Evidence has come to light that casts England's best known and much revered playwright William Shakespeare in the role of villain. The stage is set for second year archaeology student and erstwhile gigolo Max Rush to not only reveal the truth but to solve two murders. Crimes committed five centuries apart. With Dr Godfric Templeton and Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Doyle of Scotland Yard in supporting roles, the final dramatic scene could re-write history.

Titus Andronicus: A tale of revenge and bloody murder in which the number of dead bodies continues to rise until there's no room left on stage.

Roman Britain / 61 A D

"Pray to the Devils. The Gods have given us over."

Boudicca, surrounded by her vassal lords, stands in the ruins of a Roman villa. The broken mosaic on the floor depicts the famous scene of a defiant Horatius defending the bridge of Rome. A messenger enters.

Messenger

'My Queen! The Roman governor approaches. The strength of his forces are far less than we expected. Our spy within the Roman camp reports the troops based at Isca have refused his call.’

Boudicca

’So much for the iron legions of Rome. Soon our righteous fury shall be fully sated. Thus will I encounter Suetonius and say I am revenged.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"My heart suspects more than mine eye can see."

Max Rush is taking part in a joint Harvard-Oxford excavation led by Dr Godfric Templeton who believes Roman Tripontium is the site of the last battle of Boudicca’s rebellion.

The expedience of barrows and shovels has given way to the time consuming tedium of sifting and brushing. Shards of pottery. Small coins. Colour-glazed tessera.

Templeton

'The devil of archaeology is in the detail.'

Harry Cromwell is an accomplished English actor who has fallen on hard times. He's desperate for a new hit, and the open-air production of Titus Andronicus in the ruins of Coventry Cathedral could be just what his failing career needs.

Cromwell himself is directing and appearing as Emperor Saturninus.

An overcast morning. Godfric Templeton politely shakes the hand of his unexpected visitor.

Templeton (gestures enthusiastically)

'The Queen of the Iceni has burned Camulodunum, Londinium and Verulanium in her desire to avenge the humiliation she and her daughters experienced at the hands of Rome. Governor Suetonius Paulinus, recently returned from slaughtering druids in North Wales, commands the last Roman army that stands in her way. The outcome of this battle between Romans and Celts will decide the fate of Britain.'

Cromwell

‘Fascinating. It's very kind of you to show me around, Doctor.’

Templeton

'The pleasure's all ours. This is the first time we’ve had a star of stage and screen come by.’

Cromwell

’A somewhat faded star these days. But I’ve always had an interest in history. As, of course, did Shakespeare. Such a shame he never chose Boudicca as a subject for one of his plays.'

Templeton

'But Tamora, Queen of the Goths, and the main female character in Titus Andronicus could have been inspired by her.’

Cromwell

'You surprise me, Doctor. I didn't know you were a fan and a scholar.'

Cromwell peers down at the dig. A dapper man in his mid-forties, he's come poorly dressed for wandering around an archaeology site. Young Max Rush calls Templeton's attention to their latest find, a bronze buckle from the leather strap of a Roman sandal.

Attracting Cromwell’s attention as well.

Cromwell

‘And who do we have here?’

Templeton

‘This is Max. One of our students from Harvard. Max, come and say hello.’

Max is polite, of course, but not naive. The nature of Cromwell’s interest in him is clear

(if not obvious to everyone).

Max

‘Is it true that all the female parts were played by boys?’

Cromwell

‘Parts? Well, yes. If by "parts" you mean roles. Have you ever thought about acting yourself, Max? I'm sure we could find a part for you.’

Max (laughs)

'Me? Maybe, if it was a comedy.'

Cromwell

'How about coming to tea one afternoon and meeting the company? Read a few lines. You’d look good dressed as a Roman. You have the legs for it. And we don't have an understudy for Gloucester's Lucius.'

Max looks at Dr Templeton.

Max

‘What about the dig?’

Templeton

‘I don’t think we’re going to get much more done. Not if the weather forecast is right. But before you run off to join the theatre, you can help the rest of the team get the rain covers in place.’

Cromwell

’Splendid. If you think the role of Lucius might be too much, you can understudy for a couple of the smaller parts.'

Max

'Lady parts?'

Cromwell (winks)

’I think if you were under me, I could study you more closely.'

Max

'When you said you might have a small part for me, I didn't know it was going to be yours.'

Cromwell

'Oh, sauce! Don't be so bloody cheeky!'

Dresden Germany / 1945

"Must my sons be slaughtered in the streets for valiant doings in their country’s cause?"

The carpet-bombing of Dresden results in the death of 25,000 people and is later viewed by many as one of the more morally questionable acts of the Allied forces.

All around, as far as the eye can see, is the ruin of war. Rubble, smoke, twisted metal, pulverised stone, and broken bodies. A middle-aged woman is clambering across a wreck of broken bricks, the remains of an elegant town-house. A youth wearing the uniform of the Hitlerjugend is beckoning her.

Youth

'I found the door to the basement. Hurry!'

Woman

'Go. I will follow you. Please, my little bear, save yourself!'

The young man nods and turns away to hurry down the steps, where he tries the handle of the door to the cellar. It’s locked. He throws himself against the door in frustration and fear, but it refuses to budge. He can hear the sound of bombers overhead. Explosions draw closer. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he redoubles his efforts. The door opens and he falls through. Even as he does so, he hears the sound that will haunt him night after night for years to come.

His mother screaming as she's engulfed in flames.

Thirty thousand feet above, Squadron Leader Peter Carter looks down from the cockpit of his Lancaster at the firestorm below.

Carter

‘Dresden. The Jewel Box of Saxony. Look what we’ve done to it.’

Bob (The Bomber’s Sparks / or Engineering Officer)

‘Payback for London. And Swansea. And Coventry.’

Carter (shakes his head)

’No, Sparks. It's madness. Sheer and utter bloody madness.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"She is Lavinia; therefore she must be loved."

Coventry Cathedral is only a short distance away from the site at Tripontium, and no one is more excited at the possibility of being backstage during rehearsals than Lavinia Kauffmann, Max's fellow student and sometime lover.

Promiscuous and manipulative, what Lavinia wants, Lavinia gets.

Lavinia

'Isn't it wonderful? You must let come with you!'

Max

'I don't know that I'm going. It all seems a bit silly.'

Lavinia

'Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud. Your bits of old pot will still be here. What's a few more days after two thousand years?'

Max (reluctantly)

'I suppose so.'

Lavinia

'You won't be sorry!'

Tea with the cast. Max prefers crumpet to a piece of victoria sponge.

Bernard Quandt is an up and coming young German actor who has been cast as Aaron, the Moorish lover of Tamora and one of the villains of the piece.

Tamora will be played by Delphine Bouchard, a young French-Canadian starlet who Harry Cromwell had seduced while in Hollywood.

The title character of Titus is to be played by Rupert Dyson, a rising star who's flirting dangerously with Delphine. Although she seems to lavish more of her affection on her Siamese cats, Salt and Pepper.

For the role of Titus' daughter - also called Lavinia - Cromwell has chosen Miss Ivonna Turner, who will be making her stage debut.

Miss Turner turns heads, and has certainly turned Max's. It doesn't matter to Max that the inside of Miss Turner's head is an unfurnished room.

Max suddenly takes an interest in all things dramatic. Cromwell and Bouchard both take an interest in Max. And Lavinia is seduced by Bernard Quandt's swashbuckling charm.

Quandt

‘How curious that you should share the same name as Titus’ daughter.’

Lavinia

‘Is it a big part?’

Quandt

‘Let’s just say she diminishes somewhat as the play goes on.’

Other members of the cast are Richard Gloucester, Anthony Burton, Ellen Moreau,

Dante Tyrell, and Lincoln Forrester. All of whom, as well as their singular parts, will share the minor and the non-speaking roles of Tribune, Senator, Soldier, Goth, Messenger or Captain etc.

No one licks the cream from a chocolate eclair quite like the lascivious Lavinia Kauffmann.

Max is already sorry he brought her.

Ivonna Turner's trailer. A chaise-lounge is not the perfect setting for a romantic tryst. The lounge is too short and the angles of the chaise are proving problematic. But young people are flexible, and Max is keen to make it work.

Ivonna

'If only Mummy could see me now.'

Max

'It might be better if she didn't.'

Ivonna

'Don't be silly, darling. She'd be in fits and giggles.'

Max

'Is she as beautiful as you?'

Ivonna

'Ooh, you are wicked! Be a sweetie and pour me another snort of champers?'

Coventry Cathedral / Cromwell's Titus Andronicus

"And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, returns the good Andronicus to Rome,

renowned Titus, flourishing in arms."

Stone walls in various stages of disrepair are the unburied bones of religious reformation. The vacant eyes of windows open on to a scene from the very depths of Hell itself. Beauty defiled beyond belief.

A body is discovered in the ruins of the cathedral. It’s one of the students.

Lavinia Kauffmann is the daughter of an official at the Israeli embassy in London. Her body has been mutilated just like the other Lavinia: Titus’ daughter in the play.

Beside her body is an old manuscript. It’s an original of Titus Andronicus minus the final page. On the front page, scrawled in Lavinia's blood, are the words "The Titus Principal".

It’s initially presumed by investigators that "Principle" has been misspelled.

And the "Titus Principle" is REVENGE.

London England / 1950

“Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive that Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?”

An unremarkable office in a nondescript building in an undistinguished street. Donald Maclean - also known as "Homer" - sits across an unnoteworthy desk from MI6 agent Mandrake.

Maclean

'Have you read the report on this nasty business in Coventry? We’ve managed to keep the more graphic elements of the murder from the press and, most importantly, not a hint of the Israeli angle. The ambassador was on the phone to me this morning. Scotland Yard are sending one of their finest detectives to head up the investigation. A man named Doyle, if you can believe it, Arthur Doyle.'

Mandrake

‘Let's hope his sleuthing is equal to Sherlock Holmes and not Watson. Should I be involved?’

Maclean

‘Not with this business in Korea. You might be needed over there.’

Mandrake

’I’m not sure we can leave this to the police, however good their man is.'

Maclean

'What do you suggest?'

Mandrake

'There’s someone.we could borrow from the Americans. Our archaeologist friend, Templeton, just happens to be working on a dig nearby. In fact, I’ve learned the murder victim was one of his students. And another of his students had recently joined the company that was performing the play.’

Maclean (scowling)

‘Another student? Who?’

Mandrake

'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.'

Maclean

'Not that damn boy again. Always sticking his oar in where it's not wanted. Absolutely not! Max Rush is a menace, and a dangerous one.'

Mandrake

'Perhaps we should ask C. I know Templeton has convinced his superiors at the CIA that Rush has potential, and has taken him under his wing.'

Maclean (grimaces)

’That won’t be necessary. Templeton can be our liaison with Doyle. But tell him to keep Rush out of it. If it's not already too late.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

“Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust."

Coventry Cathedral. The scene of the crime. Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Doyle bums a cigarette off one of the local constabulary, then asks for a light. The packet of Players and the box of Lucifer matches both disappear into a pocket of Doyle's grey Macintosh.

Doyle

'What do we know about the victim?'

Constable

'Popular girl.'

Doyle

'How so?'

Constable

'When I was a lad, our village only had one bicycle. It belonged to the vicar, but he was in his eighties and couldn't manage the hills, so he'd leave it out front for anyone who wanted to borrow it. Anyone who did would put it back for the next person.'

Doyle

'Where is this going?'

Constable

'Our lass was like that bicycle.'

'Doyle

'What's your name?'

Constable

'Dunstable, sir.'

Doyle

'There's nothing amusing about murder, Dunstable. Where are the pages that were found near the body?'

Constable

'A Doctor Templeton has them.'

Doyle

'Why the hell would - Never mind. Where's he?'

Constable

'Here he comes now, sir.'

Doyle

'Templeton?'

Templeton

'Detective Chief Inspector.'

Doyle

'How do we do this?'

