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A Parallel Trust
A Parallel Trust
A Parallel Trust
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A Parallel Trust

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What begins as an exciting challenge turns into a countdown to save a young girl's life... As seventeen-year old Aril Ousby, the son of a renowned astrophysicist, embarks on a geocache treasure hunt in Britain, a series of kidnappings takes place in the United States. How are these events connected? Is Aril right to trust the enigmatic architect of the treasure hunt - or is he being led into an elaborate trap? Is the puzzle master motivated by altruism - or greed? And why has he chosen to involve Aril in his scheme? Aril and his friend Unity are drawn into a mystery that leads them to look at the Earth from a new perspective and to address a fundamental question: can future generations avoid the mistakes their parents made?
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJun 22, 2015
ISBN9781910077634
A Parallel Trust
Author

James Stoddah

At the age of fourteen I moved to a farmhouse in Matterdale with my mother and sister. We discovered a wages cupboard behind the plaster in the main room. I remember the excitement of that discovery and the disappointment when all it contained was horsehair and dust. Still, I've fantasised about it many times since. The beauty of being an author is that I can bring the fantasy to life. I grew up in the Penrith area of England and fondly consider it as home, even though I live in Lancashire now. I hope to return one day - maybe I can open Eddie's shop. Maybe I can make Penrith a writing town. Asexuality is a topic I've planned to write about for a while. I wanted to reject the myth that asexuals are cold and incapable of love. They are not. They are passionate and have a need to love and be loved. They can still have crushes and engage in long-term relationships - often with the same gender. Some often have children; they just don't enjoy the physical aspects of a relationship or have that desire for fulfilment. Kayleigh is typical of many. As I write this, a remarkable film is about to be released based on the life of Vincent van Gogh. Loving Vincent was animated by paintings made by a team of artists in his unique style. I was never an artist - indeed I was so bad that it was crossed off my list of options for O Levels, but I have always loved and appreciated art. I am inspired by the passion and creativity in an artist as much as I am in their vision. I enjoyed researching and entering the mind of a painter in writing Unwinding Time. I always enjoy engaging with readers and other authors.

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    A Parallel Trust - James Stoddah

    ______________________________________

    A PARALLEL

    TRUST

    ______________________________________

    James Stoddah

    First eBook Edition 2015

    2QT Limited (Publishing)

    Unit 5 Commercial Courtyard

    Duke Street, Settle

    North Yorkshire BD24 9RH.

    www.2qt.co.uk

    Release Partner: OUTLET PUBLISHING GROUP

    Bulloch House, 10 Rumford Place, Liverpool. L3 9DG.

    www.outletpublishinggroup.com

    Requests to publish work from this book should be sent to:

    press@outletpublishinggroup.com

    This book is a work of fiction.

    Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    A Parallel Trust copyright ©2015 James Stoddah.

    All rights reserved. First edition.

    www.jamesstoddah.com

    The rights of James Stoddah to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means; electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

    This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent or in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

    Cover design: Kyle Wilson

    A CIP catalogue record forthe paperback format of this book is available

    from the British Library

    ISBN 978-1-910077-52-8

    eBook ISBN: 978-1-910077-63-4

    ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

    No book release can happen without the help of a support network and I am eternally grateful to everyone who has helped me create this novel. It was particularly exciting to write and it wouldn’t have been possible without family, friends and the professionals who have guided me, so thank you all.

    Special thanks to: Marilyn Wilson, who helped look after me and the family; Harley and Kyle for anchoring me to reality; Annette and Hannah Cartlidge for their encouragement and putting up with my crazy ideas; Karen Holmes, my editor, for steering me through the writing process and teaching me to be disciplined and patient; Emma Pritchard for giving me faith in my own ideas; Catherine Cousins for the admin and absorbing the stress I create for her, and Bruce Nicholson for bearing the burden of my many emails when I’m in a pickle! Also my researchers and beta readers: Steven Greening, Sarah Loftus, Georgia Barrett, Caitlin Lynagh, Chris Lord and Sarahjane Farr.

