Dark Eyes

By JT Roberts

Three thousand years ago, a battle took place between the forces of good and evil. This battle was won at great and bloody cost by the powers of good. Since then though, a defeated survivor has been striving to find the way to re-open the gates of hell, to re-ignite his mission for his evil masters to reign supreme on the planet earth.
A seemingly innocent bystander,Liverpudlian Tony Myers is about to be catapulted into an eon’s old conflict, finding that his bystander status was only a well guarded mask that even he didn’t know he was wearing.
He was about to face horrors that he couldn’t have imagined in the most gory of movies or the most devastating of nightmares he’d had, only this was for real. He was about to find out that it was on his young shoulders rested the outcome of the coming conflict, and future of the Earth as we know it...
Dark Eyes is a surprising roller coaster of a book, with twists and turns that no one will see coming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JT Roberts
• Release date: May 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458020062

JT Roberts

Writer of erotic fiction.

Book preview

Dark Eyes

By J.T. Roberts

Copyright 2011 by J.T.Roberts

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One

Where were you when Diana died? When the Berlin Wall came down? When 9/11 went down? Major events, pivotal moments when the mind starts down another path.

If Tony had known that what was to happen was only the prelude to what was to come for him in the not too distant future, he would have more than likely picked up his belongings lock stock and barrel, headed for the hills and move into the nearest cave (not that there are that many of them in the Liverpool area).

It had been a Friday night, a usual Friday night at his local Liverpool pub, ‘The Bowling Ball’. He was 17 (yes, underage, but so what) and was out with a gang of mates having a drink and a laugh. It must have been about 10 o’clock and they had been there throwing down for an hour and a half at least.

Suddenly, he was swamped by a heavy, nauseous sensation that swept over him. An overwhelming feeling of pressure hit him like a gust of warm foul smelling wind. He must have shown because Jim and Derek asked him if he was OK. He laughed it off, bad pint! he mouthed.

The feeling was getting more acute. He could see a pretty girl in his mind’s eye, around twenty, with shoulder length blond curly hair, and wearing a plain red dress. The image was as clear as if he had his eyes open and was actually looking at her in front of him. She threw her head back laughing at something. Then came the other feeling. Surrounding, quickly smothering the picture of the girl.

She was still the picture, but she was struggling. Her red dress torn exposing her breast and most of her side. She was on the floor, struggling, held down. Her pretty face contorted with a hideous silent scream. The lust, the animal, the feeling of total dominance swept over Tony. ‘Shit!’ He stood, holding onto the back of a chair. I’m just going for a breath of air he said.

He started toward the door, then was stopped dead in his tracks. He could feel himself gagging. There she was! The girl! The red dress! The blond hair! The lot! Jesus! This wasn’t happening. What is ‘this’ that isn’t happening even though it is? He tried desperately to compose his thoughts. "Think, you dozy bastard! Think logically, laterally. The pictures, the thoughts, the shit, they’re not be mine, I’ve only just spotted her. Oh Christ! If they’re not mine then, someone else in here must be thinking them. WHO????? He scanned the room wildly, not knowing what he was looking for but knowing he was looking for something.

Through the shock, a new emotion surfaced. Anger. So clean and pure that it hurt. It cut through the mist in his mind, focusing his thoughts so cleanly. Some bastard in here must be thinking of doing to her all that I have just seen, although it didn’t feel like a thought, it felt like sheer unadulterated anticipation. The worst part was that the emotion he was getting didn’t feel at all forced or unnatural at its source.

Think. Think how you first saw her? Someone was looking at her and you had seen her through their eyes. Hang on, she didn’t look like this, she was more, well, more side on, not facing. Then it came to him. Move around you tosser. Move around until she looks like she did when you first saw her. Then you’ll know who was looking at her. Move around until you can see her through their eyes.

He made his way slowly through the sea of drinkers until he felt he was looking at her as he had first seen her. He turned around and found himself looking into the face of the source of his problem. Just a normal guy. Dressed casual and normal, pint in his hand and evil on his mind. He was still looking at her. Past Tony, and straight at her. Tony was not breathing. He just stood and stared.