Templeton

'I'm here to assist in any way I can.'

Doyle

'Right. In that case I want my bloody evidence!'

Templeton raises an eyebrow at Doyle's unfortunate choice of words.

A demountable building serves as the cathedral's visitors' centre and souvenir shoppe. Dr Templeton fans the pages of the manuscript across the information counter.

Templeton

'We think Lavinia Kauffmann took the manuscript from Harry Cromwell's dressing room. We don't know when, exactly, but it had to be some time during the performance. I've shown photographs of several of the pages to a friend of mine in Stratford who's an expert on Shakespeare and his contemporaries. He's compared the writing to other samples, and we now have the possible identity of its author.'

Doyle

'Not Shakespeare?'

Templeton

'No.'

Doyle

'What does any of this have to do with our dead girl?'

Templeton

'Cromwell's theatre company is virtually bankrupt. The manuscript, if it can be authenticated, could be priceless.'

Doyle

'You think he might have killed her to get it back?'

Templeton

'There's more. The last page is missing. If you can find that last page, you'll have found the murderer.'

Doyle

'I don't suppose I can bother you for a cigarette?'

Dr Templeton hands Doyle a pack of Chesterfields. When Doyle fumbles in the pocket of his overcoat for matches, Templeton passes him a gold-plated Dunhill lighter. Doyle takes his time, tapping one end of the unfiltered on the mostly full packet and thumbing the Dunhill.

Doyle (smokes)

'Thank you, Doctor. I'll handle the investigation from here.'

Doyle stands up and leaves.

Some time later, as he's walking towards his car, Dr Templeton reaches into a pocket of his houndstooth coat for his cigarettes.

Templeton

'The son of a bitch!'

The Globe Theatre London / 1599

"Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, that we may know the traitors and the truth!"

The yard is filled with unwashed bodies, but this is Elizabethan England, and the actors on the stage of this splendid new theatre are used to the stench of the city. There is a hushed silence from the audience as the production being performed draws to its iconic close.

Lucius Andronicus

"Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,

And give him burial in his father’s grave:

My father and Lavinia shall forthwith,

Be closed in our household’s monument."

"As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora,

No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weed,

No mournful bell shall ring her burial;

But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey.

Her life was beastly and devoid of pity."

The theatre erupts in applause and the actors take a bow. From the wings, the Bard of Avon - Will Shakespeare himself - looks on, smiling. Next to him is his business partner, Richard Burbage.

Burbage

’They do like a bloody tragedy of revenge and mayhem.'

Shakespeare

’Aye. A pack of curs baying round the slaughterhouse gate.'

Burbage

'But Will, this play be mere trifle when one compares it to that noble tale of Julius Caesar.'

Shakespeare

'Titus is not my finest tragedy, I grant thee, but always have I felt a desire most tender for it.'

Burbage

'Tell me once more, why Titus?’

Shakespeare

'As thou remarked, Dick, the crowds complain not.’

Burbage

'Nor does De Vere, I wager. Do we render unto Caesar all that is Caesar's?'

Shakespeare

'Oxford tells me his next is almost complete.'

Burbage

'Does it have a title?'

Shakespeare

'He refers to it only as "the despairing Dane".'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"These words are razors to my wounded heart."

The tea room where Max first met the members of Cromwell’s company. It's a summer's day, though it's lease has all too short a date, and a troubled Max is not a happy camper.

Max

'Why can't I help?'

Templeton

‘I’m sorry Max, but my orders are you’re not to become involved.’

Max

‘Orders? Who from?’

Templeton

‘From whom. And I can’t say. I think you should go back to Tripontium. The weather has cleared and we can recommence the dig. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

Max

‘Lavinia was my friend.’

Templeton

’We both know that’s not true. She used you the same way she used everyone. Lavinia didn't deserve to die so horribly, but don’t pretend it’s giving you sleepless nights. You saw much worse in Germany. I don't know how you survived a winter in the ruins of Berlin.'

Max

'I ate a lot of cats. But, listen, I can help with the investigation in ways that you can’t.'

Templeton

'Oh, I can imagine, Max! Just try not to get in Doyle's way. He doesn't want any Baker Street Irregulars snooping around.’

Max (puzzled)

‘Any what?’

Templeton

’Never mind, Wiggins. If you find that missing page, come to me first.'

Ivonna Turner’s trailer. Max avoids the chaise-lounge, but notices all evidence of his conquest is concealed by a paisley silk pelerine in jade-green and cinnamon-brown.

Ivonna

‘I’m not sure if I can go back on stage as Lavinia now. Not after what’s happened.’

Max

‘How did you come to join the company in the first place?’

Ivonna

’Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington. But Mummy wasn’t having any of it. She was a chorus girl herself when she was younger. Let’s just say Daddy Cromwell owed her a favour. He came to see me after the performance. The night your friend... '

Max

‘What did he want?’

Ivonna

‘It's not important, darling. He wasn't very pleased. I think he thinks I'm trying to steal you away from him.’

The resemblance suddenly strikes Max like a bolt from the blue.

How had he missed it?

Max

'Harry Cromwell's your father!'

Ivonna

'Yes, but you mustn't tell. You haven't touched your champers. Don't you like it? Let me make you a vodka martini.'

Max

'I have a better idea.'

Max leaves Ivonna shaken (if not stirred).

Delphine Bouchard is in her mid-twenties. Far too young for the role of Tamora. But the fear of fading looks and a bulging waistline aren't stopping her from tucking into a large meat pie when Inspector Doyle knocks on the door of her dressing room, only minutes

after Max has left.

The air is thick with the fug of french cigarettes and the redolence of too-recent sex. Doyle's eyes narrow behind the lenses of his black hornrims and his ginger moustache twitches.

Delphine

’Ah Inspector! This really is too much. When can our performances resume? We have

three more nights and a matinee on Saturday.’

Doyle

’I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we’re still pursuing our investigations. I'm endeavouring to ascertain the whereabouts of each member of the cast during and after

the performance. Where were you, Mademoiselle?’

Delphine

‘So sad. This curious double tragedy. Life imitating art.’

Doyle

'We believe Miss Kauffmann was murdered because she discovered something someone didn't want to be found.’

Delphine

’The manuscript that Harry was always boasting about. He was most mysterious about it, saying it would help him recover his fortune.'

Doyle

‘Did you ever read the manuscript yourself?’

Delphine finds a curious hair in her pie and frowns. She disposes of it discreetly into the folds of her white-satin serviette, but the sharp-eyed detective notes her action.

Delphine

’Never. And in answer to your question as to my whereabouts, speak to Rupert. I was with him, going through my lines. The art of perfection. Max might know more about the manuscript than I do. You just missed him.'

Doyle

‘Pumping you for information, was he? We’ve already spoken to Mr Dyson. I gather he doesn’t have much of a liking for your cats. And I wasn't looking for Rush, as it happens, but perhaps I should be.’

Delphine (shrugs)

’Rupert claims he’s allergic to them. But - now that you mention it - where are my little darlings? They do like to go mousing around the ruins of the cathedral. And I haven’t seen them all morning.'

“Why, there they are both, baked in this pie, whereof their mother daintily hath fed.”

Templeton pops his head around the door of the Cathedral visitors’ centre, which Doyle has commandeered as his incident room. The Inspector is reading a cheap pocket edition of Titus Andronicus, and frowning.

Templeton

‘Any new developments?’

Doyle

’You could say that. Bouchard has been rushed to hospital. It seems that there was too much Salt and Pepper in her steak and kidney.'

Evening. Sunset. Max is sitting on a bench on the bank of the river Sherborne, brooding. He’s spoken with most of the members of the Company without learning anything of value. Almost without him noticing, a young man sits down next to him. Max glances across. It’s the neat, precise figure of Bernard Quandt.

Quandt is just a few years older than Max.

Quandt

'Penny for your thoughts.’

Max

'Thoughts? Not much. I just needed to find somewhere quiet.’

Quandt

’Ja. All these policemen asking questions. And then there's you.'

Max

'Me?'

Quandt

'Also asking.'

Max

'Do you have any answers.'

Quandt

'You also are from Germany, I think. Though you go to much trouble to hide it. Like many of us abroad these days.’

Max

’My father was German. I live in America now. My mother was from Boston. What about you?'

Quandt

’I am from Dresden. My father was an industrialist, part of a rich and powerful family. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. The war put an end to all that. I was closer to my mother. She called me her “Little Bear”.'

Max

'You talk about her as if she's gone.'

'She was killed. In the war.'

Max

'Really? I'm sorry. So was mine.'

Quandt

'My mother was an actress with a great, artistic heritage. Her father was an antiquarian,

a collector of old manuscripts. My mother’s family were related to Goethe. You’ve heard

of Goethe?’

Max

‘He wrote Faust.’

Quandt

‘Marlowe was there before him. The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. But when does influence become imitation? And when does imitation become theft? Anyway, I’m off for a stroll around the cathedral ruins. Das lebewohl, Max.’

Meanwhile.

Doyle is looking thoughtfully at a list of names he’s scrawled on a chalkboard in the incident room.

Doyle

‘These are the names of everyone the company who knew about the manuscript. The killer is one of these, I’m certain of it.’

He crosses off the name of Delphine Bouchard.

Doyle

‘The latest hospital report isn’t hopeful. The pie was laced with strychnine as well as substantial chunks of cat. I think we can safely assume that she didn’t poison herself. That still leaves the others.’

Templeton

‘You can eliminate Max from your list of suspects.’

Doyle

‘How can you be so sure? Something tells me he’s more than capable.’

Templeton

‘And you’d be correct. But sadistic? No, never. That’s what we’re looking for. Only a twisted, tortured mind could have done what was done to that poor girl.’

Doyle

‘I think we should speak to Cromwell again. He’s holding out on us.’

Templeton and Doyle are sitting in Harry Cromwell’s well-appointed dressing room. It's large enough for Cromwell to pace up and down, which he's been doing with increasing agitation ever since they arrived. His smoking jacket is slightly askew and his normally immaculate hair is ruffled.

Cromwell

‘I told you, Detective Chief Inspector, I showed no one the contents of that manuscript. No one!’

Templeton

‘But you weren’t being particularly circumspect about possessing a document that could overturn four hundred years of Shakespearian scholarship, were you? Delphine Bouchard knew about it. So did Rupert Dyson. And Bernard Quandt. You even told my student, Max Rush. You offered to show it to him. Did you make a similar offer to Lavinia Kauffmann?’

Cromwell

‘I’m sorry, but why is an archaeology professor interrogating me about a murder?’

Doyle

‘Dr Templeton is assisting in the investigation. Did you show the manuscript to Miss Kauffmann?’

Cromwell

‘Of course not! I might have mentioned something about it to her. Nothing more.’

Doyle

’You know a fair bit about Shakespeare, I gather. Bit of a mystery man, our Will. Spelled

his surname six different ways, from the various signatures he left behind. What does it say about a man that he can’t spell his own name?’

Cromwell

‘Conventions in orthography weren’t so rigorous in those days. Shakespeare died a century and half before Johnson published his epic Dictionary. Spelling was more fluid then than it is now.’

Templeton (excitedly)

‘Spelling! That’s it! That’s what Miss Kauffmann was trying to tell us!’

Doyle

‘What do you mean?’

Templeton

‘We’ve all been presuming Lavinia’s message was about the Titus Principle, i.e. Revenge. When she wrote Principal, we thought she made an error. That she'd meant to write Principle. But what if she didn't make a mistake? In the theatre the term “Principal” normally applies to the lead actor!’

Cromwell (nodding)

‘Yes, of course.’

Templeton

‘And the lead actor in Titus Andronicus would be the man who played the role of Titus himself. Which points us to - ’

Doyle

‘Rupert Dyson. He's our man. Come on, Doctor!’

Cromwell stops them.

Cromwell

'Rupert can’t possibly be the murderer. It’s rather embarrassing, but I can prove he’s innocent.'

