so where's the Atkinson file, buddy?" demanded the blonde one.

"Ah, the Atkinson file," muttered Arthur, trying to remember his activities five minutes prior to this. He gulped as he realised the Atkinson file was in two places and neither was in his office. "The Atkinson file," he said again, deciding to act dumb. Though, as he smiled to himself, it wasn't acting at all, really. "It should be in this filing cabinet. I just need to unlock it," he said, fumbling in his pocket for the office keys. They weren't there. Mary had them. "Look, I most awfully sorry, I don't have the keys."

The shorter man dashed to the filing cabinet, knocking Arthur aside, and yanked on the handle, several times. The cabinet tipped towards him, spilling a pile of paper onto the floor. By now Arthur had noticed a growing number of people passing his office, looking in while pretending not to. The two men noticed this, too, and Arthur could tell they were not happy.

"Yes," said Arthur, "it's locked and so I'll just go up and get the keys for you."

"You're not bloody goin' nowhere, buddy," said the blonde chap sharply. "Just open this willya!"

"I … I don't have the key," said Arthur, trying to sound calm and helpful. "I need to get the keys. They're not here, sir."

"Don't sir me, just open the cabinet," said the shorter man, grabbing Arthur by the coat collar and pushing him towards the cabinet. "We haven't got time to piss around. Now open that damned cabinet!"

"I'm very sorry, sir, I don't have the keys," said Arthur turning his pockets out, quickly, to show that he was carrying nothing but a white handkerchief.

"Good morning, gentleman!" said Mary breezily behind him. "What is it you're looking for?"

"The bloody key ..." said the blonde man.

"Ah, the Atkinson file, Ma'am," said the shorter one, frowning at his colleague. "We just need to get the Atkinson file."

"Of course," said Mary happily, walking up to him. "I'm Mary Collins, Regional Director. And we don't keep keys for confidential files down here on this floor. You'll have to come with me."

The two men looked at each other uncertainly. Their quarry was right there - do they risk leaving it?