The Prisoner An Exercise In Logistics Chapter {Episode} 27

 

The Day I Saved London Again!

    Blake sat at his desk bored out of my mind. He was not best suited to dealing with paper work which was piling up in an increasing number of files on his desk. He’s a field agent at his best when working under extreme pressure, fighting the forces of evil. Elevenses came and passed, at noon he emerged from behind his desk and went out for an early lunch.
    Central London was as busy as it had always been. Plenty of people about, people like him on their way to lunch, shoppers loaded down with carrier bags, tourists out and about taking photographs of anything at all. Men in dark suits talking on their mobile phones as they hurried along, probably late for that all important meeting. The homeless person huddled in a doorway, a beggar asked anyone if they had spare change. Blake, have spare change, that will be the day! A busker with his small dog and accordion was being moved on by a policeman. Then there they were, those with their clipboards, trying to trick you into answering their questions.

    “Have you got a few moments sir, just to complete this questionnaire it won’t take twenty minutes!”
   “What a waste of twenty minutes of his lunch hour, he thought not, beggars me what you do with all the information when you have it!”   
    Anyway he ducked around the corner and into his favourite watering hole ‘The Star’ public house.

    “The usual sir?” asked Brenda, seeing him propping up the far end of the bar.

    “And a pork pie if you would Brenda” he said looking to see if any other lunch time regulars had arrived yet, they hadn’t.

    Brenda, a rather busty raven haired barmaid, placed his pint of best bitter together with a pork pie on a white tea plate before him.   
    “That will be four pounds thirty pence sir.”

    He took out the twenty burning a hole in his back pocket, and with a cheery smile handed it over to Brenda “One for yourself” he told her.

    “Thank you sir, I’ll just have a mineral water” Brenda told him.

    Blake picked up his pint and taking a draught of the creamy headed liquid, glanced about the bar. Somewhere behind him he heard the till ring and he knew that his hard earned twenty pound note had gone forever. Brenda walked the length of the bar to bring his change.

    “Bit quiet Brenda” he said.

    “You’re early sir” she told him glancing up at the clock on the wall “it will pick up in a bit.”

    There was about half a dozen drinkers scattered about the bar, sitting at tables quietly talking together, or reading newspapers. One chap in a tweed jacket was playing the fruit machine. They were all nondescript people, to whom you probably wouldn’t give a second glance, except for one. A strange looking individual sitting in a booth in the corner of the bar. He sat there beneath a wide brimmed floppy hat. Oddly he suddenly changed position and sat looking straight at Blake from beneath that hat. This fact didn’t alarm him or cause him to feel uncomfortable in any way, but he couldn’t help the feeling that there something malevolent about him. His long grey coat was worn and grubby, he took a drink from his half full glass of dark beer. This strange figure whom he had never laid eyes on before, was in fact a hunchback. His face was almost skull like, the dark leathery skin drawn tight over the bone, his lips were thin and he had wide alert eyes. Blake detected a curious odour, which seemed to emanate from the direction of the long coated man. No one else in the bar seemed to notice this curious odour, which was suddenly becoming quite a stench. But what could he do, complain? Complain of a stench which no one else seemed to notice. Blake took a long gulp of his pint of draught bitter but left the pork pie, his stomach having been turned over, he couldn’t face eating it. So he sipped his drink, and watched the hunchback for a few minutes. Perhaps he felt Blake’s eyes were upon him, for suddenly he looked up from his beer, stared directly at him again, and gave a wink from under the wide brim of his hat, his thin lips turned upwards in an almost knowing wry smile. Blake turned away, he didn’t know why, probably with embarrassment at being caught looking at this curious figure. He finished his drink, and placing the empty glass upon the bar, indicated to Brenda that he required a refill. She duly obliged.

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{Apologies to anyone who might find aspects of this chapter offensive}

    “What’s the matter with your pork pie, don’t you want it?” Brenda asked her chest on full display, due to her very low cut flowered dress, which fitted tightly hugging every curve of her voluptuous body.

    “Nothing wrong with the pork pie, but can’t you do anything about the smell. Have the drains gone again or something?” Blake asked her picking up his second pint of best.

    Brenda was already busy serving another customer in a dark business suit and black bowler hat with a furled umbrella on his arm and carrying a brown briefcase, she was pouring him a large glass of claret.

    “Can’t you smell that noxious stench?” he asked her looking back in the direction of the man sitting in the booth.

    Brenda twitched her cute nose and sniffed “Can you smell anything?” she asked the city gent, serving him his claret.

    “Only your perfume my dear. Poison isn’t it?” the city gent asked, with eyes only for Brenda’s cleavage.