Coventry Cathedral / The Scene of the Crime

"Thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge and manners, to intrude where I am graced."

Night has fallen. All is quiet. The old stones of the cathedral courtyard glow eerily in the moonlight. A single bright spotlight falls upon the altar, bearing the three large mediaeval nails salvaged from the ruined building that had been bound together with wire to form a cross. Max looks towards the wooden gantry erected a week before in preparation for the play. Looking down upon him from his high vantage point is Bernard Quandt, holding a Luger pistol in his left hand.

Quandt

‘I had a feeling you’d follow me here, Max.’

Max

‘I think I’ve worked it out. Your maternal grandfather - the antiquarian - he had a certain manuscript in his possession, didn’t he?’

Quandt

‘Yes. One passed down to him from Goethe. The original manuscript of Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus.’

Max

‘Except it wasn’t really Shakespeare’s.’

Quandt

‘No more than the manuscript belongs to Harry Cromwell. It’s not enough that he steals other men’s wives. That bastard also stole my grandfather’s most valuable possession. And now I’ve liberated it. Or the all-important final page, at least. Lucius’ closing speech. You know it. You learned it well enough. But on the reverse there’s a signed statement from the true author.'

Max

'Do you have it? The page? Can I see it?'

Quandt

Enough talk. I think it’s time for us to enact that most famous of Shakespearian stage direction. Exit: pursued by a bear.’

Quandt raises his pistol, just as two more figures step into view. DCI Arthur Doyle and Dr Godfric Templeton have arrived for the final act.

Doyle

‘Wrong stage direction, wrong play, Quandt. It was the Titus Principle all along, wasn’t it? Revenge, pure and simple. You wanted us to think that Lavinia Kauffman’s last message - which you wrote in her blood - was intended to point us towards Rupert Dyson, the principal of the play. When you learned from that plod, Dunstable, that we'd misread your intention, you became frustrated. You poisoned Bouchard. But why Dyson? Could it have anything to do with the fact that his father was Air Commodore Thomas Dyson. One of the key staff in British Bomber Command responsible for planning and executing the fire-bombing of Dresden?’

Quandt

‘Thomas Dyson. Harry Cromwell. William Shakespeare. All guilty as charged. And as the French say: Revenge is a dish best served cold.’

Doyle

'In a pie.'

Max

'What about Lavinia Kauffmann? Why her?’

Quandt

’Miss Kauffmann was no innocent. She was ready enough to play the role I set for her, stealing the manuscript from Cromwell’s dressing room. But as to why I killed her? Being

a verschmutzt Juden was reason enough.’

Quandt takes aim at Max. But before he can pull the trigger, he's winged by Dr Templeton, who has pulled his Beretta from inside his jacket. Quandt loses his balance and falls from the gantry. Max races toward him. Quandt fires his Luger. Max stumbles, clutching his side. Quandt raises his gun again and points it at Dr Templeton.

A single shot rings out. Bernard Quandt is dead before he hits the ground.

Detective Chief Inspector Doyle re-holsters his Colt Navy.

Doyle

'Not standard issue. But the bigger the bullet, the harder they fall.'

After all the excitement, Templeton and Max are alone, silently contemplating the ruined cathedral. Max's wound isn't much worse than a graze and the bleeding has stopped.

Templeton

’You know, they’re planning to build a new cathedral, but on the adjacent grounds. The plan is to leave the ruins here as a memorial.'

Dr Templeton points towards the wall behind the altar and the cross of nails.

Templeton

’Father, forgive. Words to remember, Max. In the world of an eye for an eye, we all end up blind.'

Max

‘I’m not sure I’m cut out to be an actor. Can we go back to the dig?’

Templeton

‘Certainly. There's just one thing, though.’

Dr Templeton takes a single piece of manuscript from his jacket pocket.

Max

‘Is that - ?’

Templeton

‘The final page. I found it in Quandt’s jacket. The question is, what do we do with it? Return it to Harry Cromwell?’

Max

‘Why should he make millions from it? Quandt said he stole it in the first place.’

Templeton

’I’m not sure what the law courts would say about that. But I think we can persuade Cromwell to “donate” the whole manuscript, including this final page, to the British Library. It can be properly studied there. And kept safe from any undue scrutiny. I don’t think the British people are quite ready for the truth about their greatest literary figure,

do you?’

Max

‘How are you going to convince Cromwell?’

Templeton

‘Ah, well. That’s easy. You see, he was the one who provided Dyson with his alibi. It seems, the night Lavinia was killed, after the performance, Rupert Dyson, Harry Cromwell and Delphine Bouchard were engaged in a - what do the French call it? - une liaison amoureuse? I know that actors have a certain reputation, but there are limits to what their adoring public will stomach.’

Max

‘Blackmail, Doctor? I’m shocked.’

Templeton

‘No you’re not. So, do you want to read the note on the final page?’

The script is faded and hard to read, but Max can make out the signature.

Max

’Marlowe.'

Templeton

'There's more on the back. Turn it over.'

Max (reads)

'This playe written by Kit Marlow fromme whom I did steale it and in his murrder I did conspire. May Godde have mercye on my soul. Will Shakespear.'

Max

'So, if Marlowe was dead, who wrote Shakespeare's other plays?’

Templeton

‘That’s just it Max. We don’t know. And we probably never will.’

Kent England / 1593

"Not till I have sheathed my rapier in his bosom, and withal thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat that he hath breathed in my dishonour here."

A tavern in Deptford. A darkened den of darker mood. A stable of slatterns to disgrace the dandling knee.

Shakespeare

'The boil on my buttock that is Marlowe must be lanced.'

Taverner

'What would you have me do, start a war?'

Shakespeare

'An argument will suffice. The chaos that ensues will both cloak the deed and give you just cause should anyone inquire as to the circumstance of his mortal injury.'

Taverner

‘What grievance do you hold against him? A rivalry of hearts?’

Shakespeare

’Aye, though not as thou would esteem, but a ballot for the affections of the people. He is jealous, too, of my newfound success on the stage with my Roman tragedy, Andronicus. His friendship with Robert Greene - who did slander my name in ways most vile - has also caused me much offence. Greene now rots beneath an sward of green, and I would have Marlowe moulder with him.'

Taverner

'First, let me see what coin you offer..’

Shakespeare (tossing over a purse)

‘Gilded tombs do worms enfold. Will this suffice?’

Taverner

‘Aye. It will. We have a deal.’

Shakespeare

‘One worthy of Faustus, methinks.’

Oxford England / 1600

"Here are no storms. No noise, but silence and eternal sleep."

An Elizabethan manor. A spacious library in oak and leather where walls of shelves host voluminous volumes and tightly rolled scrolls. Edward De Vere, the 17th Earl eponymous, paces the floor, cogitating verbally.

De Vere

'Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Milan where we lay our scene. Milan? No, strike that. Venice? Verona! In fair Verona where we lay our scene.'

His manservant, Falstaff, looks up from the scratching of his oft-inked goose quill.

Falstaff

'Verona? Again?'

De Vere

'I like Verona.'

The dawn's light breaks through tall lead-light windows set between Doric columns.

De Vere steps out onto a balcony.

De Vere

'It is the East, and Jocelyn is the sun.'

Falstaff

'Jocelyn?'

De Vere

'Give me a name!'

Falstaff

'Janet, Julia, Juliet, Joan.'

De Vere

'Yes! Juliet. That's it. Well? What are you waiting for? Write it down!'

Falstaff

'It's not very Italian.'

De Vere

'The great unwashed of London will not know, nor care.'

Falstaff (sighs)

'Juliet. A Capulet. And her star-crossed lover.'

De Vere

'There is our title, Falstaff. The tragedie of Rudolfio and Juliet!'

Teen hero and aspiring Casanova, Max Rush is up to his neck in sand, camels, and counter-intelligence conspiracies. But if Max can stay alive long enough he might just solve one of the greatest mysteries of the ancient world. Where are the remains of Egypt's heretic Pharaoh? Max must follow the Arrows of Akhenaten to discover the answer. And every step could be his last.

Somewhere in Egypt / 1948

Dr Eugene Kowalski has personally invited Max to join him on a new quest.

Kowalski (singing)

'I'm the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo!'

Max

'If I never see another camel's ass it'll be too soon.'

Kowalski

'Tut-tut, Max. There's no better train than a camel train. And ships of the desert don't sink.'

Max

'I think you're mixing your metaphors again.'

Kowalski

'Am I? You're the one who can't tell his ass from his camel. You'll have us riding giraffes next!'

Max

'Talking of giraffes, do you think Dr Templeton will have everything ready?'

Kowalski's colleague from Harvard University is waiting for them in Cairo.

Making the necessary preparations before they leave for Amarna in Middle Egypt. Where the esteemed Drs have - what should be - a fairly simple task to perform at the behest of the Egyptian Ministry of National Treasures.

Kowalski

'Trust in two things, Max. God and Godfric Templeton. They won't let you down.'

Perched on his dromedary's lurching poop deck, Max is feeling more than a little queasy. Last night's stewed goat has come back to life and is trying to kick its way out of his stomach, and the dried date he's chewing has none of the flavour and all of the texture of a dead cockroach.

Max

'I think I'm going to vomit.'

Kowalski (sings)

'Heave away, me hearties! Heave away! Haul away!'

Max

'You're not helping.'

Kowalski

'You don't hear Lawrence complaining.'

Lawrence, Dr Kowalski's camel, does nothing but complain. Often expressing his displeasure from both ends at the same time.

Their Bedouin guide is a man called Mosul Bin Muhammed, a friend of Dr Kowalski's from before the war, Muhammed is taking them to meet an old man who, he says, has in his possession an even older skull. Older than the sands of the desert. Perhaps as old as the Garden of Eden itself.

Ibrahim Bin Ibrahim welcomes them with open arms and toothless gums. He could be anywhere between eighty and a hundred years old, but there's nothing frail or vague about him. Bin Ibrahim still has the eyes of a falcon and a rogue's courteous charm.

Dr Kowalski is the only one allowed to examine the skull, while Max is dragged away by Bin Ibrahim's dozen or so curious, chattering grandchildren.

Max is a little disappointed at being excluded, but if there's anything worth telling, the Doctor will tell him later.

Max

'Was the skull worth it?'

Kowalski

'Oh, yes! Fascinating! Old, undoubtedly, but exactly how old I can't say. It could be tenth century. Or it could date as far back as the last ice age.'

Max

'Almost as old as Ibrahim.'

Kowalski (laughs)

'Possibly. But don't let him hear you say that.'

The City of Armarna / 3000 BC

The torchlights in the palace flicker. Akhenaten, Great King, Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt is dying. His physicians are powerless to do anything more than alleviate his suffering. His reign has been far too short - a mere seventeen years - to allow him to make the lasting impact he desired with his religious reforms. His wondrous new city, with its lavish buildings, tranquil pools and ordered gardens, is unlike any other in Egypt. Completed in the ninth year of his reign, it has been home for his beautiful and beloved consort Nefertiti and their six daughters.

But Nefertiti is dead, and Akhenaten has been plagued by a mysterious, debilitating illness. His young son Tutankhaten, the child of one of his lesser wives, will succeed him, but it will be his vizier Ay, and his chief general Horemheb, who will wield the true power.

Akhenaten knows there is no hope that they might remain faithful to Aten.

What will remain of his legacy? And how can he protect his own body from the defilement of both tomb robbers and the vengeful priests of Amun? The original plan for his resting place - here in Amarna - is no longer feasible. Nor does he wish to be buried in the Valley of the Kings. The days of the Great Pyramids of the Pharaohs has long since passed.

But there is a final contingency. Akhenaten's most trusted servant, Kamose. He will see to it that none disturb the final resting place of the Son of Aten.

How manifold are thy works, what thou hast made. They are hidden from the face of man.