Soon the man felt Tony’s gaze, and met his stare. Only for a couple of seconds though. Trying a forced smile (only with his mouth but not his eyes), he turned back to the bar. Full of courage bolstered by drink and anger, Tony continued to stare. What do I do? he thought, Hit him? He hasn’t actually done anything. Yet! The word stuck in Tony’s gullet. He moved slowly to the bar, installing himself next to, but facing the man. It didn’t take long for the man to turn to face him.

Have you got a problem son? he asked. Tony stared at him, then turned his head, intentionally looked at the girl, and then turned again to face the man. I said have you got a problem? His tone was becoming aggressive and tetchy. No, I haven't Tony replied, but I think we both know that you have! He let his eyes return to the girl once again, instinctively feeling the man’s gaze follow their direction. When he looked back into the eyes of the man, he saw the seed of confusion surfacing.

I’ll say this once, said Tony pushing his face closer to the man’s. Don’t even THINK about it. I know what you look like, and I know who you are!

He would never forget the man’s reaction as long as he lived. A look that seemed to amalgamate shock, horror, anger and dismay took control of his features in the short time it took his pint glass to leave his slackening fingers and hit the floor, showering those close by with glass and cold beer. Thoughts pummelled Tony’s brain, HOW! WHO! WHAT! The look was almost instantly replaced with an expression of puzzled acknowledgment and animal fear. He’d been found out and now was the instinct to run. He shoved Tony aside and carved his path of escape through the crowd, leaving in his wake a cacophony of disgruntled victims.

Watching him disappear through the exit, Tony turned once more toward the girl. She sat, oblivious to events of the previous ten minutes. Yeah. She was cute. I could quite fancy her. But Jesus, how could anybody normal feel about her in the way that that evil bastard just had. For the first time in his short and, as yet, undistinguished career as a telepath, he felt proud of that which he had achieved using his talent. Because it had just dawned on him, it could be treated as a talent.

She seemed to sense his gaze, and turned to meet him eye to eye. She tilted her head slightly, and smiled. It was a nice, warm, open smile. He smiled back, and then made his way back to his cronies, feeling totally drained. Not long after returning to his friends, he had cried off for the night, and started home. He had walked for a time, then sat for a while, then walked some more, his brain spinning like a pinball machine, bright lights and all. He could vaguely remember arriving home. His father was in bed of course. He had sat in the living room in one of the comfortable armchairs with the light off, and fallen into a restless, troubled sleep.

He had been woken at about 6 a.m.by what sounded like a feline war in the front garden, and had with effort, dragged himself to bed. He had returned to the land of the dead sleep swiftly, fully clothed and sprawled on top of his quilt.

When he finally awoke, he’d been dreaming again. One of those vivid, brilliantly intense dreams that are always just out of reach of the conscious mind when sleep has departed. He had tried desperately to claw the dream back to clarity this time as with many others, only this time he felt strongly that something important, vital, was attached to the fleeting shadows that remained. An explanation of some kind maybe. A reason for last night’s upheaval. He eventually surrendered to the inevitable. It was not unlike trying to grasp the smoke off a fire.

He’d let his ability take its own course for long enough now! It was time that he decided the way forward from now on. Firstly he had to learn what made his talent tick, and what parameters he would be working within. The internet with Google would be a good start, then maybe the library, they’d have books on the subject. Anything on telepathy and surrounding phenomenon, read and digest, that was the only way forward. Then ‘re-read and re-digest’. He had to know just what he was getting himself into and not piss about in the dark as he just had.

As life-changing moments go, that last incident was a definite contender for Top of the Pops wouldn’t you say. Thinking back on it, it certainly brought to the forefront several issues that Tony had fastidiously tried to bury. Well maybe bury is too strong a word, issues he had tried to ignore sounds a lot better. OK, it had been a novel event, a fresh experience, which in retrospect had scared the shit out of him.

He had never once felt an emotion of his own, or anyone else's, as gut wrenchingly putrid as that pervert’s thoughts. What was all the more frightening was that it had been coupled with not one ounce of what Tony could construe as moral or immoral judgment. It had been totally normal to the man, and yet he’d seemed perfectly ordinary. He had just stood in the middle of crowded pub, full to overflowing with people having a good time, and thought thoughts that had, well, had...... Oh Jesus! He still found it so, so hard to contemplate.