    Brenda placed the glass of claret on the bar, and took the offered ten pound note.

    “Keep the change” said the city gent with an appreciative smile on his face, who was old enough to have been the barmaid’s father.

    “It’s not poison, it’s rancid!” Blake said.

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    “Drains my foot, if you upset my customers I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

    “I know it’s not the drains. But can’t you smell that awful stench emanating from the man sitting in the corner booth?” Blake asked her.

    “What man?” Brenda asked sarcastically.

    She was right, the strange creature in the wide brimmed hat and long coat had gone, his still half full glass of beer on the table.

   “Didn’t any of you see the hunchback. He was here not two moments ago, he had to have walked passed some of you on his way out.”

    No one spoke, the customers only stared at him in quiet protest. So he took his beer and pork pie into the vacant corner booth in order to finish his lunch in abject silence. There was the half filled glass on the table. Brenda came over and cleared away it away and wiped the table, no doubt to immediately place the glass with others in the washer. Blake thought no more of the hunchback from that moment, in fact he had managed to dismiss him from my mind, well that is until…….

    After leaving the ‘The Star’ public house, Blake began making his way to an Antiquarian bookshop which he frequented from time to time. There was just time before he had to return to the confines of his office. It was only a short detour to The Strand, and would prove to be a much needed diversion against the tedious work that faced him. Besides he was curious to see if Mr Cornelius, the proprietor of ‘Cornelius’s Antiquarian Bookshop’ had been able to obtain a copy of ‘A Century of Creepy Stories’ for him. The bookshop was situated in a London back street, just off the Strand. You know the type, one which you can find only once, or by accident, and never able to find again. It was usually quiet in this back street, nearly always practically deserted, save for the occasional passer-by who used the back street as a short cut to somewhere else. But today it was different. A man in a dark suit with an umbrella on his arm carrying a brown briefcase was strangely loitering. Also a woman pushing a baby buggy, but without the baby in it! There were a couple of other shops along with the bookshop. ‘Monique’s Boutique,’ a tobacconist shop now closed, and an Occult shop with black candles, charms, and the skull of a goat with great curving horns decorated the window. Ahead a blind man walked towards Blake, tapping the pavement with his white stick. Blake stepped to one side to let the man pass. The blind man wore round dark glasses, and a shabby brown suit, and overcoat which had seen better days.

    “Thank you mister Blake” the blind man said as he passed him by.

    Blake stopped and turned “Are you……”

    The blind man stopped and turned, and putting a finger to his nose “Shhh” then turned and walked on tapping his stick on the pavement as he went ‘tap tap, tap tap tap.’

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    “Dickenson of Special Branch” he thought to himself.

    The single brown painted bay window of the Antiquarian Bookshop held a display of books which never seemed to vary from one visit the next. It was dusty, dusty and unkempt almost as much as the proprietor, with three long dead wasps lying at the foot of two panes of glass.

    ‘Ting a ling a ling, ling’ sounded the shop bell as he opened the door and entered the somewhat ill lit and gloomy atmosphere of the bookshop, closing the door behind him ‘ting a ling ling.’ There was no one about so he called out “Mr Cornelius.”

    Waiting a few moments he studied the display of books in one of the cabinets which contained some rare but somehow familiar volumes ‘Cannon Alberic’s Scrapbook’ for one, for another ‘The Three Crowns’ ‘The Ager family Bible’ not to mention ‘The Tractate Middoth’ and ‘Thomas Darlings Mathematical tract.’ Then Blake heard the soft shuffling of footsteps coming from somewhere within the depths of the musky smelling bookshop. Moments later, the frail erstwhile figure of Mr Arnold Cornelius appeared from the back of the shop. His grey hair uncombed together with his unshaven whiskers, and cigarette ash stained cardigan, gave him the unkempt look that he knew so

Well, this together with the fingerless mitten gloves that he always seemed to wear.

    “Good morning sir” Mister Cornelius said peering at his young customer through round stainless steel rimmed spectacles.

    “Not by my watch it isn’t” Blake said glancing at his watch which indicated that his lunch time was almost up.

    Mr Cornelius looked up at the dusty clock upon the wall “Well we won’t quibble over a few minutes either way shall we sir, how may I be of assistance to you….. oh, its you sir I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

    “No. Well as I was passing I thought I might call in on the off chance” he told him.

    “On the off chance of what sir?” Cornelius asked.

    “That you have managed to track down a copy of that book for me……”

    “Yes I did manage to find you a copy, but the price is rather more than you originally wanted to pay. That’s the thing of it, once people know you’re after a particular book it automatically hikes up the price” Cornelius informed him somewhat apologetically “A Century of Creepy Stories’ was it not?”