The City of Amarna / 1948

Akhenaten's tomb is, for all intents and purposes, empty. The hewn rock walls are bare of plaster, there are no paintings, no carvings, and no statues. Only a rectangular stone plinth set slightly off centre supports the stone base of the Pharaoh's unadorned sarcophagus. Also empty.

Max is decidedly underwhelmed.

Kowalski

'Not what you were expecting? Akhenaten founded a new religion dedicated to the worship of Aten, the power and life giving light of the sun. Not long after Akhenaten's death, his son Tutankhamun restored the traditional Gods and temple institutions. Anything that was here was either stolen or destroyed. The city of Amarna was abandoned, and Akhenaten's body was believed to be removed to the royal burial ground in the Valley of the Kings. But his remains have never been found.'

Max

'So why are we here?'

Kowalski

'The Ministry of National Treasures has asked us to lift what's left of the sarcophagus off the plinth and prepare it for safe transport to their museum in Cairo.'

Max watches a small team of Arab and Egyptian labourers sling a cradle of ropes under and between the sarcophagus and its plinth and feed a line through a system of pulleys hanging from a chain attached to a block and tackle.

Dr Kowalski gives them the nod and the stone sarcophagus slowly rises, ready to be swung over and manhandled onto a wheeled flatbed trolley.

Relieved of the weight of the hefty sarcophagus, the plinth begins (unexpectedly) to sink into the floor of the tomb with a loud grinding of stone on stone.

Kowalski

'What the hell?'

Max

'Is that supposed to happen?'

The four fixed sides of the hollow plinth stay together, but the bottom is hinged and opens to reveal a narrow tunnel with steps going down that have been cut into the bedrock.

Max points at the suddenly revealed passage way.

Max

'Should that be there?'

Dr Kowalski is tugging at twin handfuls of his bristling beard. His usually ruddy face has gone a whiter shade of pale.

Kowalski

'Well, that's just... '

The mixed crew of labourers look ready to run for their lives.

Seemingly unfazed, Dr Godfric Templeton removes his glasses and wipes the dusty lenses with a handkerchief he takes from the breast pocket of his leather-elbowed houndstooth jacket.

Templeton

'The Ministry will need to be informed of this.'

Dr Kowalski turns to the frightened workers.

Kowalski

'Anyone breathes an ant's fart about this outside these walls and I'll make damned sure they never work on another site again!'

Max (to himself)

'Mummy's the word.'

The City of Cairo / 1948

Shady deals and shadier characters. Where every vice known to man, and more that are only known to a few, can be bought. Barefoot urchins easily outrun furious stall-holders. Sirens lure the unwary traveller from the upper storeys of balconied brothels.

Two contrasting individuals sit in wicker chairs carefully placed in the accommodating shadow cast by a wide-spanning date palm. Theirs is a quiet corner of an otherwise busy Egyptian ahwa. They have a clear view of their surroundings and they only speak when they're certain no one can hear them.

One is tall, debonair, aristocratic in appearance. His annunciation is as clear and precise as the narrow pin-striping of his charcoal-grey suit. His name is Donald Maclean. Known only, if he's known at all, and only to those who need to know, as "Homer"

The other is short and has a face like a rat. His sunken eyes are shadowed with dark half-moons in shades of aubergine under swollen, yellow-crusted lids. Vladimir Volodkin is a man who has not only witnessed unspeakable atrocities, but has committed more than might be considered his "fair" share. His dress style is shabby-psychopath. His accent is elusive. He isn't a spy, as such, but a facilitator. He makes things happen. His codename is "Grey Goose".

The rat-faced Volodkin stirs a tall glass of iced mint tea.

Volodkin

'So, how are you finding Cairo? Enjoying your promotion?'

Homer

'Hot. My wife hates it.'

Volodkin

'Wait till we get to the summer. She will like it even less. I understand King Farouk is a most convivial and generous host. Didn’t Life magazine call him "the very model of a young Muslim gentleman"?’

Homer (shaking his head)

'He’s venial and corrupt. Egypt came out of the war one of the richest country in the Middle East, but he’s squandering it away.'

Volodkin

'You say squandering, I say pissing. And at least he's pissing in my direction so some some of it trickles down to me.'

Homer

'Was the full implication of my final communique from Washington sufficiently clear?'

Volodkin

'Don't over complicate things. The Americans can't make their atom bombs quickly enough. I'd say that's clear enough. When can Moscow expect your initial report on the British Embassy here?'

Homer

'Give me a fortnight.'

Volodkin drains the last of his tea. Stands up to leave.

Homer

'MI6 has an undercover operative in Cairo.'

Volodkin sits back down.

Volodkin

'Who?'

Homer

'There's more. Washington has its own agent here as well.'

Volodkin

'Besides you.'

Homer

'Besides me.'

Volodkin (snorts)

'The bumbling professor?'

Homer

'The "bumbling professor" is fully trained and has twenty years experience in the field. Not someone to shrug off so lightly.'

A woman in a green silk dress stops to pick a flower from an earthenware planter defining the restaurant's forecourt. The flower is one among dozens of yellow and orange marigolds.

The City of Amarna

Dr Templeton supervises the loading of Akhenaten's sarcophagus onto the truck that will take it, and him, back to Cairo. Leaving Max and Dr Kowalski alone in the tomb, with the temptation of a secret passage way only just discovered and, as yet, unexplored.

Kowalski

'What do you say, Max, do you want to know what's down there? Or do we go back to base and twiddle our thumbs while we wait for some pompous little prick from the Ministry to steal our thunder?'

Max

'I don't think Dr Templeton will be too happy if we go in without him.'

Kowalski

'Godfric is one of my dearest friends, and an excellent archaeologist, but his idea of excitement is Thursday night bingo.'

Dr Kowalski switches on his battery powered, handheld flashlight and shines it into the tunnel.

Kowalski

'Just a quick look. We won't touch anything.'

Bare walls are hewn from the rock. At the bottom of the twenty-one steps - Max counts them - is a small, naturally formed cavern. There's a wall of sandstone blocks directly opposite the steps, and there's nothing natural about it. Chiselled into the face of each large, rectangular block of stone is a single hieroglyph.

Kowalski (reads aloud)

'These be the Arrows of Akhenaten. Only the most loyal and faithful of subjects may pass. The Falcon kneels before the one true God.'

Max

'What is it? Some kind of riddle?'

Kowalski

'The men who designed and built the royal burial tombs would always have more than one way in and out. But what's the prize? The half-circle over a feather next to a zig-zag over a donut is Aten, the Sun. Akhenaten's one true God. Horus is the falcon. Not to be confused with Re, who has the head of a hawk but whose hieroglyph is a donut on a stick and a man holding what looks like a candle. A young fellow from Oxford only made that mistake once. Nasty things, scorpions.'

Max

'What are we supposed to do? Stand on our heads and say their names backwards?'

Kowalski

'It's not magic, Max. It's science. My guess is there's some kind of hidden mechanism behind the wall that unlocks a concealed door. Put your hand on the block with Horus and push. I'll do the same with Aten. On the count of three. Ready? One. Two. Three.'

The stone blocks glide into the wall with little effort, and there's a loud, metallic clank, followed by the sound of a cogged wheel turning. Three irregular shaped flagstones in the chamber's floor suddenly drop away, revealing another narrow tunnel with another set of steps.

Max

'You're a genius!'

Kowalski

'Not really. The Knights of Saint John had something similar in their citadel on Malta. Pick the right apostle to win a prize.'

Max

'What was the prize?'

Kowalski

'You didn't die horribly.'

Twenty-eight steps lead down to a second chamber, another cave, but this one is long and narrow, and instead of a wall there's a stone wheel segmented like pieces of a pie.

Kowalski

'The two Queens of the night wear one Crown.'

Max

'Who are we looking for?'

Kowalski

'Bastet and Khensu. One's a cat and the other is another bird-man with horns and a full moon. Look for a vase and two half-circles. And a full circle over a horizontal zig-zag next to a corn-stalk next to a baby chicken.'

Max (confidently)

'These are easy.'

Kowalski

'Don't count your baby chickens before we have our ducks in a row or we might end up with egg on our faces.'

There's no loud clank this time. Just the rumbling of the heavy wheel rolling into its cut to fit recess. The passage way is level and thirty-five paces in length. At the end is what is unmistakably a door, cast in solid bronze, between two stone columns. Another riddle is inscribed above the door.

Kowalski

'The Mother devours her many Children. Mother is Isis, Goddess of the Nile. Tall building next to a half-circle over a suppository next to a finger-puppet. The other is Hapi. Lord of the Fish and Birds of the Marshes. Twisted vertical ribbon next to a pipe over a square with two lines leaning to the left. You know what to do, Max.'

The bronze door swings open on an inward arc. Another passage way, forty-two steps going up at a steep angle. At the top of the steps is a large, flat slab of smooth stone. Another puzzle is cut into its surface.

Kowalski

'The Scales that weigh Eternity. Set or Sutekh. Murdered his brother. And Thoth. Decides who goes through to the after-life. Knotted rope over half-circle over spoon. A bird with a long curved beak.'

Max

'Nothing's happening.'

Kowalski

'Try lifting it.'

The large, flat slab of stone is part of a floor. Max is able to work the slab free and push it to one side, and they climb into the largest chamber so far. It has a high ceiling with holes in it that allow sunlight and fresh air in. Relieved to finally be able to stand up straight, Dr Kowalski kneads the kinks out of his aching back.

Kowalski

'This is more like it. A man needs room to move! Mites and tites, Max. See them? Do you know how to tell the difference? The "mights" go up when the "tights" come down.'

There's no wall, no wheel, no door, and no slab. The riddle is chipped out of one of the stalagmites, with veins of quartz that glitter rose-pink.

Kowalski

'The Sun's rays are brightest beneath the Earth. Amun-Ra. God of creation. Look for a feather next to balls on a table over a zig-zag line next to a man holding a golf putter.'

Max finds what might be the answer scratched into a stalactite. Centuries of water dripping from the roof of the cave have worn it away until it's almost indecipherable. Pressing on the hieroglyph has no effect. Max doesn't give up, but cups both hands under the rounded tip of the stalactite and heaves.

Max (sings)

'Heave away, me hearties!'

A minor avalanche of loosely piled rocks tumble to reveal another passage way. It's a ramp that slopes down.

Max (counts)

'Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Forty-nine paces.'

Kowalski

'I expected as much. Multiples of seven. A sacred number to the Egyptians.'

The fifth chamber. The sixth Arrow. A low stone plinth against the far wall.

Kowalski

'The Lion roars with no Man's voice. Has to be Sekhmet. Woman's body. Lion's head. The other one I'm not sure.'

Max

'You're not sure?'

Kowalski

'Could be Ma'at. Goddess of truth. And all men are liars. Or so my wife says.'

Max

'Could be?'

Kowalski

'Okay, let's try candle in a holder next to circle over half-circle next to finger-puppet. And ostrich feather. If that doesn't work then... '

Max

'Scorpions?'

Kowalski

'Let's hope not.'

The stone plinth separates into two equal halves. Behind it is a cramped, narrow, twisting crawl-space. The only way through it is on their hands and knees. It opens onto a square, vertical shaft. Niches dug into the rock provide places for gripping fingers and the toes of their boots.

Max

'The only way is up.'

The exit is a building. One room. Low mud-brick walls. A collapsed roof of terracotta tiles. A sea of red sand outside the unobstructed arched doorway.

One final Arrow scribed with faded ink on a piece of ragged parchment lies among the rubble.

Kowalski

'A King remains a King beyond the River.'

Max

'Are you sure?'

Kowalski

'Relax, Max. This one's as plain as the nose on a sphinx. Tall building over an eye next to a bearded lady. Feather, zig-zag over square, baby chicken, dog on a box.'

Max

'But there aren't any hieroglyphs except those on the note.'

Kowalski

'That's because it's not a riddle. It's a map. These are the directions to Akhenaten's actual resting place. Godfric's the scholar. He'll know. We have to get back to Cairo. Hurry, Max. There's no time to lose!'