    – Chapter 1 –

    My seventeenth birthday was the best day of my life. My Suzuki GN125 had been teasing me outside the dining-room window for three weeks as I wasn’t able to ride it until I turned seventeen. My mother had bought it for me before she moved her new family to Carlisle in the summer. I had admired it daily and polished it vigorously until it looked brand new. I made mental plans for road trips up and down the country during my sixth-form holidays.

    My first ride out had only been into the local town, Huntingdon, and back, I was unsteady at first. I had completed my compulsory bike training in the spring but hadn’t ridden a bike since. The gears seemed more responsive and I pulled away too sharply on occasions but after about half an hour I nailed it. It must be in the blood. My mum is a biker, my granddad was a racer and my step-granddad won the TT before an accident ended his career.

    I returned home feeling elated. I picked up the mail, so happy that I jumped up and down in my leathers. The house was empty. My father was at work and my brother was out. I wanted to go somewhere, any excuse to ride again, but I was hungry and had homework to finish. School started early the next day, or rather college as I prefer to say. The sixth-form building is attached to the same school I had attended since I moved in with my dad when I was eleven. It was still two weeks until half term. I thought my first major journey would be to see my mum.

    I kicked off my boots and sat awkwardly on the sofa. My new leathers were not flexible enough yet; I was stiff and uncomfortable but reluctant to take them off. I sifted through the mail. There were birthday cards from my grandparents and an old delinquent friend, Denny, whom I had kept in touch with since primary school. There was also a small package. It had no name on, just the address; Heptagon House, Elsworth, Cambridgeshire. I thought it must be for me as it was my birthday. Inside was a memory stick. It wasn’t in its packaging, just on its own. Still, it must be for me.

    I got up and switched on the downstairs computer, then went into the kitchen while it booted up. The phone rang before I had put the bread in the toaster. It was Dad.

    ‘Hey, Aril, I wasn’t sure if you’d still be in or on your bike.’

    ‘Just got in now.’

    ‘How was it?’ he asked.

    ‘It was amazing. It rides really well. Had it up to seventy inside ten.’

    ‘Wait, you what?’

    ‘Relax! I’m joking. I kept at forty but it was awesome.’ I love winding him up.

    ‘Good. Remember rule number one?’

    ‘Yeah, don’t die,’ I laughed.

    My dad had never been keen on me having a bike. I spoke about having one for ages and I know I played on Mum’s kindness. My dad didn’t know about it until the last minute. My mum was moving her ever-growing family away and the bike was her joint birthday-leaving present. I would only see her now during major holidays. My dad had lectured me about safety. He had seen too many serious accidents to be confident about me having a bike.

    I also have a defensive temperament sometimes. In the past, I would throw the game controllers if I was frustrated at a video game or aggressively give up on a task if I couldn’t perfect it to my high standards. I need to prove myself. Rule number one was carved in stone. God help me if I came home dead.

    We spoke for about ten minutes and made arrangements to meet with the family for a meal in the evening. I would have preferred pizza but he wanted something a bit more up-market. It was a double celebration.

    After I ate, I plugged the memory stick into the computer. There was a single document called ‘Heptagon House’. On opening, the message simply read:

    52.8588 -0.6813 Red star. What is your name?

    So this must have been for my dad after all. He runs an observatory about twenty minutes’ drive from our house in the Cambridgeshire countryside. As much as I get my passion for two-wheeled independence from my mother, Dad is responsible for one of my other major passions. My bedroom is a mini planetarium: wall maps of the night sky from both hemispheres, mobiles of each planet from our solar system dangle from the ceiling, which is painted black with tiny glow stars. I worked with Dad to try and recreate constellations in their current positions. I would love to be an astrophysicist when I finish my education but I am struggling with mathematics at college so these good intentions could be limited by my abilities. I’d be more than happy to take over my father’s job.

    I was on a high all day from my ride out and felt confident about taking the bike in to college. I couldn’t wait for the next day. I stayed at home as Dad was expected back early. I wrote thank-you letters for my presents, replied to the fifty-four birthday Facebook messages and smartened myself up. My brother, Harvey, returned from his walk. I thought he had forgotten my birthday but he entered my room with a smile and insulting card – as I would expect from him. Not that I was expecting the £50 voucher inside from the local bike shop. He knew I was looking to customise the bike. I was genuinely touched.