    True, it was hardly an antiquarian book, but Cornelius dealt in second hand books of most every kind. He was always eager to help a potential customer if he could.

    “That would be right, how much is the book?”

    “Ten pounds” Cornelius told him.

    “It is rather more than I wanted to pay” he said as Cornelius began to search the shelves behind his counter.

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    “Now where did I put it?” he muttered to himself as he searched for the book “I put it here only two days ago, or was it three, oh here it is” turning, he placed the said volume down upon the counter.

    Blake picked the book up and gave it a close examination. It was an old well worn book, light green with the words ‘A Century of Creepy Stories’ embossed on the cover and spine, with a black surround and the cowled figure of a inanely grinning skeleton overlooking the words. The pages were yellow and discoloured he decided to part with the sum in question.

    ‘Ten pounds I believe you said” he said placing the volume back on the counter.

    “Just so young man, ten pounds” Cornelius confirmed as he began to wrap the book in brown paper and tying the package with string.

    Blake took the money from his back pocket, placing it in the outstretched mittened hand. Suddenly there came a curious odour. At first he could not place it, Blake sniffed and said “Can you smell burning?”

    Cornelius’s nose twitched “Toast!” he exclaimed, and hurriedly disappeared into the back of his shop.

    Checking his watch, Blake should really have start back to work. But what would a few minutes more matter, so he waited for old Cornelius to return, probably with a slice of burnt offerings! While he waited, he turned his attention to the numerous bookshelves which lined the walls of the bookshop from floor to ceiling, while others created a small labyrinth of aisles which he had walked up and down, and around many a time. There were hundreds of strange and curious dusty volumes on subjects from Necromancy, to gardening, from twentieth century history, to Vampirism, Witchcraft, and matters of the occult. And works by Simon Magus, Hermes Trismagistus, the novels of Dickens, Jane Austin, Dashiell Hammett, and James Herbert. Blake was about to leave the shop, when another odour assailed his nostrils, that very same odour which had met his nostrils in ‘The Star,’ public house, and which were already becoming quite a powerful stench in the close confines of the bookshop. He looked up and down the aisle, but could see no one. Then walking down to the far end of the aisle he turned down the second aisle, and there he was at the far end, the hunchback in his long coat and hat, the wide brim of which was turned down over one eye, and staring at him with the other. Blake noticed in the dim light that this foul creature clutched a brown paper parcel in his bony hands, a brown paper parcel tied with string and sealed with crimson sealing wax. He saw Blake looking at the parcel, and instantly hid the package beneath his coat. Blake rushed forward towards the figure but by the time he reached the far end of the aisle the creature had already disappeared round the end of the bookcase and into the next aisle, his long coat tails billowing out behind him. The potent stench issuing from this obnoxious, yet curious individual was something like the cross between rotting flesh and stinking fish, as though something had been dead for too long. Hewondered where old Mr Cornelius was? Half choking on the smell, Blake followed close upon the heels of the hunchback into the third and final aisle. There  he stood at the far end as though waiting for Blake to appear, his long coat trailing down to his ankles. He lifted his head and stared at Blake with cold unfeeling eyes from below the wide brim of his hat. Eyes bulging out of his face that had a skull like appearance, given the dark leathery skin drawn tight over the bone. He had a horrid grin, as lips parted to reveal black teeth. And then he winked at Blake again as he had in ‘The Star,’ a sly wink, a knowing wink. Could it be that this individual know something that he did not, something to do with that brown paper package he carried. Well it was time to find out what his game was. Blake made his move, rushing towards him, but just too late to catch him by his coat tails, but he heard him. Well he heard the jingle of the shop bell as the hunchback rushed outside and away down the street, his coat tails billowing out behind him. Blake would have rushed out the bookshop himself had it not been for the fact that old Mr Cornelius had just this moment decided to return from the back of his shop.

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    “Curious smell” Cornelius said sniffing the air.

    “That would be the hunchback!” Blake told him.

    “Hunchback, what hunchback would that be?”

    “The one who was here a few moments ago, you only just missed him” he told him “didn’t you hear the shop bell ring as he rushed out?”

    “No” retorted Cornelius holding out the tea plate he was holding “I was busy putting the toast out, see” on the tea plate were three slices of cremated toast. Well, they had been toast at some point, now they were simply burnt offerings!

    “This individaul wears a long coat and wide brimmed hat and he smells something awful, you yourself commented about a curious smell” Blake told him trying to jog his memory.

    Mr Cornelius thought for a moment “A curious smell? Oh the smell, I’m sorry sir, I thought that was you!”