Max

'Back the way we came?'

Kowalski

'No! No! We must still be near Amarna! Come on!'

The City of Cairo

Dr Kowalski's research assistant Miss Merrily Mountjoy is enjoying her day burrowing through the bazaars. She doesn't return to the hotel. Dr Templeton begins to worry.

A short walk away from the hotel, Dr Templeton sits at a table in the dining room of a much grander and more luxurious hotel, the aptly named Grand Imperial. He wears a marigold in the breast pocket of his navy-blue suit. A dark-haired woman in a green silk dress slides into the seat opposite.

Templeton

'I need your help.'

Dr Godfric Templeton and British Agent Marigold start searching Cairo for Merrily. An obscenely obese, extremely unattractive Arab, whose known as Baksheesh, tells them Merrily is being taken to Port Said. Where a Soviet submarine will be waiting for Volodkin.

The road to Port Said. Volodkin drives a six-wheeled Bedford truck left to rust when the British army pulled out of Egypt at the end of the war. He has Miss Mountjoy with him. She isn't happy about it.

Dr Templeton and Marigold race after them in an open-topped jeep with Marigold driving.

Volodkin leans out of the driver's side window with a Tokarev TT semi-automatic pistol.

Templeton

'He's shooting at us!'

Marigold hands him her Webley Mk IV .38 service issue revolver.

Marigold

'So shoot back!'

Templeton

'Slow down. You're going to hit the truck.'

Marigold

'Relax, Doctor. I've done this before.'

She jinks the steering wheel with a casual twist and speeds up beside the driver's side of the truck. Volodkin bumps them. Metal scrapes metal as the two vehicles grind together.

Templeton empties all six rounds from the Wembley and draws his own Beretta .32 / 9mm. A compact pistol with a lot of punch.

Marigold

'We have company!'

Max rides out from behind a red-ochre sand dune on a white arabian stallion. Dr Kowalski and Mosul Bin Muhammed aren't far behind. With them are maybe thirty or more Bedouin horsemen.

A vintage WW1 Fokker D.VII biplane - piloted by the one and only pilot serving in the Royal Egyptian Air Force - and armed with twin machine guns mounted on its top wing dives out of the cloudless sky.

The Bedouin scatter. The Fokker comes back for a second run, machine guns strafing the road. The Bedouin return fire with their antique weapons.

Max asks Muhammed if he can borrow his Lee Enfield.

A sceptical Muhammed hands Max the rifle.

Standing in the stirrups, Max puts a .303 bullet between the spinning blades of the biplane's propeller and into the centre of the pilot's forehead.

Muhammed

'It was a lucky shot.'

The Fokker veers away erratically, dips its wings, ploughs nose first into a sand dune, cartwheels end over end, and bursts into a ball of fire.

Volodkin loses control of the truck and crashes into the side of a roadside building on the side of road.

Nick Flaire looks up from behind the bar. Sees a hole in wall of his hole-in-the-wall with the unconscious Volodkin slumped over the Bedford's steering wheel. He helps Merrily out of truck.

Nick

'Of all the dives in all the world, you had to crash into mine.'

The City of Port Said

The hole in the wall of Nick's "Club Cleo" is an improvement. The two Drs Kowalski and Templeton, Marigold, Max and Merrily sit around a table, talking. Nick is back behind the bar.

Max

'I still don't understand why Volodkin had you kidnapped.'

Merrily

'He said something about exchanging me for a British agent. The Russians know they have the Hector Device. I guess he was going to torture Marigold to find out where.'

Marigold

'Good luck with that!'

Templeton

'You don't know?'

Marigold

'I know it's somewhere the Soviets and you Americans won't be able to get your homicidal hands on it.'

Max

'You're the lady from Crete.'

Marigold

'And you're the kid with the golden arm.'

'You saved my life on Icaria when Professor Faust was going to shoot me and throw my body off the cliffs.'

Marigold

'Not just me.'

Max

'Did the Navy find what they were looking for?'

Marigold.

'Yes. We have that too.' *

Kowalski

'So the world is safe?'

Templeton

'For another day.'

*{See Max Rush / The Perils of Hector}

The Oasis of Little Birds / Egypt

Beyond the Bedouin camp the desolate red-brown wastes of the desert stretch as far as the horizon. Unable to sleep, a restless Max stands star-gazing.

Dr Kowalski steps out of his tent and joins him.

Kowalski

'Thinking about tomorrow, Max? I know I am. A lost city. Imagine that! Even the hairs standing up on the back of my neck have hairs standing up on the back of their necks!'

Max

'It was amazing how Dr Templeton remembered the story of the fabled city of Zerzura.'

Kowalski

'True! True! Good old Godfric!'

Max

'Can you hear something? Like voices a long way off? I thought it was just the wind but... '

Kowalski

'Now that you mention it, yes. You know, there’s a tale that Herodotus tells of the Persian king Cambyses. The story goes that he sent a vast army into the western desert to seize the Oracle of Amun in the Siwa Oasis. They were halfway across the desert when a terrible sandstorm swallowed them whole, every last one of them. The Bedouin say their voices can be heard on the wind, pleading to the Gods to release them and grant them the peaceful repose of eternal death.’

Max

'I think they're the voices of my mother's family. I hear them in my dreams.'

Kowalski

'I sometimes wonder if it isn't the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.'

Max

'Those, too. A world of wounded souls.'

'What in the name of all that's holy could ever have possessed us that we would do such dreadful things?'

Dr Kowalski takes a silver flask from a vest pocket, unscrews the cap, puts the flask to his lips, and doesn't stop drinking until it's empty.

Morning. Everyone's up bright and early. A little too early for some.

Dr Templeton (quotes)

“You will find palms and vines and flowing wells. Follow the valley until you meet another, opening to the west between two hills. In this valley you will find a forsaken path. Follow it. For the path will lead you to the City of Zerzura. It is a city of white, like a dove is white. By the closed gate you will find a bird sculpted from the whitest marble. Stretch up your hand to its beak, and take from it a key. Open the gate and enter. There will you find much wealth. There also will you a find king and his queen, sleeping the sleep of enchantment...

Do not go near them...

Do not trespass upon their rest...

Take the treasure and that is all.”

All around them, half-buried beneath the desert dunes, are the ruins of the lost city of Zerzura.

Templeton

'In the end, all must turn to sand and dust.’

On either side of the entrance to the temple of Aten stands a tall, imposing statue.

Kowalski

’The figure on the right is clearly Set. The other is Osiris. This is the place.'

A series of short corridors and stairs twist their way into the building. There are no false entrances, no sealed chambers, no puzzles to solve. The central chamber is full of light, mirrors carefully aligned one with one another capture and disseminate shards of bright sunlight.

In the very centre of the chamber is a black granite stele, and on either side of it are two stone sarcophagi. The heavy lid of one has been forced open. Inside it is a simple coffin of wood, and in the coffin are the wrapped, mummified remains of Akhenaten. All except for his skull.

Kowalski (murmurs)

'Ibrahim. You inglorious bastard.'

Templeton

“Akhenaten. Great in his lifetime. And the Queen whom he loved. What treasure is greater than peace? Into His hands I commit my spirit, taking nothing with me. For I am content to follow the true path. The destinies of all men are written in the stars. And the Arrows of Aten shall point the way."

The City of Cairo

The hotel elevator of the Grand Imperial. Marigold has Max pressed up against a wall. Max has her dress hiked up and his hands on her narrow waist. He kisses her neck the way a trout kisses flies on the sunlit surface of a rippling stream.

Max's shirt is open. Marigold lifts his gold Star of David on its chain.

Marigold

'I didn't know.'

Max

'Does it matter?'

Marigold reaches with two fingers into the valley between her high, firm breasts and shows Max a pendant of her own.

Hers is a round wafer of solid silver with a blue enamelled six-pointed star.

Marigold

'I'm kind of wild. Do you think you can tame me?'

Max

'I'm not sure. But I can try.'

Marigold

'Use your whip, Max. Make me jump through hoops.'

Max

'I don't know your name. Your real name.'

Marigold

'It's not important. Seize the day, kid. You might never get another chance.'

Marigold is not a shrinking violet.

Cold blooded killer. Hot blooded lover. As American as apple strudel. Sixteen year old Max Rush is a young man on a mission. A mission full of action, adventure and intrigue, as Max rushes headlong into danger in a race to save the world from an ancient weapon. A weapon so powerful it could herald the dawn of a Fourth Reich.

Nazi Berlin / 1944

The city at night. A sky lit by anti-aircraft batteries and filled with the sound of air raid sirens. Near Hochmeisterplatz. The dark interior of a parked car.

Maximillian Rorsch presses the barrel of the silenced Walther PPK into his father's temple and pulls the trigger. The lead slug takes bone, blood, and a blowout of mucilaginous brain with it, and punches a hole through the driver's side window of a black Mercedes sedan.

Fifteen year old Maximillian can see no alternative. Alive, Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch could prolong the defense of Germany, and the city of Berlin itself, by months, possibly even as long as a year. Claiming a million more lives, many of them innocent civilians, like Maximillian's mother.

An attempt to assassinate both the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, and American President Franklin Delano Roosevelt while they were meeting in the Iranian capital Teheran to discuss the planned invasion of Normandy (Operation Overlord) has failed. But the possibility that another attempt could succeed is very real.

A Germany with Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch in command could slow the Allied advance, giving the Nazis the time they need to complete Projekt Hektor. A weapon

that will not only alter the course of the war, but would give Nazi Germany absolute domination of the entire world.

Convinced he's doing the right thing, Maximillian puts the gun in his father's gloved hand, takes the black leather courier case that's between them on the seat, opens the passenger side door of the staff car, and walks into the night.

Occupied Berlin / 1945

An expanse of public square. Ruined buildings in the background. An American MP post in Potsdamer Platz. A sergeant sees Maximillian Rorsch approaching.

Sergeant

'Buzz off, kid.'

Maximillian

'Please. I'm an American citizen. My mother was from Boston. I was born there. I have my passport and birth certificate to prove it.'

Maximillian hands over his ID.

The sergeant inspects them and hands them back.

Sergeant

'They could be forgeries.'

Maximillian

'They're not. I'm telling you the truth. We were visiting my father's relatives when the war started. He was a scientist. The Nazis came and took him away. I don't know what happened to him, or where he is now. My mother was killed in an air raid.'

The sergeant turns and calls to one of his men.

Sergeant

'Brodsky! Escort this young man to MHQ. He says he's one of us. Let them sort it out.'

Cambridge Massachusetts / 1946

Some eleven months later, Max Rush is a high school sophomore living with his Great Aunt Freida in a four storey house of red brick and Boston Ivy; built when the Americas were still a British colony.

Aunt Freida hasn't exactly welcomed the responsibility of taking in a teenager she's never met, but in the short time Mas has been there her attitude toward him has warmed.

Max wonders (at first) how Aunt Freida can change her hair colour as often as he changes his underwear, which is every day, but the penny soon drops. His aunt has a large collection of wigs, all of them 100% human hair, all of them made in Italy, and all of them excellent quality.

Their relationship is strengthened further one rainy Sunday in September when Aunt Freida encourages a bored and restless Max to try on several of her wigs, and the two of them laugh themselves silly.

Aunt Freida's bedroom is redolent with Queen Anne furniture. Authentic (antique) persian rugs. Silk tapestry on one wall. Abstract art on another. Rain on the windows. Several wigs are arranged on plaster heads on a sideboard. As many again are scattered casually on the king-sized bed.

With the easy androgyny of youth, his brown eyes full of the promise of mischief, and a little artfully applied make-up, Max makes a convincing girl.

Aunt Freida might not be as rich as the Rockerfellers or the Vanderbilts, but her late husband Freddie has left her "comfortably cushioned". At seventy-something, Aunt Freida looks fifty, plays tennis four days a week, and is still a social moth.