    My dad, Dale Ousby, was exceptionally jolly when he got in. The observatory had just received funding for an extension of the facility and a new telescope. It was the culmination of two years’ work. I was happy for him. He had worked late for many nights and had been travelling all over the world meeting with people. There had been one stumbling block after another and I was worried that it was taking its toll on his health. He hadn’t been cooking, merely snacking, and anything worthy of calling a meal was a shove-it-in-the-oven thirty-minute plastic effort. No wonder he wanted to eat out at one of Cambridge’s finest diners.

    I don’t do posh well. I have long brown hair which has grown past my shoulders. I like the alternative look, though have fallen short of the goatee or any piercings as yet. I’m not good with pain. I suppose I fit the biker stereotype but, as much as I like rock music, I have a broad taste in music. I like anything with a decent melody. Though I do play guitar and skateboarding is still a guilty pleasure. I put on a black shirt and my only pair of trousers that were not jeans.

    I told Dad about the memory stick. He said he would look at it after the meal. He wasn’t expecting anything and there were a number of red stars that it could refer to, but his observatory specifically investigated double stars. These are two stars that appear to be a single star – either because they are close or one is in the path of the other, even if they are light years apart. His observatory searches for and identifies them and their properties, and maps them for further observations by more powerful telescopes.

    The meal rounded my day off perfectly. Marinated chicken breast with a feast of vegetables and tiramisu for dessert – the best meal I had eaten all year. It was good to see the family again too. My uncle and his family had travelled from Norwich and my grandma also came along. She was a card, a rebel in her day. She had successfully fought off two attempts from cancer to finish her off. She was a fighter and having none of it. I still visit her regularly and she makes the best bread-and-butter pudding on the planet.

    I showed Dad the memory stick after we got home. He was puzzled. The numbers didn’t look like the coordinates of the sky which are specific measurements in Right Ascension (RA) and Declination (Dec) and are usually in decimal degrees or even hours, minutes and seconds. These numbers were shorter, too vague. He suggested they were more like Longitude and Latitude coordinates. It was more likely to be: 52.8588 degrees North and 0.6813 West ‒ a negative being west of the 0 degrees Greenwich Meridian line. We looked on Google Maps for an idea of where these coordinates could refer to and they were in England – about an hour’s drive away in Lincolnshire. What would the red star have to do with it? Dad was puzzled. The location appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, possibly at the edge of, or very close to, a single-lane country road three miles south-west of Grantham. I made it my mission to ride out there on Saturday and take a look.

    – Chapter 2 –

    St . Louis, Missouri, USA

    Dean Hatfield left the house shortly after noon. The office had called: a delivery van had broken down just off Highway 44, about fifteen miles out of town. It was urgent and they were flustered. They arranged for Dean to collect the parcel at the roadside rather than risk it being delayed. Dean reluctantly agreed as he was half awake and still fighting a hangover. The previous night had been his girlfriend’s twenty-first birthday and he’d joined her celebrations. He had officially booked the day off, knowing that he could be suffering. One of the perils of working in a family business was that family was always priority over the job itself.

    The traffic was busy getting out of town. Dean had thrown on a pair of blue jeans and a Cardinals top but made little effort other than a comb through his short, untidy blond hair. He would shave and shower when he got back. He was pleased his Aviators were in the car; the glare-back from the sun was not helping his thick head.

    Forty-five minutes later, he was still stuck in traffic three miles east of Eureka. The road was gridlocked and he assessed from the noise of sirens that there was probably an accident up ahead. He decided to get off the highway at 269 and use local roads. He was getting lost and cursing traffic so he pulled over and phoned the office, ready to abandon the job. Luckily they were able to contact the van driver who left his GPS. Dean hoped he had enough charge on his Satnav to get there. Finally, after ninety minutes, he arrived.

    ‘Sorry,’ Dean said immediately to the man who came out the van, flustered. The van’s engine was running.

    ‘One of them days,’ the man replied, looking up at the highway above them. ‘I had to wait for garage to come and fix this anyway. Was praying this thing wouldn’t overheat before you got here. I need your autograph,’ he said as he walked around the side of the van to get the parcel. Or so Dean thought.