    Insulted Blake was about to turn and take his leave when old Mr Cornelius called him back.
 “Don’t forget your book” he said holding out the package.

    It was a brown paper package tied up with string and sealed with crimson sealing wax.

    Ting a ling a ling ling.

    Making his way back along the back street and into London’s hustle and bustle, Blake walked back towards his building of employment in Whitehall, and the office where Mrs Dyson would be waiting with another lecture about his appalling time keeping. He had intended to return to his office earlier, and would have done had it not been for a sign taped on a glass panel of a telephone kiosk. It was there for all the world to read, and yet it could only be meant for him. The sign was not something he could ignore and with hindsight, that is just what Blake should have done, but then if he hadn’t……

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    He stood outside the telephone box reading the notice, a simple message it read “It’s for you Mister Blake,” at that moment the telephone inside the box began to ring. Blake stood there for several moments waiting, wondering what he should do, and all the time the phone was ringing. Well what would you have done? The sign said it was for Mister Blake, and that was him. He opened the door to the telephone box, entered, and picked up the receiver. He stood there with the receiver to his ear listening to the dialling tone.

    “Hello, hello is anyone there?”
    Whoever it was didn’t stop to talk to him, but just rang off. What kind of practical joke was this? Replacing the receiver, he turned to leave the kiosk, and pushed at the door. The door would not open; it wouldn’t even give a little. He cursed his stupidity thinking he must have turned the wrong way. He turned again, thinking the door was to  the left. It wasn’t, nor was it to the right. No, this was ridiculous, when he entered the telephone box, the door was behind him. He turned to face the way he had come in, and pushed…….there was no door!

    Not being one to panic in a difficult situation, he had to admit his pulse rate had quickened. The truth of the matter was, somehow he had become locked inside this telephone box with no way out! In an attempt to attract the attention of passersby he beat on the panes of glass. Although there were several people passing by they refused to pay any attention to him! He looked at the telephone, stupid of him, call Mrs Dyson at the office, she could call the fire brigade who would then force the door open, and let him out. He searched his pockets for change and picking up the receiver he found there was no dialling tone! Taking his mobile phone from his pocket, the battery was dead, he had forgotten to charge it! A chap in a pin striped suit walked towards the telephone kiosk.
    “This chap hasn’t got a mobile phone and he wants to make a call and he’ll be out of this at last” Blake thought to himself.

    But then imagine his disappointment as after trying the door which failed to open, the man in the pin striped suit simply gave up and walked away.

    Blake shouted at the man “Hey you, comeback I’m locked in and can’t get out, comeback, comeback, do you hear me?”
    If the man did he simply chose to ignore him. Blake is a man who had been highly trained in a number of skills, had learned to live by his wits, able to find an answer or way-out of any given situation. A man who functions best while under extreme pressure, able to deal with all aspects of the unknown that was him, but this time he was beaten! And yet he could fathom no-way out of his current predicament, trapped in this….telephone box! Blake had to admit that he had been out-witted!
    Tired of trying to attract the attention of passers-by, who merely glanced and then carried on walking, he slumped to the concrete floor amid toffee papers, cigarette butts and the usual rubbish found on the floor in a telephone box. He wondered if it was air-tight, if it was he could look forward to slow suffocation. So there he sat reading a card about Fifi which included a picture of a young woman scantily clad and a telephone number. Then he sniffed the air, there was a faint smell, an odour that was becoming very familiar to him, that was turning into a more powerful stench of rotting flesh and stinking fish within the close confines of the telephone box. Blake turned, and there he was, the hunchback crouching down outside the telephone box. He looked at him from beneath the brim of his hat with those big bulging eyes, as though Blake were some kind of exhibit, with an inane grin on his skull like face. From beneath his great long coat the creature produced the brown package which was tied with string, the crimson seal unbroken. It was just like his own package which lay on the floor beside him. No, it wasn’t like it, it was exactly the same! Blake watched, strangely beguiled, as the creature’s long bony fingers broke the crimson seal and began to untie the knotted string, which he then carefully rolled up and placed in a pocket of his coat. Having done so, he proceeded to carefully, and with great purpose, unwrap his brown paper package revealing a wooden box with a hinged lid. Undoing the clasp of the box he carefully lifted the lid, whilst Blake was eager to see what this individual had in his box.