Now, in the cold light of day Tony had had to consider whether or not his actions had been courageous, or plain stupid. The more he had dwelt on it, the more common sense had favoured the latter. What the fuck had he been thinking about? The guy could have glassed him or anything. He had when all things taken into consideration invaded the innermost thoughts, desires and emotions of what could have been a true psychopath.

Shit! Who was to say that some residue of the blackness from the mind had not been left behind in Tony’s mind, and was still there? Maybe it could infect him, affect him! How safe was he from other people’s thoughts. How much, if any, of the other person’s persona did he take when he saw their thoughts? He didn’t feel any different, but was that any indication.

He didn’t feel like last night had been his ‘Road to Damascus’. Was that wrong in itself? Then he thought once more about the indignance and revulsion he had felt, and how true his feeling, and his reaction to the feeling had been. If he hadn’t have stepped in, the girl could well have been another police statistic by now. Shit! That had to count for something.

In college that day, he thought hard about his success (the good thing about being in Art College was that you could sit in front of an easel for most of the day, looking for ‘inspiration’, and no one would interrupt). He had come to the conclusion that he would have to broaden his experimental horizons, deciding that if he concentrated on the one subject continuously, he would probably drive the poor bugger to seek psychiatric help.

Over the next few months, in addition to his research, he started flexing his mental muscles as often as he could. Just trivial things thrown out to the ether like Open the window!, Close the door!, Scratch the side of your face!, not directed toward anyone specifically, just a thought thrown out.

Gradually, but to Tony agonisingly slowly, people started to respond to the planted thought. He could not actually control the persons mind (and he would never want to), only place in their conscious or unconscious psyche, a mental suggestion. A request. Hoping they would act upon it. He found he was only good for this in short bursts, as at first it really sapped both his mental and physical stamina. He likened it to training for a marathon. Don’t overdo it and you would get there in the end.

He decided eventually to try to focus specifically on one person, and that one person was of all people, the local milkman. He didn’t know the guy and he thought that by using this man as his test subject, he could work from the safety of his own bedroom window, unseen. For two and a half frustrating weeks, he tried without success to implant a thought into the mind of the milkman. No reaction was forthcoming. He began to have doubts. Maybe he could only receive. Maybe he did not have a strong enough power to transmit. In fairness, the books did say that not ‘all’ telepaths could send. Maybe he was trying to run before he could walk. Maybe? Maybe?

It was not until the Wednesday of the third week that the breakthrough came, just as his frustration was beginning to get the better of him. He had mentally followed the ‘subject’ up the street, calling different things. A command, Drop that carton of milk! A request, Please shut that gate. Not one directed thought had elicited even a mild response. The frustration boiled over. DAMN!!!!, is it all fucking worth it???? On the thought ‘DAMN’, the milkman had distinctly flinched. YES!. Rejoiced Tony. Yes! Yes! Yes!. He mentally punched the air. Again, the poor man flinched visibly. He turned on his heel and scanned the empty street, a bemused look on his face. Tony couldn’t believe it. At last. He said out loud. Yes.........!"

He had made a vow there and then to act within strict parameters. Not to use it for anything bad and not to practice on family or friends. As his ability increased, he took friends out of this equation. Often when at friends’ homes, they would offer him a mug of tea, or coffee, when they had had no inclination of doing so a couple of minutes before.

His success with animals was a totally different matter though. When attempting contact with animals that he knew, he would usually get a good response. They would come to him (on request) for a stroke or a fuss. Dogs would sit, lie down, or roll over. He didn't receive actual thoughts from his feline and canine subjects, only emotions. Happy, sad, hungry, tired, but all in all, these emotions were totally clear.

With animals he did not know, he had a mixed response. Some accepted and responded to the thought, whereas others reacted with suspicion or fear. A cat would maybe spit, cower and then run for the cover of the nearest shrub or tree. A dog would growl, snarl and strain at its leash, trying to get at him, rather frightening and very disconcerting.

Tony had no choice but to be pragmatic about this, considering this to be all part of the learning process. The training. Although sometimes he would sit and ponder where it was all leading. What was the point? Apart from curiosity, why?????

Where was all this leading? Where had it come from? Had anyone else in his family had this ability? Was he as alone as he felt with this burden? Burden or blessing? Every question that was answered brought two or three more questions.