Freida

'Age is just a number on a birthday card. The only number that counts is the one in your head. Think young to be young.'

Max (playing the coquette)

'I like being the age I am. It's a great age to be.'

Boston Massachusetts / 1947

Dinner guests gather in twos and threes under a crystal chandelier. Men in tuxedos. Women in evening dresses. Drinking. A happy buzz of conversation.

Max is introduced to his Aunt Freida's conspicuously homosexual friend Dr Emile Faust, Professor of Archaeology at Harvard University. Max, with his blond curls and youthful looks, has caught the Professor's twinkling eye.

Max likes girls. It's as simple as that. But if Professor Faust's physical displays of misguided affection sometimes cross the line, Max doesn't mind. It's easy enough for Max to casually redirect Emile's wandering hands.

Inside Dr Faust's office at Harvard University. A restless Max stands fidgeting nervously. The Professor sits behind his cluttered desk.

Max has his fingers crossed for a summer placement with a team of archaeologists and students who are hoping to search for the lost city of Ilios.

Faust

'It won't be easy. Just getting to Turkey will be exhausting enough. The weather there will be warm, if not downright unpleasant some days, and you'll be doing a lot of digging and shifting. Hard work, believe me. There won't be any hot showers or comfortable beds when we're in the field. And the food will be basic fare, at best. So, Max, do you still want to come?'

Max

'Yes, sir. More than anything!'

Faust

'I'll see what I can do. But you have to remember, Max, that this is for students of the college, and you're still a sophomore in high school.'

Max

'If you can swing it, Doc, you won't regret it. I promise.'

Faust

'I scratch your back and you scratch mine?'

Max shrugs and thinks, What the heck? It's worth it.

Faust

'Be careful what you promise, Max. I wouldn't want you to regret it.'

New York to Liverpool

The passenger ship Olympic crosses the North Atlantic in three days. From there it's Liverpool to London and London to Dover by steam-engine. From Dover to Calais by ferry. Then another train from Calais to Paris, to catch yet another train - the famed Orient Express - to Istanbul, Turkey.

Onboard the ship, Professor Faust's port-holed cabin is 1st class. The Professor has spared no expense (for himself). Max is bunking in steerage.

Faust

‘What do you know of Ilios?’

Max

'It’s the city Homer wrote about in the Iliad. Also known as Troy. The Greeks launched a thousand ships against the city after the abduction of Helen of Sparta by Paris, the second son of King Priam. Or that's the story, anyway.'

Faust

'Latin Troia, Troja, or Ilium. A city in northwestern Anatolia. Ilios occupied a key position on trade routes between Europe and Asia. The legend of the Trojan War, fought between the Greeks and the heroes of Troy, is the most notable theme from ancient Greek literature and forms, as you say, the basis of Homer’s Iliad. Although the actual geographical location remains a matter of scholarly debate, the ruins of Ilios are thought to be at Hisarlık.

Max, already bored, pretends to listen.

Faust

’Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless towers of Ilium? It was the German archaeologist, Heinrich Schliemann, who first uncovered what he thought were the ruins of Troy in 1870. Hisarlik means "the Place of Fortresses". Schliemann made some remarkable discoveries, uncovering no less than nine buried cities on the site. But his conclusions were completely wrong.'

Faust is convinced, from his own extensive research, that he can succeed where Schliemann had failed.

Max paces as Faust continues.

Faust

‘What's known as Troy II couldn't possibly have been Homer’s Ilios. We have to dig deeper. I'm almost certain that the level we commonly refer to as Troy VII/a is where we will find the answers! Max?’

Max

'Uh-huh. Yeah. What?'

The Professor ushers Max toward the door of his cabin.

Faust

'Go on. Go. Out. You'll learn more at dinner tonight. We're dining with the captain.'

At the Captain's Table. Faust ignores his smoked salmon. Max pokes at his with his fork, wondering what it is. At the table with them are the Professor's colleagues, Drs Templeton and Kowalski. Seated next to each other they remind Max of a giraffe and a bulldog. Suitably tweeded. Templeton's glasses have round tortoiseshell frames and he wears bow ties that are too small. Kowalski has coarsely bearded jowls and bushy eyebrows. His barrel chest produces a booming basso voice.

Faust

'Daedalus was the greatest engineer of the ancient world. Forget Archimedes, Daedalus was a true genius. His accomplishments were lost long ago, and only stories about him survive, embedded in myth. The tale of the Labyrinth. The greatest maze ever devised. Home of the Minotaur.'

The captain's oiled comb-over isn't fooling anyone, but Max admires his Erroll Flynn moustache.

Captain

'Fascinating!'

Faust

'How he and his son Icarus were imprisoned by the Cretan king Minos. How they escaped their imprisonment when Daedalus devised intricate wings from bird feathers held together with beeswax. And how Icarus was lost in the escape attempt when, in disobedience of his father, he flew too close to the sun.'

Templeton

He perished in the plunge, as it were, into the Aegean Sea. Somewhere off the coast of the island that was named after him. Icaria.’

Captain

‘I know the story.’

Kowalski

‘What you might not know, is that Daedalus was responsible for the greatest invention ever devised in ancient times. The very pinnacle of Minoan civilisation. Before it was destroyed in the Thera explosion.’

Captain

'You don't say?'

Faust

’It was one of the most cataclysmic events in human history. The Aegean island of Thera, or Santorini, was a volcanic island that was two-thirds destroyed when the volcano exploded in around 1600 BC. Bigger than Krakatoa in 1883, and far bigger than the eruption of Vesuvius that destroyed Pompeii.'

Templeton

The earthquake that followed the eruption generated a tsunami that devastated coastal regions all around the Aegean and much of the Eastern Mediterranean. The ash clouds would have devastated crops for years, causing widespread famine.'

Kowalski

'The nearest we've come in the twentieth century is the Hiroshima bomb.’

Captain

'That was terrible. I know it ended the war in the Pacific but, all those poor people.'

England / 1947

A British Railways engine steaming from Liverpool to London. The carriage rocks and lurches. Max and Professor Faust sit opposite each other in uncomfortable seats.

Faust

‘That was the way the world ended, for the Minoans, and Daedalus’ great legacy was lost in the aftermath. But I think we can find it again.’

Max

‘What do you mean? The expedition to Ilios? But that’s hundreds of miles away from Crete.’

Faust

'The Hector Device isn't on Crete. It's in Berlin. What we're looking for is the key that unlocks the Perils of Hector.'

Max

'I thought we were looking for Ilios.'

Faust

'We are. But why not kill two birds with one stone? I’ll tell you more another time. Let’s just say, for now, that Daedalus left behind a decoder of sorts. Found by another archaeologist, an Italian named Luigi Pernier, in the ruins of the Minoan palace at Phaistos. The Phaistos Disc is the key. It went missing during the German occupation of Crete. And since Hisarlik is only a hop, skip and a jump away from Heraklion, I thought we might have a poke around.’

London

The Savoy Hotel. Max's room isn't much. But, at the Savoy, "not much" is still something. A double-bed. A wardrobe. And, weirdly, a kitchen sink in one corner. Or that's what it looks like. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Max doesn't fancy sharing. What if he's taking a dump and some guy walks in?

Max sits on the bed and opens a small chest of carved sandal-wood. Inside it are his most treasured possessions. A photograph of his mother. A pearl brooch she wore. Her wedding ring. Among them is a curious, circular object - about four inches across - made of a heavy metal. One side is blank. The other is intricately designed with wavy lines radiating out from a central figure. Around the edge are carved symbols that could be some kind of ancient script.

But what script? And what language? It isn’t Latin, or Greek, or Phoenician. And the characters aren’t Egyptian hieroglyphs, or Babylonian cuneiform. The figure - which would be revealed if someone could decipher the inscription - is Daedalus. Max is holding the key the Professor is looking for. It was in the black leather courier case he took from his father's car.

The question Max keeps asking himself is why the Professor would want it. Could he really be thinking of using the Phaistos Disc to unlock the Perils of Hector? But that would be crazy!

London is a nightmare Max can't wait to wake up from. Destruction, desolation, and the inescapable dark cloud of depression. There isn't enough of anything, so everything is rationed. The food is disgusting and the weather is abysmal.

Berlin had been no different. Even when his father was one of the highest ranking officers in the Wehrmacht, Max's family weren't spared the horrors of a world gone mad. Would Paris (France) be any better? Max puts the disc back in the chest and takes out one last treasure. It's a small pendant on a gold chain. He kisses the Star of David and fastens the chain around his neck.

Also in London / At around the same time

A nondescript office in the underground bunker of a nondescript building. Two unremarkable looking men in unremarkable suits sit either side of an unremarkable desk.

It's an open secret - in other words no secret at all - that the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service (known as MI6) is referred to as ‘C’.

C for ‘Chief’ according to some. C for ‘Control’ according to others. Or, alternatively, C for a part of the female anatomy, depending on who's asked. In truth, it's simply because the first holder of the post had had a surname beginning with the letter C. But it had stuck, regardless.

The current ‘C’ is the third holder of the post in the organisation’s existence.

C

‘Smoke?’

Agent

‘No, thank you, sir.’

C

’Filthy habit. Ever been to America? Fascinating place. Terrifying. But fascinating. If only our people knew how much we’re in debt to them. The British Empire’s all but bankrupt. We pretend we’re a great power still, but it’s all smoke and mirrors. And the Service has an important part to play in maintaining the illusion.'

Agent

‘If you say so, sir.’

C

’Right. Down to business. We’ve had a report from our Washington station. From our agent there, Homer. A rather interesting development. The Hector Device has been uncovered inside a storage facility leased by the Berlin Museum of Ancient Antiquities.'

Agent

'Aren't all antiquities ancient?’

C

'Mmm. The key is the key, so to speak. The Phaistos Disc. The Americans want it. So do the Russians. But we're not going to bloody well let them have it. The device has been secured by our people and is on its way here. Your mission is to recover the key and to bring it back. We must have both. Wiser heads must prevail.'

Agent

'Does our friend in Washington have any idea where the key might be?'

C

'It's last known location was also Berlin, in the possession of Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch. Rorsch was supposed to hand it over to an expert in ancient languages to be translated. Only, for some reason, that never happened. Rorsch committed suicide and the Phaistos Disc disappeared. All very odd. Until now. Homer has had his ear to the ground, and the word on the grapevine is that Rorsch's son has turned up on the other side of the pond. Living with an aunt in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Except he isn't. The boy is here... In London. On some kind of jaunt with a team of American Archaeologists from Harvard.'

Agent

'Do we know if the son has the key with him?'

C

'Not for certain. And we don't want to step on any toes. Not yet, anyway. Washington says he's one of theirs. American mother. German father. We want you to follow them. Don't let the boy out of your sight. Agent Marigold will be going with you.'

Agent

'Why her? She was very nearly killed in that trouble in Palestine. I would have thought she's done enough for us. Marigold's time in covert operations is over, surely.'

C

'It's never enough. And it's never over. Never.'

En-route from London to Dover

Professor Faust has returned to Max's (not) favourite subject. This train rattles and shunts even more than the last one. The seats are wooden benches. Max shifts uncomfortably.

Faust

'Ilios commanded a strategic point at the southern entrance to the Dardanelles, or Hellespont, a narrow strait linking the Black Sea with the Aegean Sea via the Sea of Marmara. The city also commanded a land route that ran north along the west Anatolian coast and crossed the narrowest point of the Dardanelles to the European shore.

In theory - '

Max

'Do you think the conductor could find me a cushion?'

Faust

'You look tired, Max. Did you sleep last night?'

Max

'Not really.'

Faust

'Bad dreams?'

Max stares out the window.

The bright summer sun blazes down from its zenith upon Max’s perspiring brow. All around him, in every direction, ascend tall gleaming towers of the most lustrous marble and the finest rose quartz. But beneath the delicately scented lemon tree within the royal gardens at the heart of the palace, Max only has eyes for the young woman who stands before him. The daughter of a king.