    The man opened the side door then put his arm around Dean’s waist and, that very second, another man lunged from inside the van and pulled him in. It happened so fast, there was no time to struggle. Dean rolled on the floor, making an involuntary yell as the van door shut behind him. He looked up to see a third man in a dark suit pointing a gun at him.

    ‘Your cell phone Mr Hatfield. Now,’ the man said, holding out a hand.

    Dean didn’t have time to think or assess anything and didn’t want to argue with a gun. He handed his phone without a word, just staring at the gun, trembling.

    – Chapter 3 –

    I was up early that Saturday. I had already planned out the route. According to Google Maps, these mystery coordinates led to arable farmland but there was a small country lane very close by. The rides to college had been relatively uneventful, despite the odd car that had only seen me at the last minute. I was getting used to the feel of the bike now so I was confident about making the ride, in spite of my dad’s worries.

    It was quiet, too, even though it was a clear day. The Cambridgeshire countryside isn’t known for being the most picturesque, even if the villages are quaint and typically English. The Lincolnshire countryside is the same. Lincolnshire is steeped in history but is virtually unknown compared to most other counties. It is probably most famous for stealing a 1,600 year record held by the Lighthouse of Alexandria when Lincoln Cathedral became the tallest building in the world in the Middle Ages. That was the only fact I knew about the place.

    The big problem with being young and still on a provisional license was that I wasn’t allowed on the motorways so I couldn’t take the most direct route and my one-hour journey became almost two. Luckily I had a good memory for maps and directions, so I didn’t get lost and found my way back onto the A1 without trouble.

    I was doing well with the bike on the main roads but had a scare just before my turn off into the countryside. A truck thundered past as I was slowing to turn without giving me much room and I could feel the bike being sucked into the side-wind. As a result, my turn was wider than I had allowed for and I found myself on the wrong side of the road. It was a miracle that there was no traffic waiting, otherwise I would have hit it. The manoeuvre unnerved me and I pulled over at a layby a few hundred yards down the road to compose myself. I could see how easily accidents could happen. I needed a bigger bike. It sucked being seventeen.

    The lane was very narrow, little more than an access road for the farmers between the fields. The area around was so flat that it was hard to see anything beyond the roads and hedges, and even the hedges seemed somewhat arbitrary. I had worked out that the location point was about two miles west of the main road; that was a bit vague but I had noticed a cluster of trees on the roadside and that was my landmark.

    I pulled up by a gate and decided to take a stroll. I was hot and the autumn sun’s heat was being leached by the black of my leathers. I took off my helmet and left it with my bike. I could easily see anybody approaching and I wasn’t going too far.

    I didn’t know what I was looking for but I enjoyed being out and having some freedom with my bike. I was still shaky from my scare at the junction though, and flashbacks of potentially bad scenarios burnt into my thoughts. I had to lecture myself to regain control of my wandering mind.

    I wondered if I should have made this journey at night. Maybe I needed to look up to a red star from this point? Or did they mean the red planet, Mars? Most people look up to the sky and don’t know the difference between stars and planets.

    The road was completely empty. I thought it was probably only used by farmers tending the land. I could see the spires of a town in the distance, which I thought was Grantham. I had never visited the place but I would get some lunch there before heading home. I scanned each tree as I passed, looking for a red star that might have been painted on the bark. I kept thinking of the message and wondering why it would ask for my name.

    I continued for about half a mile, looking up but also down into the wild grass and nettles of the undergrowth. The point on the map seemed to be on the south side of the road but I thought I should check the other side as I walked back to the bike, to allow for a margin of error. The trees were my guide but I had walked way beyond them now. By the time I returned to the bike I had found nothing. I stared at the sky, wishing that I had thought of coming later in the day with a telescope.

    I looked back at the trees, contemplating a venture into the small wooded area. It wasn’t so much the nettles that made me reluctant but that I’d seen too many horror films. I stood beside the bike with my helmet in my hand, looking into the wood, edging nearer all the time.

    Something caught my eye. Just inside the wood, beyond the ditch, there was a little container at the foot of a tree. It was small, about the size of a drinks can. Curious, I edged further forward, and that’s when I saw it. There was a small deep-red seven-point star embossed on the top of the container with an ellipse around it.

