A Quiet Place
By Peter Bodkin
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About this ebook
Peter Bodkin
While reading, I found a post card in one of the books. It had a picture of a majestic dark castle lording over deep blue water and in the distance there was a golden sun. It could have been morning or sunset. The water carried a boat with a man on it. ‘Where would he be going,’ I thought and the story of ‘A Quiet Place’ popped out of my head. Born on the Island of St. Kitts in the late 1940’s I moved to England at the age of 12. attended secondary school and College and was prompted to write as we had a interesting English teacher, ( Welsh) who introduced us to poetry and fiction writers, classical and modern. I am a qualified teacher and hypnoanalyst ; Taught in England and in Papua New Guinea. I have been writing since leaving school, but gave it second place, concentrating mainly on teaching chores as there was a lot to do. In 2002 I returned to England as my sight was failing and my mother was unwell. With more time on my hands I concentrated more on writing and my analysis. I live in West Yorkshire with my family.
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A Quiet Place - Peter Bodkin
© 2013 by Peter Bodkin. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Published by AuthorHouse 11/28/2013
ISBN: 978-1-4918-8363-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4918-8379-2 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4918-8380-8 (e)
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
Phase One The Path
Phase Two Agent Zero
Phase Three The Unacceptable
Phase Four Victim of the Bride
Phase Five Hallucination
Phase Six The Ultimate Ubiquity
Phase One
The Path
The hill moves down around a gentle castle and about a mile further down it becomes a small village and the sea. A launch moves slowly across the water, towards the shore. On it is a man. One man alone for this particular spot. What he sees is a pinnacle of beauty and a quiet place.
On a small single rowing boat, coasting along the water, some distance behind the Launch is a man, much younger than Spade, on a similar journey towards the quiet place. He watches patiently, almost like a lover, biding his time.
The castle crowns the Island. One side, lapping the sea and the other side, mothering a quaint medieval type village. It is a small village with cobbled streets, small shops and beautiful little, single chimney-pot houses looking as though they’d just been pinned there. The sun shines brightly through a blue sky and the launch blows its horn as it approaches the small wooden harbor. It is the crispy hour of early winter.
At the other side of middle age, Spade stands on deck looking out to shore. An old sailor walks across to him, carrying his case.
Here we are sir, your case. You’ll love it here.
Thank you.
said Spade. It is a quiet place, I hear.
Oh, it is that sir, as quiet as a graveyard.
replied the sailor. This time of the year it’s like a monastery again.
Spade laughs inside. The sailor walks away, leaving him to himself as the launch blows its horn once more and docks.
Spade embarks carrying his small case and wearing blue chords, a white polo-necked pullover and soft leather sandals. He strolls, a little apprehensively along the wooden harbour, one hand holding a black jacket over his left shoulder and the other supporting his case. He wonders how many other people in the world would be taking similar journeys at that same time. He feels in good company.
People, moving to and fro stare at him curiously, whispering to each other as if it had been a long time since they’d seen a stranger in their village. Spade could feel their penetrating stares and stays cool and rhythmic about his approach. One stocky-built man bent a warm hello in Spade’s direction, as if to say: ‘sorry, I thought you were someone else’.
Spade nods a return and continues, his face a picture of handsome omniscient smiles.
He reaches the centre of the pretty village. There is a lot to see, but he is content with glancing observations. He wants to rest.
Suddenly, a big black dog attacks him from behind, forcing him to the ground. The owner pulls the dog away while giving Spade a jerky apologetic stare. A little blood oozes from the flesh just below Spade’s left calf.
Oh, it’s alright; think nothing of it. Just make sure you hang on to your dog,
said Spade, sitting on the ground with his hands folded about his knees.
That is kind of you, he’s never attacked anyone before. Are you heading for the castle?
asks the woman.
Yes, holiday!,
said Spade. How do I get there?
Has no one come to meet you?
she asks, taking a little time to look at him more closely.
I wanted to walk,
Spade replies.
Well, if you follow this road, it eventually narrows to a small path just outside the village. It will take you straight there. Try not to get bitten by any more dogs.
Thank you!
is Spade’s reply, and his words float away into the nothingness and return to his own ears, for she had dismissed him and had already walked away. Her sudden abruptness leaves him with a chill, made worse by the winter Sun’s cool refreshing air.
At a small cafè a few people are relaxing, Spade stops to taste the richness of the village. He asks for black coffee, a plaster and a glass of water to take his tablet. The. take three times a day little pills, for the rest of his life. He is a little shook-up by the assault made on him by big black dog. Dogs didn’t usually attack him unless urged by someone. He’d had such unplanned brushes in the past. He was trained to cope with the unexpected, but this time, he is shaky, suffering from shock. He finishes his coffee in a hurry, says thanks and edges gently out into the street, lined with people on either side. They whisper and point at Spade. Some nodding their heads in a manner which he does not understand. Perhaps news of the dog attack had already spread round the village. His many years of hard training and experience with the S-Squad helps him to remain calm in manner.
He dismisses their action as small town mentality, ‘everyone coming to see man floored by dog’ though he cannot hide the flush streaking across his face. Then behind all the whispers and pointing he gets an unearthly impression of someone’s eyes, a presence, just simply watching him.
Take it easy Spade!
he commands himself.
It seems to take hours for him to get out of the little village and approach the small path. And all the time he is thinking about the dog and the gaze of a presence.
Goodness Me!
he sighs searching his pocket and producing a brown handkerchief to mop the few beads of sweat, littering his face.