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    There were three lines of glass ampoules, each filled with orange brown liquid, eighteen ampoules in total. A bony finger and thumb lifted one out of the box in order to give it closer examination, perhaps at the same time to give Blake a much closer look. Holding it up to the sunlight at first, he tilted it this way and that, then dropped it but caught it in his other hand. He gave a look of relief at catching the ampoule, mopping imaginary sweat from his brow with a dirty handkerchief which he had taken from the pocket of his coat. It was as though this curious individual was teasing Blake, taunting him. What was he about? What was his game? His immediate thought was that the ampoules must surely contain some sort of virus, smallpox, anthrax, bubonic plague, or nerve agent! The ampoule was replaced safely back in its place within the box and the lid closed, the clasp secured before the box was wrapped up again in the same brown paper. Then the hunchback pointed a bony finger at Blake’s own brown paper parcel on the floor.

    “It’s a book” Blake said indicating as much with his hands.

    But he became insistent, and kept pointing first at the parcel, and then to his own which he held in his hand. It was with some apprehension that Blake finally picked up his parcel. It would have probably been much the wiser thing to have left it lying on the floor, but he could no longer be sure of its contents. With the parcel in his hands, he looked at the individual who made with his bony hands for Blake to unwrap his parcel. To do so would at least allay any fears he might have. Slowly, carefully, and with steady hands, he broke the crimson seal, and untied the string knot. Then unwrapping the brown paper the content was revealed to be nothing more frightening, than ‘A Century of Creepy Stories.’ His adversary began to laugh in a maniacal way, and Blake laughed with him. He couldn’t believe how stupid he had been to allow myself into being fooled by this outrageous foul smelling individual. Blake wanted to put his hands round his throat and squeeze the very foul air out of him for what he had put him through. Then saw the creature was no longer laughing, he was grinning inanely bearing his blackened teeth. Having placed his own box upon the pavement, he rolled up the sleeves of his coat, and began to examine his hands and fore arms closely. He couldn’t think for the life of him what this creature was about. Then he began pointing insistently at the brown paper which he had left lying on the floor after unwrapping his own parcel, then back at him before re-examining his hands and forearms again. Blake sat on the floor watching him, unable to make anything of his self-examination. Then Blake looked down at the paper on the floor of the phone box, and saw the slight traces of a fine white powder, it was then that the full horror hit him like a express train…… Anthrax! Staring at the brown paper in total disbelief. What had he done….no, what had Mister Cornelius done? Here in a busy London street, all these people walking passed with no idea. His adversary picked up his box off the pavement, gave Blake a sly wink from beneath the brim of his hat, put his box under his coat, then simply walked away, his long coat tails disappearing into the crowd.

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    Blake had to act fast, but was it already too late? Taking off his jacket he wrapped both the book and the brown paper in the jacket to try and prevent any possible further contamination, other than this there was nothing more he could do. For the first time since his entrapment within the confines of the telephone box, he was thankful that no-one could open the door!

    Amongst the passers-by was a stout, middle aged woman who not only approached the telephone Kiosk but managed to pull the door open!
    “What are you doing there young man? I want to call a taxi!” the woman stated brusquely.

   “Get back!” Blake shrieked out in warning “don’t come in here, and close that door!”

   “What’s up with him?” a bloke asked coming to the woman’s aid “I say what the devil are you doing to this woman?”

    “I’m not doing anything to her. I just want her to get someone to call the police, and for you and everybody else to stand well clear” he told the man as he looked at him as though he were mad.

    “Look here, if you want the police why not use the telephone behind you?” the man asked helping the woman to one side.

    “Because it doesn’t bloody work, now keep back” Blake shouted.

    “What’s up with this chap, is he insane”’ asked a little old woman trying to hit him with her umbrella.

    “He looks to be on drugs” said another man.

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    “No he’s not, he’s just drunk!” said a chap in a bowler hat.

    The man looked at my jacket “What have you got there?”

    “Nothing. Now will someone call the police?”

    “It’s a bomb, he’s got a bomb!” a woman suddenly shouted, poking her head through the crowd.

    “No it’s not a bomb. Will someone please call the police?” he shouted loud enough to wake the dead.

    “He is, he’s round the bend!” said a voice.

    “I am not mad. Well not yet. But if someone would just call the police, and everyone please get away from here!”

    “Alright chum” said the man in the bowler hat taking his mobile phone out of his pocket “we’ll call the police alright.”

    Suddenly a police constable made his way through the gathered crowd “Now then what’s all this?”

    “There’s a madman in the telephone box” the man in the bowler hat said, turning off his mobile.

    “Well stand back then, let the dog see the rabbit” the constable said, pushing his way through and opening the door to the telephone box “now then sir, what are you about and what have you got there?”

    “My name is Silas Blake…..”

    “You’re a suicide bomber!” said the constable taking out his note book and pencil.

    “Do I look like a suicide bomber?”
    “I don’t know, I’ve never seen one before. But you look pretty radical to me!”
    Look! You need to call your station and get the de-contamination Unit alerted” Blake told the officious constable.