Chapter Two

Tony Myers was a telepath! He had always been a telepath. He had always recognised he was a telepath, even before he knew what the word telepath meant. Little things, like knowing mum and dad were getting him an Action Man for his fifth Christmas because, well, he just knew they were! Like knowing at the age of 14 that Tim Brown was going to pour cold water down his neck in the chemistry lab because he seen him do it, in his mind.

Some of the nicer aspects of his gift worked in his favour, like knowing the answer before asking Shirley Thomas out to the pictures when they were 16. These powers, no, abilities had made him feel blatantly different and sometimes somewhat aloof from his friends, but like any child he was good at keeping secrets, and to keep himself from being well and truly ostracised, he kept this one well concealed. He hadn’t asked to be able to know the answers to the ‘snap quizzes’ the teachers held in school from time to time. He knew because he could see them. He hadn’t wanted to feel the anguish first hand when his father had discovered that granddad was dying. It was a burden, but a burden he knew he would have to learn to live with, and as far as he could understand, control.

He joined with others, in ‘skitting’ at people on the TV who could read people’s minds. Oh yeah, sure, just like they actually could.

As he had advanced into his teens, he had tentatively skirted his potential minefield by casually canvassing his friends and family for their opinions of the preternatural, discovering through his mind’s eye that although slating the idea of it all openly, their true thoughts betrayed a grudging acceptance that it was a reality. God help anyone who professed to having such an ability though.

He would secretly laugh at the entertainment mediums vision of the telepath, the hearing of voices echoing around in the stratosphere and such like, safe in the knowledge for him at least it was much, much simpler. How would be the best way to describe how he did it? It was like a memory. A recollection of something that someone had said or done. A certain knowledge that something had been or was being considered mentally by person or persons, known or unknown.

Having no ‘superhero radar’, it was more often than not very difficult to identify from whence the thought was coming, or even sometimes how old the thought actually was, but as he came to terms with the talent, he consistently toiled to hone and perfect.

Puberty brought its own unique problems. Whilst experiencing the usual in the guise of spots, the my parents don’t understand or listen to me syndrome, and the infamous I’m grown up now, why can’t I do what I want to do, he also had to cope with his ‘gift. At times he despaired, pressing his hands over his ears in the attempt to block out the thoughts, the voices, drawing puzzled and often uneasy glances from people close by. He often feared for his own sanity.

Many people announce to the world (and, may God help them, even believe), that no person is born inherently evil, but is moulded by external factors to the end that they become what we call, evil. Nature or nurture. Ha! Don’t believe a word of it! There are so many evil bastards in this world that you will never see surface to be seen by the public for what they actually are.

In all facets of life they raise their ugly heads, in big business, small business, politics, police, armed forces and yes even our soul saving churches. The only problem is that you will always get a small, misguided bunch of ‘do-gooders’ like psychiatrists, psychologists, and bleeding heart social workers explaining away their evil with banal, oft repeated excuses.

I’m certain that if Hitler, the Borgia’s, or even Jack the Ripper were alive today and participating in their ‘hobbies’, that some politically correct social worker would condone their actions, stating that they had been disturbed at an early age by the fact that their second cousin’s, milkman’s son had been a transvestite.

The world today is too afraid of calling a spade, a spade. Evil is all around us in varying degrees, being well camouflaged by person, persons or even scenarios. Even our own inability to recognise and acknowledge it. Overt evil is what is seen nightly on our TV screens in the form of say, the Bosnian war crimes, or the heinous murders of both young and old innocence. Although we are right to fear and detest that sort of evil, a far more disturbing evil is the covert. Concealed and disguised as it is, it is ultimately more courage sappingly dangerous than any seen in the daily media.

For example, the incitement to actions of pure violence, as in extreme racism. A grotesque ballet of physical violence against someone who is unlike your own kind. Nine times out of ten choreographed by an unknown, unseen figurehead that cannot be connected to the ‘aggro’ on the street. A person who, when found out to be the manipulating force behind these atrocities, is hailed by neighbours, family and friends alike, as that great guy who would help old ladies across the street, or rescue a poor kitten from a tree.