He knows there'll be trouble if he's discovered with her. But he doesn’t care.

Athea

‘My father will kill us both if we're seen together.’

Max

Come away with me. We can take a ship to anywhere.'

Athea

’We will be hunted down like animals. The ends of the known world and beyond would not be far enough to escape my father's wrath.'

He embraces her with a suicide's passion.

Max

'Then let us die in the other's arms.'

Athea

'I cannot leave. Not while Icarus is here. They say he has brought a great gift for the mighty king of Atlantis.’

Max pushes her away. Atlantis? He looks around, taking in the marbled halls, fluted colonnades, and sacred temples of the great city. How suddenly they resembled more the white-washed tombs of the dead. As splendid as they might appear, he can't help thinking the very stroke of doom is at hand.

The roar of the blast when it comes is deafening. The sun vanishes in an instant, hidden behind a pall of thick, black cloud and, in the far distance, above the city's walls, Max can see a curling, steadily rising wave, rushing towards them.

As the ground shakes violently beneath their feet, Max and the last princess of Atlantis desperately cling to one another. Helpless against the remorseless judgement that mighty Zeus and pitiless Poseidon have together unleashed.

Max wakes up to the zest of lemon. The curtains of the open carriage window softly billowing. A hand on his shoulder. The Professor leaning over him. Holding a china cup and saucer.

Faust

'Tea?'

On the saucer is a thin wedge of lemon.

A ferry from Dover to Calais

Max has found Dr Kowalski.

Max

'Do you think Ilios was real?'

Kowalski

'I wouldn't be looking for it if I didn't.'

Max

'And Atlantis? Could that have been Thera?'

Kowalski

'The name Atlantis came later, but yes, I think so. There are too many similarities for it to be mere coincidence. Let me give you an analogy I tell all my students. In the same way pearls are formed around single grains of sand inside oyster shells, legends grow from small grains of truth. But why the interest in Atlantis? Have you caught the archaeology bug?'

Max

'Is that a bad thing?'

Kowalski

'No, Max, not at all. Just remember it's a science, and like every science, what we do is a whole lot of theory based on very little actual evidence. We know the pyramids in Egypt are burial markers, and if we apply logical reasoning, we can explain how they were constructed. But why? All that cutting and shaping and transporting enormous blocks of stone, when all they had to do was dig a hole and drop the body in?'

Max

'To be closer to the Gods?'

Kowalski

'What need have we of Gods, when we make Gods of ourselves?'

The Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul

Max is getting tired of trains, but at least the seats are upholstered. And Max has a bed. A narrow bunk in a cramped compartment that Max has to share with three of the students who are part of the expedition. They're older but they're okay. They talk about baseball. And girls. And music. And girls. Cars. And girls.

In the opulent dining car of the OE, Max is looking (definitely not staring) at an English rose. She's his age, he thinks. And the interest is mutual. Max would like to talk to her. But there's a goon in a suit. He leaves the dining car, and his plate of untouched snails, to find his friend Merrily.

Miss Merrily Mountjoy is Dr Kowalski's research assistant. A pretty but practical twenty-something, Merrily is too busy for pearls and perfume. The only female on the team, Merrily has a compartment all to herself.

Max

'I need a dress.'

Merrily

'What? Why?'

Max

'There's this girl, and I really like her, and I think she likes me, but if I go near her a goon in a suit will probably shoot me.'

Merrily

'Okay. But why do you need a dress?'

Max

'I think if I was a girl, I could maybe not get shot.'

Merrily

'You want to look like a girl to talk to a girl. It's different from the usual approach.'

Merrily takes her suitcase down from an overhead rack and opens it on her bed.

Merrily

'Most of what I packed is for when we get to the site. Work clothes. I only brought one dress. It's my Sunday dress.'

She holds up a powder-blue bodice and petticoated skirt combination with puffed sleeves and lace collar: that was (possibly) the latest fashion when the pioneers were crossing the great plains to settle in the wild west.

Max (undressing)

'Can you help me put it on?'

Merrily's eyes linger on Max's body. In fact, they linger long enough for Max to notice.

Max

'What?'

Merrily

'Nothing'

Max suddenly thinks of something.

Max

'I don't have breasts!'

Merrily (laughing)

'Not all girls do. But if we tighten the belt... Like this... I think the blouse will be loose enough.'

Max's brown leather lace-up shoes and white socks don't look out of place.

Merrily

'Max? Your hair. It's not... '

Max

'Girly? I can fix that. I have a wig.'

Max leaves before Merrily can ask any embarrassing questions.

The bathrooms of the OE are in a separate carriage that's connected to the dining car. Max is about to push through the Homme door when the girl from the dining car takes him by the elbow and gently but firmly guides him to the Femme.

Girl

'This way. It's confusing, I know. Thank God there wasn't a queue. I'm Elizabeth.'

The girl (Elizabeth) closes and latches the door.

Max

'It's me.'

Elizabeth

'I know who you are. Where did you get that horrid dress? It's positively ghastly! And the wig?'

Max's wig is a black pageboy that curls in at the collar.

Max

'No time to explain. Where's the gorilla?'

Elizabeth

'Edwards? He won't follow me here. These are the only private moments one has.'

Max takes Elizabeth in his arms and kisses her. There's no time for polite conversation. He has the hem of her skirt up and her underwear out of the way before she can finish unbuttoning her blouse. By the time the train has crossed the bridge over the river Danube from Buda to Pest it's all over.

Elizabeth powders her nose, while Max makes a quick exit (from the bathroom).

Merrily's Compartment. Merrily points at Max's wig.

Merrily

'Can you explain that?'

Max

'Not really. My aunt gave it to me because she says it suits my bone structure.'

Merrily

'So? Did you get to talk to your mystery girl? I don't see any bullet holes.'

The answer is written all over Max's face. He takes the wig off and tosses it onto Merrily's bed.

Merrily

'You didn't. You did! You didn't get anything on my dress, did you? Take it off. Let me see!'

Max is all thumbs. Merrily has to undress him. Her eyes linger longer. The carriage shudders. The lights flicker. Merrily's fingers are in Max's hair. His hands are on her breasts. They topple onto Merrily's bed. Max can smell her arousal. Merrily's hands find Max ready and more than able.

Merrily

'I can't believe I'm doing this.'

Hisarlik Turkey / Heraklion Crete / Icaria /

Professor Faust leaves Drs Kowalski and Templeton to supervise the excavation while he takes Max to Heraklion, Crete, (supposedly) looking for clues to deciphering the Phaistos Disc.

Heraklion. Mismatched tables and chairs are arranged haphazardly in front of a popular kafeneío.

Max can’t help feeling he's being watched by the bewitching olive-skinned woman at the next table. If only he was ten years older, but then, who dares wins, right? The woman is in her thirties. Her evenly balanced features are in almost every aspect, completely perfect. It was just a shame about the livid scar on her temple. He wonders how it happened.

The woman stubs out her cigarette and gestures at a passing waiter. They exchange a few words Greek, but Max can’t quite catch what they say. Professor Faust takes a seat opposite Max, flapping his straw hat.

Faust

‘My, this heat! I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Professor Economides is anything but economical when it comes to the Hector Device.’

Max

‘Did he help you decipher the script on the Phaistos Disc?’

Faust (nodding)

'The man's been studying it for years. Has quite an obsession with it. I received a telegram from Templeton this morning. Seems that he and Kowalski have completed their excavation of what they're convinced is the ancient throne room of Priam. Not much to show for all their hard work, alas. The Greeks thoroughly ransacked Ilios, just as Homer wrote.’

Max

‘Taking the Perils of Hector with them?’

Faust

‘No, I don’t think so. I think the Greeks had good reason to fear it. It was Aeneas, last surviving member of the House of Priam who spirited it away, before or during the fall of Ilios. Of that, I'm now certain. As to where he stopped on his voyage across the Aegean? Finish your milk. We have to find someone who can take us to Icaria.’

Max

‘What's at Icaria?’

Faust

’A one-time German artillery redoubt, during the war, guarding the passage through the eastern Aegean.'

Max looks for the woman but can't see her anywhere.

Agents Mandrake and Marigold watch Max and the Professor leave.

Marigold

'What exactly is this Hector Device?'

Mandrake

'It's a bomb in a box, basically. An atomic bomb. Iron and nickel composite cobalt casing thought to be from a meteorite. No one's sure how it works but, at its maximum capacity it has the potential to wipe every living thing from the face of the earth.'

From Crete the Professor and Max take a fishing trawler to the island of Icaria.

Faust

'Did you know your father was here briefly during the war? A team of Polish slave labourers extending one of the tunnels discovered two strange objects, very old, very mysterious. Your father was ordered to collect them and take them back to Berlin, where an expert on ancient languages from the museum was supposed to examine them. Unfortunately, your father shot himself before the meeting could take place, and one of the objects disappeared. The Phaistos Disc. It wasn't found on your father's body, or in the car, at your home, or anywhere else. But you already know that, don't you, Max? Because you were the last person to see your father alive, and therefore logic dictates that you must have it.'

Max

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Faust

'I think you do. Give it to me.'

Taking a small pistol from one of the many pockets on his many-pocketed jacket, the Professor points the gun at Max.

Faust

'I didn't bring you all this way for nothing. I know you have it. Where is it?'

Max

'I don't know what you mean. I've never seen any disc with strange writing on it.'

Max realizes his mistake too late. The Professor steps closer and holds the gun to Max's head.

Faust

'Who said anything about strange writing?'

Max

'Maybe I do have it. But I didn't bring it with me.'

Faust

'I don't believe you. Take off your rucksack and open it.'

Max does, pretending to have trouble unbuckling the straps.

Max

'There's only clean socks and a change of underwear.'

Faust

'Do stop being difficult. It's appropriate, don't you think? Ironic that we're here on Icaria. You remember the story, the boy who flew too close to the sun. I didn't bring any feathers with me, so I guess you'll just have to wing it, as they say.'

Max

'You don't seriously expect me to jump?'

Faust

'No. I expect I'll have to shoot you first and toss you off after.'

Max

'One last grope for old time's sake?'

Faust

'Very funny.'

MI6 agents Mandrake and Marigold have approached Icaria from the sea and have scaled the cliffs by rope. Appearing just in the nick of time.

Mandrake has his gun aimed at Professor Faust.

Mandrake

'Drop it, Doctor. He's only a child.'

Max (offended)

'Hey. I'm sixteen, nearly seventeen!'

Faust

'I need the key. With the Phaistos Disc, I can activate the Hector Device, and then you'll see a Brave New World.'

Max

'Gays aren't exactly the Nazi's favourite people.'

Faust

'Did your mother really die in the Allied bombing of Berlin? Or in the cellars of the Gestapo SD? There won't be any Nazis. No politics. And no religion. Only the Haves and the Have-nots who serve them.'

Mandrake

'How is that any different to the way the world is now? There'll always be someone who's higher up the ladder stepping on some other poor bastard's fingers.'

While all this is going on, Max has found his box of treasures and is holding the disc hidden inside his rucksack. Moving quickly, he hurls it over the edge of the cliffs and into the sea. Faust runs after it, straight at Mandrake, who drops the Professor with three clean shots right in the middle of the chest. Faust's momentum carries him over the edge but he's already dead before he hits the rocks below.

When Max has his breath back he recognizes the female operative from the cafe.

Marigold

’You did good, kid. That was a great throw. Not great for the divers who'll have to look for it, but it'll give the Navy something to do.'

Mandrake

'And the Hector Device is safely tucked away.'

Max

'Don't suppose you can tell me where.'

Mandrake

'I could. But then I'd have to shoot you.'

Marigold (winking)

‘Kali tychi, Max. It means good luck.’

Max walks back to the nearest town and reports a terrible accident to the local police. His friend the Professor has slipped and fallen from the cliffs of Icaria while they were sight-seeing.