    “Now why would I want to do that sir? Someone mentioned a bomb” said the constable looking at the jacket.

    “There isn’t any bomb, but what there is, is a parcel containing a substance, possibly Anthrax. Now will you call your station and get those people away from here” Blake demanded sharply.

    “Can I see what’s under your jacket first sir?” the constable asked.

    Obligingly Blake showed him the brown paper package under his jacket. Then took his I.D from the breast pocket and threw it to the constable, who opened the leather wallet and examined it closely.

    Within seconds the police constable was on his radio to his station, and within minutes a police car and two motor cycle out riders were on the scene. The newly arrived policemen began immediately to escort the crowd of people away along the street. A de-contamination unit eventually arrived. Men and women in ungainly green decontamination suits set up a de-contamination tent. Blake was duly relieved of the parcel, and taken to be put through a decontamination shower.

   “Hold it!” a voice shouted “well Blake what’s all this about?” asked the Colonel.
    “Anthrax, I’m about to be put through de-contamination.”

    The two men removed the head cover of their de-contamination suits.

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    “What gave you the idea that it was Anthrax” asked the Commander.

    He stood in bewilderment as the decontamination unit was stood down “I naturally assumed……it was the hunchback, oh my god, the hunchback! We’ve got to stop him!”

    “What hunchback?” Commander Bennett asked.

    “First we’ve heard of any hunchback!” Thorn said.

    Is this what he wanted all along, for me to commit or have been seen to commit an act of terrorism. It’s the hunchback you want, a foul smelling individual with dark skin drawn tight over his face, giving himself a skull-like appearance. He wears a long well worn coat and wide brimmed hat.”

    “And he told you that the white powder was Anthrax did he?”

    “No, not exactly. He intimated it to me. Well I couldn’t take the chance could I? It’s him you want.”

    “It was baking powder” an officer reported.
    “Where did you get the package Blake?”

    “There’s an old Antiquarian bookshop in a back street owned by an old man Cornelius” he replied.

    The Colonel’s ears twitched at hearing that name. Mister Cornelius was a suspected organiser of a terrorist network. Special Branch had had his shop under surveillance for some time, observing the comings and goings of certain people, and that had included Blake. An armed police taskforce was deployed to the book shop.

    Ting a ling ling.

    The Antiquarian bookshop was dimly lit as it always, and as usual there was no sign of the old proprietor. Blake was the first in followed by armed police officers  who began to systematically search the premises. The shop was clear, that left the backroom. Behind the counter was a doorway, which led along a short passage with coconut matting, the walls covered in dirty drab wallpaper. To the right an open door to the kitchen, dingy and disgusting it was, the sink piled with unwashed dishes. An old wooden table was cluttered with old food and empty wine bottles, the waste bin was full to overflowing, and the smell of this, together with the remains of rancid food, and rotten cabbages, pervaded, the atmosphere. Blake was about to leave the confines of the cordon bleau kitchen when he observed a large drape hanging down. He whistled to the armed police officers who now stood at his back, and pulled the drape aside to reveal an alcove set in the wall. There was a trestle table upon which were several identical brown paper packages all tied with string and sealed with crimson sealing wax. They looked so innocent as though a number of books had been wrapped up and sat waiting to be delivered. Some of the parcels were marked, to be collected, while others were addressed to people all over the world. America, Argentina, Australia and New Zealand, and to several European countries, Russia, several Balkan States, as far as the Middle East, and further to China, Cambodia, and Japan. But of the one obnoxious, foul smelling individual whom he wished to lay hands on, there was no sign.

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    At the end of the passage there was a door on the left. Grasping the dingy brown coloured door knob he slowly twisted it anticlockwise, and putting his shoulder to it Blake pushed his way inside as swift as you could say knife. The sitting room was as dingy as the bookshop. A forty watt bulb burned in the light socket. Either side of the fire place were two old and well worn winged armchairs, they found Cornelius sat in one of the armchairs. His breathing was shallow, Blake felt for a pulse. Cornelius was alive, but only just. He had been fetching up yellow bile which had soaked into his trousers, and seeped onto the floor. There were open sores on both Cornelius’s face and fingers all seeping green puss.

    “Get the decontamination unit in here in double quick time!” he ordered one of the officers.

    Five minutes later Cornelius was dead.