Haven’t you noticed that throughout history, the ‘evil leader’ and his lackeys in wars, atrocities and such, have always been totally convinced that their cause is the only pure cause. Just as you or I are totally convinced that their cause is totally wrong and ours is the only true path to enlightenment.

There were so many contradictory theories. Some are easy to pass over as pure crap from an infantile minds, some relatively interesting if somewhat flowery, some very technical and very boring, but amongst the dross, there were some that shone through the mire. Illuminating and to a certain extent explaining some of the events in his life.

One thing that did seem to crop up with some consistency, and always sparked his imagination, was that most documented telepaths were able to not only receive thoughts, but to transmit with varying degrees of accuracy thoughts of their own into the minds of non-telepaths, who could repeat the transferred thought with great clarity. Another point arising from his studies, was the telepath’s affinity to animals of all kinds, who appeared to a greater extent to have similar abilities,

Chapter Three

5 Years later.

He stood, framed in the window of his large but outwardly anonymous detached home. Observing the leafy avenue that fronted the dwelling. His face was loose and apathetic, but one look in his eyes would dispel the facade that his appearance merited. Behind him, a telephone rang out incessantly, switched to speakerphone.

Shut up child! The child in question was one of a group of four boys. They played on the edge of the property, flailing with sticks in their vain attempt to dislodge ‘conkers’ from one of the horse-chestnut trees which stood sentry-like, guarding his parameter. Three of the boys were concentrating solely on the battle against the trees, but the fourth, the brat, seemed to be intent on screaming and shouting at the top of his irritatingly squeaky voice annoying anyone in earshot.

Shut up you little brat! he repeated almost spitting his words. Fifteen minutes of the little pile of faeces would try the patience of a saint, and a saint he was definitely not. If you do not...

The phone was answered. Hello?! Is it done Thomas? No opening pleasantries, no introduction. Err.. no sir, you see..... Thomas, I did not request excuses, I repeat, is it done? The line was silent. No sir! I’m very sorry, the fear and trepidation in the voice was almost on a physical plane. A moments contemplation. Thomas. Tom. I am disappointed with your response. A deep breathe. When someone swears, to me something will be completed to a specific timetable, I think you would agree that I should be able to consider it completed, don’t you? Silence. I said don’t you? Yes sir!, came the muted reply.

Silence again Sir?, sir.........

Yes Thomas. I was just contemplating what we should do with you! I don’t believe as yet that you comprehend your present situation. Although the rewards for success in our little, clan are substantial and very exciting, you should understand that the rewards for failure are just as substantial. Although they may not be as exhilarating for yourself. If you catch my drift, hey, Thomas. The sickly sweet quality of his voice hung in the air like a pungent, clammy aroma. Yes sir, acceded Thomas eventually. I totally understand!. I’m sure you do. Now do it. The closing words of the telephone conversation were as cutting, as incisive as any surgeon’s knife, leaving no room for recourse.

All through the conversation, his eyes had never left, for one second, the little knot of boys. His bile still rising, driven by the pretentious attitude of that one brat. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and a smile creased his anonymous features. His right hand gently massaged his ear lobe as the gem of an idea blossomed. Slowly the brats actions became less animated and his voice less pronounced. His face became slack, as did his limbs. He started to walk, with purpose, toward one of the larger trees. Before his friends had time to take in what was happening, he had begun his ascent of the tree.

He climbed with confidence, as though he knew where all the hand and footholds were without looking. Initially his friends leapt around under the tree, wrapped in the excitement of the event. The fact that one of their little group was conquering his own Everest. Slowly though, it dawned on them that he was still climbing and this game was escalating into something that they knew that they could not control. The cries of glee and excitement, were replace by, at first, muted calls for him to return to ground level, building to a crescendo of pleas for him to return to ground level.

He still climbed, his eyes fixed at an invisible point somewhere above his head. He stopped climbing around twenty five feet above the roots. As swiftly as the trance like state had taken him, it melted away. Taking with it the confidence of the little climber.

He now looked below to his playmates and terror took the place of confidence. He froze. Suddenly, his eyes darted skyward and he shrank into the thick bough upon which stood, trying almost to merge with the rough, timeless bark that covered it. He waved his hand in front of his face. Then again, more urgently. Then behind him. His young hands trying to beat away some invisible aerial attacker. Panic overcame his fear of his precarious position in the tree.