    I felt a rush of adrenaline and hurried to the container. It looked fairly new, the kind of stainless steel can that you might use in a kitchen to store spices or sugar. The lid was hard to prise open because the damp had got to it a little, but eventually I separated it from the base. Inside was a rolled piece of paper and a pendant. The pendant looked old, antique, it was on a silver-coloured chain, possibly real silver; it had a grey stone that seemed to have a sheen to it giving it a coral or pearl effect, though it looked too grey to be a pearl. It was contained in an ornate wire cage. I unrolled the paper and read:

    Good work. Leave me your name, you’ll find a way. Do you have a dream you cherish? Something that you want to do so badly that you would do anything for? Curiosity is one of mankind’s greatest traits. How curious are you? I have a treasure for you that would outshine your wildest dreams. 51.6517 0.5258 take this gift and you’ll figure out when.

    Treasure? An actual real treasure hunt? This is the kind of thing you only dream of. I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I was about nine and used to fantasise about what it would be like to find the golden ticket. This was better still. This was personal. I surrendered to my curiosity in an instant. I was already thinking about how to leave my name. I had nothing on me with my name and no pen either. I really hadn’t thought this through.

    I stood up, looking around for inspiration. Just above the hollow of the tree but about 90 degrees to the right was a flat knot, as if a branch had been sheared at some time. I used my garage key to engrave ARIL on it as clearly as possible. I looked around for some sticks and found some small twigs. I grazed them with the key, which exposed the bark, making them white, and laid them into a recognisable arrow on the floor, pointing to the right. At the base, I leaned a bigger stick with the end sheared of at the top, which rested just under my engraved name.

    I looked around me searching for cameras, wondering if anybody was watching. Why was the memory stick sent to my house? I had so many questions as I walked back to the bike. I couldn’t wait to tell Mum; she would be jealous. It would have been good to do this together on our bikes.

    I set off for Grantham, being extra careful when I slowed to turn. That incident had knocked my confidence a little and I was extra aware of the traffic, so I was pleased to park in the town. I found a café with seats outside and table service. I was glad to sit down, even if I was still restricted by my leathers.

    I ordered food then tried to use my smart phone to work out the new location. It seemed to lead south of home, near Chelmsford in Essex. It would probably take three or four hours to get there from here, avoiding the motorways.

    I looked at the message and pendant again. You’ll figure out when? Does that mean the next clue isn’t there yet? I was looking at the pendant, wondering what the stone was, when my lunch arrived. The waitress was probably my age, if not younger.

    ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’ she asked.

    ‘Ah, nobody,’ I replied, taken aback by her interest. ‘I’m trying to work out what the stone is.’

    She took the pendant from me and studied it. ‘I used to collect gemstones. I should know but my memory is shite. It could be moonstone,’ she suggested.

    She continued studying it as I studied her. She was pretty, quite petite with very dark, almost black shoulder-length hair. She had faint freckles and very white teeth that drew your eyes to her smile. Her nail polish was black and silver which gave an alternative edge to her as well. Our attention was broken by a woman calling her from inside. ‘Summer! Get a move on – I need you.’

    She raised her eyes and handed the pendant back to me. ‘Moonstone,’ she said again. ‘I’d put money on it.’ She smiled again and went inside the café.

    Summer? Was her name really Summer or was that a nickname? I was sure that’s what the woman called her. This was turning out to be a good day.

    I ate my lunch whilst checking up images of moonstones on my phone. It looked like she was right. They looked similar to my stone and mine had a bluish tinge to it in the light as well.

    I looked up every now and then but Summer rarely came out, and she looked more flustered now when she did. I felt guilty, worried that she was in trouble for talking to me. I went inside to pay and made eye contact with her again as I was about to leave.

    ‘You were right, I think,’ I said as I was near the door.

    ‘Of course,’ she replied, smiling as she continued to clean a table.

    ***

    The journey home took longer. The roads were busy and I was cautious. It was hard to think straight; my mind was jumping ahead of itself, wondering what the treasure might be.

    When I got home, I just wanted to take off the leathers. They might look good but they were hell to wear in this heat. Harvey was home on his X-Box, hogging the main television, and he grunted in acknowledgement as I entered. I knew better than to disturb him in the middle of a boss fight but I was desperate to talk to somebody. My dad was still out at the observatory.

    I had a

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