    Men in green anti-contamination suits sealed off the Bookshop completely. A small laboratory in the basement for the production of producing chemical and bacterial viruses, and all of the brown paper packages were removed and placed in hermetically sealed containers, then marked addresses were all noted and passed on to both Special Branch and MI9. For Blake, it was a scrubbing down in the showers of a decontamination tent. No place was missed by either the hot jets of water or by the scrubbing brushes. He was instructed to go back to the office and write out his report. But he wanted to be the one to finish this, by finding the hunchback, who was still at large with one brown paper parcel in his possession with god knows what virus it contained. All Blake knew was, London was in harms way! He began his search at ‘The Star’ public house.

    “You’re not going to go on about the drains again are you? You upset several of my customers last time” Brenda demanded as she put his pint down on the bar.

    “No Brenda, but I do want to ask you about the man in the wide brimmed hat and long coat.”

    “Not again! Look I told you last time, there has not been anyone resembling that description in here this afternoon” Brenda informed him sternly from across the bar.

    He stood at the bar looking around the room, it was packed with customers “You’re busy this afternoon easy to miss someone coming and going.”

    “That’s as maybe, but I tell you I haven’t served that man, I’d have noticed” Brenda said turning her back and filling a glass from the whisky optic.

    Outside in the street Blake wondered what his next move would be. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t help him now!    Along the street was a coffee shop from which emanated the most  wonderful aroma of coffee Just to walk passed the smell of the coffee made you quite often pause and go in, whether you really wanted a coffee or not. Walking passed he noticed an undercurrent odour which was at first masked by the smell of coffee. Turning back, Blake looked through the window of the coffee shop. Sat at one of the tables, was the figure still dressed in his long coat, he was hunched over the cup of coffee. Blake calmed himself before opening the door and slowly making his approach to the seated figure, sat down at the table. At first he didn’t seem to notice him.

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    “Who in Hades are you?”

    The figure slowly lifted his head and bulging eyes stared back at him from beneath the brim of his hat.

    “I asked you who you are, and I want to know where the brown paper package is I saw you with earlier today?” Blake asked breathing through my mouth.

    A wry smile passed the creature’s lips, but he still said nothing.

    “Cornelius is dead, did you know that?”

    The wry smile disappeared from his face and his head dipped a little. Was he feeling the pain of a friend’s death?

    “What was Cornelius to you, a confederate, was he the head of your terrorist cell?”

    The man stared at him but those bulging eyes were cold, and there was no wry smile. Only an evil sneer now set upon his face.

    “You might as well save both of us a great deal of time and energy by simply handing over that package of yours, and we’ll leave here together. I can have this place surrounded in minutes by an armed task force.” Blake told him.

    The figure remained silent, he just sneered angrily.

   “Why don’t you leave him alone’ said a man sitting at the next table “he’s done nothing wrong.”

    Blake looked at the man in astonishment. Someone else had finally acknowledged this man’s existence “Not yet he hasn’t, and he’s not going to be given the chance, I’m here to see to that.”

    His adversary grinned at Blake, and winked slyly from beneath

the brim of his hat. Then springing to his feet with the extreme agility he was out the door and into the street in a flash with Blake trying to hang onto his coat tails, and failing. The man sitting at the next table stuck out his leg and tripped him up sending Blake sprawling to the floor.

    “If I had time I would have you arrested on the grounds of obstruction, and aiding and abetting a terrorist” Blake threatened getting to his feet and dashed out through the door into the street.
    Of his adversary there was no sign. All Blake could do was to walk the streets looking for a sign, a sniff of his foe, and he was running out of time to save the populace of London from a terrorist attack. He had just about reached the point when he was about to give up the ghost, when there it was right in front of him, the newly completed Campanile Tower. Standing in the street and looking upwards, he saw…..the glimpse of a figure standing on a parapet. Rushing up the steps and bursting in through the doors into the entrance hall was met by a security guard.

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    “How can I help you?” asked the security guard.

    Blake showed him his identity card “I’m on the trail of a terrorist, a man wearing a wide brimmed hat and long well worn coat.”

    The security guard didn’t need to think “No, no there’s no one here of that description.”

    “Are you in the foyer here all the time?”

    “Not all the time sir, several different companies occupy the floors in the building. Then towards the top floor is a hotel, and private apartments and they all call on me when there’s a problem.”

    “Well there’s a problem now, there’s a man on the roof and he has a number of ampoules containing a virus which I believe he is going to expose to the air.”
    “An intruder couldn’t get in, and even if he did he couldn’t get to the roof” the security guard explained “There are security access points on each floor, and the lift is card activated only.”

    “Yes, but that system allows people to ghost in on other people’s cards. Which is the quickest way to the roof?”

    “There’s the turbo lift” said the security guard pointing the way.

    “Good I’ll take that” he told him handing him his card “phone that number, give them the name Blake, tell them I’m on the trail of the hunchback.”    