The boys below screaming warnings to ‘hold on’, ‘keep still’. He staggered to his feet and commenced backing along the branch, away from the heart of the tree. His hands now flailed, with no coordination, beating their own tattoo on the still air. How he stayed upright for so long God only knows, but his friends below could see from his actions the inevitability of his future. One boy broke off from the group, and raced up the gravel drive toward the house, fear and the adrenaline rush putting wild speed into his pace. As his feet hammered up the steps to the front door, that was when the inevitable happened.

As if in slow motion, the brat teetered, regained his balance, and then lost it once again. His little body left the branch in an almost perfect ‘swallow dive’, turning in mid-air to land with a silent thud on the mossy ground at the foot of the tree. His body racked with spasms of movement for a couple of seconds, before lying prone on the green carpet, that was the grass.

Little fists hammered on the door. He stood in silence, drinking in the situation. He heard the front door being opened by one of his servants, followed by the panic ridden high pitched babble of the boy. He watched as the servant followed by the boy ran over to the still figure. He saw the servant running back to the house and into the hallway. He heard the urgent request for an ambulance, as he made his way back to his bar, and poured himself a Courvoisier brandy. He then ambled back to his favourite armchair, and sitting down he picked up the volume he had been reading previously. Finding his place again, he began to read.

Chapter four

Have you finished the layout for Thompson’s yet Tony? Bob’s heavy voice boomed from of his office. Shit Bob, how am I supposed to make plastic drums seem exciting? Tony replied, the frustration clear in his voice. Not my problem Tony dear boy. This is one of the drawbacks of living in the magical land of the graphic artist. The land of expectation and delight beyond dreams. Do you get it dear boy, drawbacks, graphic artists. Bob’s resonant chuckled seemed to fill the office, amused at his witticism, despite the fact the fact that he had cracked the same joke, in one format or another, at least twice a week since Tony had joined ‘Galaxy Graphics’ some two years previous, as office trainee.

Tony smiled, despite himself. He could only feel affection for the big lummox who called himself Bob (Mr Galaxy) Sinnott. Galaxy’s office was like an extended family for all employed there. From big daddy Bob, and mummy Doreen (wife, come secretary), to uncle Steve (head designer), and finally brother Billy and sister Sue (fellow grafters).

Tony had learned so much from Bob in his time there. Not just about graphic design (though Bob was renowned to be one of the best independent graphics men in the North of England), not about the computer design, but about life. Bob seemed to coast along without a care in the world, nothing ever fazing him, and yet he had one of the most astute and keen minds that Tony had ever come across. He was a bona-fide ‘people reader’.

He seemed to be able to judge a person’s mood or attitude simply by watching them for a couple of minutes. Steve had told Tony a few tales about how Bob had swung a deal by letting the client hear exactly what they wanted to hear at exactly the right time, but he also produced the promised goods to order. It’s your aura dear boy, it’s written over one’s thick skull like a bloody great neon sign! All the staff from the top, to the cleaner would die for him, as he would for them (metaphorically of course).

Bob was also one of the very, very select group of people that knew about Tony’s talent!

They had hit it off immediately. Bob was 55 years old, married, and the boss. Tony was 20 years old, single, and a keen worker. There also seemed to be a lot of the ‘young’ in Bob and the ‘old’ in Tony. It was exuberance meets experience. Sometimes Tony would catch Bob watching him out of the corner of his eye, when he had been engrossed over his work. Nothing sexual you understand, just a father-like fascination over Tony’s youth and verve.

Tony would have to admit that he had tried once or twice to scan Bob, but had just seen general thoughts like, Must pick that suit up from the cleaners today. Party time Saturday. and If I don’t go soon I’m going to sodding well wet myself. He never received anything deep, and never tried to delve. To be honest he only tried, to pander to habit anyway and did not want to see anything. After all, That’s not cricket! As Bob so quaintly put.

The secret had come out about six months before.