Minutes pass and he finds himself on the small path, with tall trees closing in on every side of him. He has entered a forest, dressed very much like a park. There is a sudden hush of everything on the ears, except a deep, almost throaty knock of the forest hum.
He travels a few yards along the path, when his foot slips. A curious dizziness holds him and he remembers being in a trap and the dog throwing him again…
. . . . He steadied himself after slipping, trying to negotiate the corner. It was night time. He was running. Running up an ordinary city street. The kind of insignificant street a good man might not think he’d die in.
A squad car was chasing him. He was doing well; running in between, cars and streets. He was fit and well trained. He turned another corner up a dark alleyway. He was sure that he had escaped until he came out at the other end. Another squad car waited there for him.
‘Blast!’ said Spade. They anticipated my move.
It was too late to turn and run again, they were already moving in. He couldn’t go back and he couldn’t go on. So he stood still, waiting; they were closing in fast. He was ready to fight his way out of it, but there were more them than him. That never worried him before.
Spade felt good. He always felt good in tense moments. He was trained for this sort of work.
Less than three yards separating them and Spade dived at the nearest cop, adding a swift blow to the man’s unlucky chin. The cop fell suddenly and the others leapt at Spade, but he was fast and good. Blows flew back and forth. He was strong, very strong. But he was outnumbered; and he had not seen the big, black dog.
Stop! Or the dog’s free to eat your arse.
It was a sergeant who spoke.
Spade could hear the sergeant’s words after he realized the dog’s grip on his leg from behind and he stood perfectly still. He was terrified. He couldn’t understand it. His eyes looked out into the distance and a cop landed a hard punch to his jaw. His body hovered momentarily, then fell sideways. He banged his head on the pavement and blackness, absolute quiet, took over.
The next morning he was stabbed by wakefulness as a sharp pain ran swiftly up his body, and enveloped his whole head. The cell door was large and very secure. He was a prisoner.
He was charged and up in court that same day and. It was the same old story, he had a record as long as the judge’s arm; and every one of them for rape and brutality, and having escaped from a mental institution. He had not taken advantage of her majesty’s hospitality so they had no choice but to send him back to one. He was driven to the hospital in a plain police van and handed over into the custody of the Medical Superintendent. (MS)
The M.S., was a man in his mid-forties, possessing a heart-warming smile. His hair fluctuated upon his scalp and his teeth were firm set and very white.
So, you’re rape man Spade.
It was only a slight murmur, a dropped suggestion.
Yes sir, that’s me,
said Spade.
I see!
He picked up the telephone, made a call and moments later, a charge nurse big, muscular and Negro arrived.
Come with me Spade.
Spade followed him carelessly.
The police officers went on their way, leaving him to confinement and a set of complicated corridors. He was taken to one of the high security wards. The charge nurse took Spade by the lapels.
So you’re the big rape man eh. Well there are no women here for you to rape but the boys here are real tough. Show him around nurse.
Spade did not like the charge nurse.
O. K. charge.
replied the nurse who was younger, pleasant and white. Spade was led to a little room after being shown round the expanse of the ward to which he now belonged. He was in the Red Section of Blue Ward: Psychopathic unit. Once in his little room, he sighed, a deep sigh of relief. It was half the job done. He opened his suitcase and took out his personals including his precious watch, which was hidden inside one heal of his shoes. He put it on and pressed a little button, an antenna sprang up. It expanded and turned into a small radio-phone.
Spade to H.Q. Come in H.Q.
H.Q. hearing you loud and clear, go ahead Spade.
I’m in.
Good, its up to you now Spade. ‘Ball’s in your court, good luck.
I think it’s going to be a little rough, but thanks. Spade out.
After resting for a little while, Spade took a look around the ward. It was well kept, clean like a mansion. He strolled to the patients’ easy-room. There were no nurses to be seen but one of the patients was acting-out a dominating role.
I’m the master, salute the master, believe in the master—pain.—I am the master; love the master. I am your master. I am strong.
His head circled his neck as he spoke. His legs moved him back and forth like a swing in harmonic motion, never resting. Spade decided a good way to begin was to challenge the master. Whether or not it was wise, he would find out.
You are not the master,
said Spade, his shoulder leaning against the doorframe. All eyes turned on Spade, and he heard one patient say to another:
A New one here!
The patient who pronounced himself as master was almost bursting with fury.
I am the master,
said he slowly, gripping his shirt and standing still for a moment. Then even more slowly, as if trying to make Spade understand. I-AM-THE-MASTER.
Then he dived at Spade, holding both hands out in front of him. Spade sidestepped and the patient flew into the doorway. He fell to the floor and was up again. He made another dash for Spade. It was a wild action. He did not know Spade’s experience and agilittty, but felt the hard palm of the hand on the back of his neck. Then he fell to the floor, screaming:
He has attacked the master—my head aches—this is mutiny, mutiny—Put him in chains.
It was a mind-racking scene. The patients, who had been seated calmly stood up from their chairs to the wild emotional cries of the master. They moved in on Spade, making a circle around him.
Put him in chains.
repeated the master, and they proceeded to batter Spade with their fists. Put him in chains! Kill him! Kill him! He attacked the master, kill him!
There was an unholy commotion. Spade was fighting back uselessly. He was being battered about the head and was sinking down to the floor. Swiftly, nurses moved into action, battering patients away from Spade.
He was lying down upon the floor, blood oozing from his mouth and above his left eye. There was a sudden silence as Spade tried to lever himself from the floor. He could not make it. He collapsed and remained quite still. There was a sigh in unison from the patients as he lay there.
"Shut up! You