   “I’ll have to call my Control first” the security guard said.

   Blake made for the turbo lift, calling back to the security guard to call MI9 first.”

    The turbo lift shot Blake up to the forty-eighth floor in a matter of moments. The doors opened and he stepped out. There was a door to his right, he rushed it bursting through, and was faced with a short flight of steps, he went up. The door at the top opened up onto the roof which was littered with air condition units, behind anyone of which the terrorist could be skulking. There was certainly something in the air, something familiar to his nostrils. Following his nose, Blake trailed his prey to the far end rail of the roof where he stood over the open box of ampoules. He held one in his bony hands, and was paying it close examination. Blake got as close as ten feet before his presence was detected. He peered at Blake from beneath the brim of his hat with that wry grin. He feigned dropping the ampoule, expecting Blake to react, he didn’t.

    “If you’re going to do it…do it, what are you waiting for?”

    Blake took a step or two closer, the man was toying with the ampoule, toying with Blake and he began to laugh which was more of an insane cackle, and gesticulated towards Blake. Suddenly he stopped his gesturing, he stopped laughing. And from beneath the wide brim of his hat he once more gave that sly wink of his. Instinctively Blake knew that time had run out, that this was it. He lunged towards the terrorist who held his closed fist out over the parapet, then opened it. The ampoule dropped from his bony hand on its journey down into the open palm of Blake’s hand which closed gently securing the ampoule. The creature’s face was an image of pure hatred. There was a struggle but then the terrorist broke away from Blake’s grip and reached a hand out towards the open box of ampoules. Blake was too quick and kicked the box out the reach of him who turned with rage and with outstretched bony hands rushed forward to vent his anger upon his adversary. Blake saw the man coming, and stepping smartly to one side watched as he plunged headlong over the parapet. It was too late, the man had realized his mistake, he plummeted downwards his wide brimmed hat flying from his head, the long tails of his coat flared out behind him. Blake leaned over watching as he fell several floors before bouncing off a buttress before finally coming to rest on a narrow ledge.

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    By this time the armed police and Special Branch arrived on the scene it was all over barr the shouting. A large black Bentley arrived; the figure of the Colonel stepped out of the car accompanied by

Thorn, they stood together looking up at the Tower. Remarkably the

terrorist was still alive when his bruised and battered body was retrieved from the ledge of the Campanile Tower by firemen and two paramedics.

    That night Blake settled himself down in his Chelsea Mews home, he poured himself a large glass of 12 year old Clynelish single malt whisky and laid back on the brown leather couch bathing himself in the music of Leon Bismark “Bix” Beiderbecke. The volume of ‘A Century of Creepy Stories,’ lay upon the coffee table.

    As to the identity of the hunchback, he remains completely anonymous, there is no record of him anywhere in any Police, Special Branch, MI5, MI6 and MI9 file. Further afield nor the FBI, CIA or Interpol have any such person in their files of known terrorists. He was interrogated at great length, after having been given a thorough cleansing, but they could not get rid of the smell, but he never said one word about himself or his activities. Eventually he was taken to a maximum security prison, there to be locked away for the rest of his natural life.

     Number 2 sat in the black global chair and closed the book he had been reading. The pair of steel doors opened and the slim figure of his assistant Number 8 walked smartly down the ramp and approached the desk.
    “Really Number Two I should have thought you would have better things to occupy your time other than the reading of a book, what’s the title?”
    Number 2 showed her the book.
    “Tales of Daring-Do, how fantastic, yet an improbable tale, The Day I Saved London Again!” she said “Just a minute...isn’t Number Six’s name Silas Blake?”

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    “It is” Number 2 confirmed.
    “How can this be, this is a work of fiction, he’s made himself the hero!”
    “And how do you think he managed to do that?”

    Number 8 placed the book onto the desk “He wrote the book of course.”
    “It’s not the name on the dust jacket.”
    “Then he used a nom de plume!” Number 8 suggested.
    “If he has you would have thought he would have used something more original than Peter Smith! You don’t mean all these stories in this book are his memoirs of days of action and adventure, because his name appears in all the stories contained within the pages of that book!”
   Number 8 leafed through the pages, cheap fiction, they are all so improbable . A hunchback in a long tailed coat and wide brimmed hat and a virus attack on London, I ask you!”

    Suddenly the wall screen was turned on, a figure sat with his back

to the camera, suddenly turned round in quite dramatic fashion, and

 from beneath the wide brim of his hat, gave a sly wink and The Village salute into the hidden camera. Number 2 turned away from the screen, staring at Number 8 who dropped the book on the floor, in a state shock and utter disbelief.

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