Tony had been sitting in his usual position at his board, pondering over a current project, whilst Bob and Steve had been in the inner sanctum with a client, ironing out the details of a potential contract. Through the glass, Tony saw the three men rise, and the client lean forward, shaking hands with both Bob and Steve. The door opened and Bob’s voice boomed out, Well Mr Rudland. I will draw up the standard contract, and courier it to your hotel by noon today, for your people’s perusal!. Sure, came the reply, We’ll get together and kill the formalities soon.

Meeting over, Steve led the client toward the door. In order to reach the door, they had to pass the board at which Tony sat contemplating a design. As they passed, he unintentionally took receipt of a thought from the prospective client. You really think you’ll see that 10K don’t you, sap!

Tony was stunned. This man was obviously going to screw the agency. To screw Bob, and in turn, screw them all, and no-one knew except ‘Mr Rudland’ and himself.

He sat at his board for the rest of the morning, and the early part of the afternoon, lost in thought, mulling over what had happened. He knew he was between a rock and a hard place. £10,000. That was one hell of a lot of money. It would definitely hurt the agency. How in God’s name could he explain how he knew what he knew if he told Bob? Do I, don’t I. Should I, shouldn’t I.

Tony!, Bob’s voice shook him from his meditation. Can you spare a minute? Tony followed him into the spacious office, closing the door behind them. Take a seat. Half request, half instruction. Tony dropped into one of the pair of sumptuous armchairs that dominated the centre of the room, hearing the gentle hiss as he sank into the soft grey leather, whilst Bob ceremoniously crossed the room to the percolator, and poured them both an aromatic cup of steaming hot black coffee.

He gently placed the cups on the elaborate coasters that decorated the large glass topped occasional table which stood between the two chairs, and then settled himself into the second chair facing Tony. He crossed his legs, formed his hands into a church steeple over his chest, then regarding his protégé over the rim of his bifocals, he waited.

After a moments silence, he asked in a quiet, calm voice, Is everything all right lad? No problems? Tony’s decision as to whether or not to ‘spill the beans’ was now in effect brought to a head, and surprisingly enough, he actually felt relief.

Bob! he paused, searching for the right words, I don’t know how to say this apart from coming right out with it. Don’t take on this deal with Rudland! There, it was out now. Bob’s expression never wavered. And what brings you to proffer this advice? The words tumbled out before his defence mechanism had time to stop them. He’s going to turn you over! You don’t stand a snowballs chance in hell of seeing the 10 grand fee! Shit! he thought. what have I done. His bridges were now lay burnt to a cinder, and far beyond repair. Bob sat, statuesque, for what felt like an eternity, but was in fact only a matter of a couple of minutes. Tony was receiving nothing from him, no emotion, no thoughts. (When he would assess what had happened later, this would puzzle him no end).

If you don’t mind me asking dear boy, how did come by this monetary figure? Tony had known this was coming, but was still helpless. With his statement, he had stepped in front of the speeding express, and handcuffed himself to the track. Bob didn’t push for the answer, satisfying himself by observing, and waiting in silence. A far more effective strategy.

All Tony could do was stare at the thickly carpeted floor, hoping an explanation would leap out at him, whilst his brain skimmed at 200 m.p.h. trying to formulate his reply. Bob’s voice came again, soft and soothing, After all, only three people were party to the figure you have just quoted. His voice was so quiet and measured, and in its deepness, had an almost hypnotic quality, and this seemed to relax Tony somewhat, allowing his beleaguered brain to begin to structure his reasoning with some clarity again.

I......., Tony stammered, I know how much the deal was, because I saw it! He tried so, so hard to measure his words. To explain, without explaining. You saw it! Responded Bob. The amount in question has only just within this last thirty minutes been set to paper, and you saw it! Next hurdle. Yes...., no....., I mean, you don’t understand what I mean Bob. I saw it! Not written down, I saw it in Rudland’s mind, and that’s how I know he is going to screw you. Had he gone too far? He finally looked up half expecting to see his boss reaching across for his telephone to call for the men in white coats. Here you are boys, I’ve got one for the ‘funny farm’ right here. But no. Bob still sat there, hands steepled, with his piercing eyes fixed on Tony’s.

Say something, for Christ’s sake, Tony pleaded. Silence. What do you think that I should say? came the eventual reply. I don’t know. Call me a nutter. Kick me out. Anything. Bob raised his eyebrows.

I can’t with any honesty say I am not surprised, Bob started at last, I have read about, and heard about to a certain extent, people having an ability in a similar vein to the one that you have just indicated, although I must admit, I have until this present moment had what one could only describe an ‘agnostic’ point of view. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it’, if you know what I mean. I suppose, being the pragmatic person that I pride myself to be, I should really re-evaluate this, as on the evidence presented, I have now seen it, and therefore must really seriously consider believing it.

Assuming that this phenomenon was not just an isolated incident, a ‘one off’ as one could put it, he added, I would firstly sincerely thank you for making an obviously exceptionally difficult decision, in making me aware of this, and in turn, preventing a potential situation. Secondly, my dear boy, I would strongly advise that you continued to follow your chosen avenue of not making your ability common knowledge. The world around you is a very coarse and nasty place, without inviting other of the even more nasty elements in.

Bob sat for some minutes, allowing the solemn nature of the situation sink in, before slapping his hands on the arms of his chair. He then stood with great gusto, declaring, I would feel that this occasion calls for more than a cup of coffee, no matter how well I make it. Get your coat boy. Tonight, we wine and dine on the town, and the bill is mine.

This reaction took Tony completely by surprise. Although he had effectively opened himself totally to Bobs mercy, he felt so at ease with this, and perfectly certain that his newly declared 'Achilles' heel’ would not be exploited by this bear of a man.

Chapter five

The slate grey sky seemed to bear down on the little valley with an almost physical presence, as the rain pattered down on the security hut at the Gwal Diawl* Copper Mine. The mine nestled in a remote valley, in a picturesque part of North Wales, within the boundaries of the Snowdonia National Park. Even when the sun shone on the little corner of God’s earth, the scenic views could only be classed as pretty, rather than breath taking as in other parts of the valleys. When the rain fell, as it was now, it was dark, dank and miserable.

Some two hundred yards away, a minor road wound its way past the end of the cart track that formed the only access to the mine, this being the only trapping of the modern world in sight. You got the distinct impression that if you had stood at the mouth of the mine, one, two, or even three hundred years before the present day, the landscape would have been almost identical.

Two men stood, shielding themselves from the drizzle in the entrance of the hut, shifting their weight from foot to foot. One was tall, and the other quite small, and they looked as out of place as anything imaginable, and obviously felt it. Every thirty seconds, one or the other, or both, would pull the sleeve of their expensive silk suits aside to check the time on their expensive gold watches. It would be stating the obvious to say they were on edge.

A mobile phone trilled. They jumped. The tall one answered the phone, mumbled a couple of terse words in reply to the phone message, and then cancelled the call. They’re on their way. He said. A look of relief, and then panic crossed their faces. I’ll warn them down below! said Little starting toward the mine. Oh no you don’t you little squirt! There’s no way you’re going to leave me to greet him alone again, like last time! This time we radio down, and we both meet him. Ok, ok, don’t get so shirty. We’ll both do it.

Large moved into the shadow of the hut, and retrieved a walkie-talkie from the shelf at the rear. Sentry to Sentinel! Do you read? The hand set crackled and a distant voice returned, Sentinel here, what to report.? They’ve past the final watch-point. E.T.A. five minutes! Oh, shit. Try and delay them for ten minutes. The transport has only just started from centre! Fuck you! spat Large. You want them stalling, you stall them yourself arse-hole. I’m not putting my balls in a sling for you! Cheers. Mate. Out. The handset crackled again and died. Why do we always get the sharp end. Groaned Little, running his hand through his thinning hair.

There they are. interrupted Large, spotting a large black vehicle approaching along the road. Large reached above the door, and pressed a concealed button. The gate at the end of the track started to open, a lot smoother than its appearance suggested. The car swung on to the track. The track was also deceptive. There were no potholes, or ruts to impede the smooth progress of the car. It was as if a good road had been ‘dirtied up’, to make it appear decrepit and unused. The gate swung slowly closed behind the car.

The vehicle pulled in just beyond the security hut and down into a slight gully, effectively hiding it from the road. Little and Large scuttled out of the hut carrying large golfing umbrella's and made their way swiftly to either side of the vehicle. Large opened the rear door and out stepped an attractive brunette. Her shoulder length hair was fashionably cut