An envoy from the American Embassy in Athens travels with Max back to the dig site.

The ruins of Ilios / Hisarlik Turkey

Merrily and Max are walking together through the ruins of what might be Ilios.

Merrily

'What really happened to Professor Faust, Max?'

Max

'He made a deal with the Devil.'

Merrily

'You never did tell me about your mystery girl. Does she have a name?'

Max

'Elizabeth something. I don't know.'

Merrily

'Not Elizabeth Windsor!'

Max

'It might be. Why? Who is she?'

Merrily (laughing)

'Oh, no one. Her father's only the King of England.'

Washington / United States

The man known as ‘Homer’ searches through the draws of his desk in frustration. Faust and his plot had been thwarted. He winced as his ulcer flared. It was an occupational hazard of the unending stress caused by the life he led, diplomat, British spy, Soviet counter-spy. Guy had warned him this would be a consequence of the choices they had made. But what cause could be higher than serving the Party and working to build not heaven on earth, but a new, and more egalitarian world?

Homer steps into the outer office and smiles at his secretary.

Homer

‘I’m leaving early, Miss Greenaway. Tickets for the opera. All's quiet on the western front. See you next week.’

Oh to be your teapot

Snug in its crocheted cozy

Or your cream jug

With its painted porcelain posy

How I would blush

My cheeks flush and rosy

If I could be your sugar bowl

'I won't forget you,' he says.

And with those few final words, I am gone from his life forever.

But, wait. Let us start again. For this, our story, begins elsewhere.

Benedict Goodnight stands under a key-stoned archway in the cloistered quad of Wallsford Comprehensive and tries not to stare at Sundae Loving. He knows it is not polite to stare. Not that Mistress Loving would notice. Young Master Goodnight does not exist in her world. No more than we exist in his.

But all of that is about to change!

'Are you drooling, Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'You are. You're positively foaming at the mouth, boy! Are you ill?'

'I'm in love, sir.'

'Love, eh? I wouldn't know the first thing about it. But do carry on.'

That was Benedict's problem. He never had. Carried on, I mean. With anyone. And certainly not with Sundae Loving. His heart was pure, and his thoughts were chaste. She was his Earth and he was her moon. Constantly in orbit. Unable to move away, and equally unable to move any nearer. A satellite love.

'And Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'Try not to drown in your own saliva.'

Uncommon beauty is commonly overlooked. And while Mistress Sundae could not be considered a classical beauty, her whole was greater than the sum of her parts.

And Master Benedict? He was kind and honest. And the space between his ears was not an empty one. He was neither attractive nor unattractive, but your plain, ordinary, average boy on the street.

This is where I come in. My name is Giacomo Girolamo Casanova. And I happen to know a little something about love.

You will know, already, that I am dead. It happens. People die all the time. But death is not, necessarily, how you might imagine it. A life is not a candle to be snuffed out so easily. Sometimes a small wisp of smoke still lingers.

There are those who can hear me. Those who can see me. And those, though few, who can do both. Ben is one of them. As to whose shadow first crossed whose threshold, I cannot recall. It will suffice to say that we did meet, and were soon good friends.

One night, when he lay in his bed, and I was sitting in a chair by his window, Ben said, 'How do you get a girl to notice you?'

'Clothes,' I said. 'You must dress to impress!'

'Not helpful... Everyone at school wears the same uniform.'

'It is not what you wear,' I told him, 'but how you wear it. A tie is not a noose around your neck. A blazer is not a sack for harvesting vegetables.'

'Ok. What else?'

'Never tuck your shirt inside your underpants. Who taught you to do that?'

'I don't know. It's just something we do.'

'Who is we?' I asked.

'Guys, I guess. Boys?'

'A-ha! Yes! Little boys. Girls do not look at little boys. They cuddle them. They baby them. They bounce them them on their knees. Is that what you want? To be bounced?'

'Well... No.'

'Then you must be a man, and not a little boy. A young man, perhaps. But a man!'

'How do I do that?'

'First, you must think of yourself as a man. To think like a man, you must look like a man. Your hair. Your clothes. We will change everything! Trust me, my friend. You will not believe the difference!'

We began the very next morning. I laid out Ben's uniform while he showered. His body was nothing more, and nothing less, than I expected. Normal. There was nothing un-expected. The usual bits were in the usual places.

'Stand up straight,' I said. 'Do not slouch! Shoulders back! Chest out! Chin up! Now, repeat after me. I am a man!'

'I am a man.'

'You do not sound so sure. Say it. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Better. A penis is not something to be ashamed of. Say it!'

'A penis - '

'No. No. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Good! Get dressed. There is still much to do!'

When Ben was dressed to my satisfaction, I asked him if he was a sheep.

'What? No!'

'So why,' I said, 'do you comb your hair over your eyes? Who are you hiding from? Use your fingers to brush it back from your face. Show the world you are not afraid!'

'You're wearing a wig,' he said.

'It was the fashion when I was alive,' I replied. 'It is not the fashion now.'

'But you still wear it.'

'It suits me to do so. And we are not concerned with my appearance. So, my young friend, what are you?'

'A man?'

'Yes, you are! And do not forget it!'

At Ben's school, I pointed out Mistress Sundae.

'You will walk past her,' I told him. 'You will catch her eye. You will smile. But you will not speak.'

He shook his head. 'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Her friends are there.'

'So? Are they gorgons to turn a man to stone? Go!'

And to his credit, he went.

He did the same thing the next day. And the next. Every day for a week. And what do you think happened on the Friday afternoon? As Ben was walking out through the school gates? She followed in the dance, of course!

Here is what I heard.

Her. 'Hi.'

Him. 'Hi.'

Her. 'You're Ben, right?'

Him. 'Yeah.'

Her. 'Cool.'

'Do not slow down,' I said. 'Keep walking.'

Mistress Sundae has to skip to keep up.

Her. 'You look different.'

Him. 'Do I?'

Her. 'That's my bus. I have to go.'

Him. 'Ok.'

Her. 'Will I see you Monday?'

Him. 'Sure... Maybe.'

'You were perfect,' I said.

Ben was not convinced. 'I dunno.'

'Wait,' I said. 'You will see.'

Monday morning came. Sundae was waiting at the school gates.

'Hi, Ben!'

'Hi.'

'You're here.'

'Yep.'

'I thought... When you said maybe... But here you are!'

'Here I am.'

'Cool. There's my friend Amy. Come and say hi.'

I never said the conversation was riveting.

On Tuesday they ate lunch together.

On Wednesday they held hands.

On Thursday they kissed.

On Friday they kissed again.

I did not stay to watch. I am not a voyeur.

On Saturday they met in a nearby park.

On Sunday -

Ah... Every day should be a Sundae!

Flyn Graham

All the gull could do was strut and squawk and preen its feathers. They were fine feathers. Light but strong. Their black tips fading to the soft grey of an autumn morning to the flecked white of quartz pebbles tossed and tumbled onto the beach by the restless sea.

It understood the human child’s words, but the sounds it made in reply might just as well have been the clicks and whistles of wild porpoises, or the bark of sea-lions. Still, the high ledge was a safe place to rest its tired wings, and the boy would often feed it through the open window.

There was a sadness about the boy. A Shadow. The gull both sensed it and saw it. If the gull could speak it would have asked the boy what the deep dark midnight of the Shadow was. But its sharp beak was made for spearing fish, not forming words. Words were a kind of magic only humans had learned.

So instead it flew away. Far out across the ocean. As far from the salt-spray mist of the coast it knew so well as it dared to go. Away from the foaming waves that broke themselves endlessly on the ragged shore.

Away from the boy who fought so bravely against the Shadow. As far as any gull had ever flown. Only the albatross had flown further.

It would find a whale thought the gull. Theirs was the wisdom of centuries.

“Mother Whale,” cried the gull. “Knowest thou the secret humans call speech?”

“I do not,” replied the whale. “What care we for humans? They are cruel and careless. But wouldst thou listen to our song?”

“Your songs are beautiful,” said the gull, “but too sad for a heart weighed heavy with such sorrow as mine.”

“Then I cannot help thee. Thou seekest one wiser than I.”

“But who?” asked the gull. “Where?”

“The way is not in the sky,” the whale said. “The way is in the heart.”

And with that, the whale disappeared beneath the surface.

‘Should I follow?’ the gull wondered. It could never dive as deep as the whale. High the gull soared on beating wings. Higher than the clouds. Higher than any gull had ever soared. Only the osprey had soared higher.

“Why so high?” asked a voice, as soft and sweet as the perfume of lotus blossom. “What is it you seek? My blessing? You have it. Knowledge? First know thyself."

My Lord,” said the gull, bowing its head as it swooped through the air. “There is a boy. I wouldst speak his name and call him friend for fond have I grown of his fellowship. But troubled is his soul and lost his spirit wanders. And I do not have the words to ease his pain.”

“Ah, yes,” said the enlightened one. “There are many lost souls. To live is to suffer. The love of heaven shall be their salvation. What we think, we become. All that we are arises from our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world.”

“But the boy. The Shadow!”

“The boy is dying. That is what you see. He cares not for himself. So deep and selfless is his love for another that his own life is nothing more than the flickering of a candle to him. And yet, that one small flame can light a thousand candles.”

“And words?” asked the gull.

“Love needs no words. Peace comes from within, Brother. Do not seek it without. The boy knows this. Go now. Do not dwell in the past, nor dream of the future, but concentrate the mind only on the present. Simply ‘be’. It is enough.”

“Yes, I - I think I understand.”

“To understand everything,” said the voice, “is to forgive everything. Even the Shadow.”

‘What we think, we become. With our thoughts we make the world.’

The gull wondered if this was really so. And if it was, then, why could it not make its own world? It wasn’t enough to simply ‘be’. It needed to ‘become’.

The gull was tired and hungry when it finally made it back to the high cliffs it called home. It flew over the boy’s house to see if the Shadow was still there. The window was open and the gull could see its young friend lying on his bed, sleeping.

A smaller version of the boy was leaning with his elbows on the window-sill, resting his chin on his hands, waiting. There were some dried crusts of bread scattered on the ledge. But too much bread is not good for gulls. So instead it circled the boy’s house twice more before flying away.

It perched on the highest rock at the very top of the cliffs and there it sat. Thinking. Wishing. It could never have created a whole new world, but perhaps, just perhaps, it could change the world it lived in. If only a little.

For six days and six nights the gull sat and thought. Cold winds blew in off the sea and rain dampened its feathers. It saw the sun and moon rise and set, only to return again in their endless cycle. Still, the gull sat. Never leaving its rock. Until, at dawn on the seventh day, it opened its beak and said... “Friend.”

So excited was the gull to have unlocked the secret of words, it flew fast and straight for the boy’s house. Faster than it had ever flown. Only the swallow could fly faster. But the window was closed. The room empty. Both the boy and the Shadow had gone. The gull settled on the high ledge and, tucking its head under one folded wing, cried salty tears. Its small heart broken. ‘Had it all been for nothing?’ it thought.

The gull was still pondering this when the window was thrown open. So startled was the gull that it fell off the ledge with a frightened squawk.

“Stanley!” Called a child’s voice. “Come back!”

The gull circled and wheeled and perched on the window-sill nervously. This was not the boy, but the same smaller version of its friend it had seen before. Ruffling its feathers, it peered at the child curiously. “Friend?” it asked.

The child’s eyes opened wide with surprise and wonder. “You can talk?”

“Talk,” the gull nodded. “Words.”

“I know my brother calls you Stanley,” said the child, “but are you a boy or a girl? I’m a boy.”

“Boy,” said the gull, looking past the child, into the empty bedroom. Where?”

“You mean my brother? He’s here.”

The boy had walked into the room just in time to hear the gull speak. He stopped and stared. The gull had found its voice. Its words. The boy had lost his. He stood at the window, looking as if he’d put them down somewhere and couldn’t quite remember where he left them.

The Shadow was still there, but it had faded from violent purple to a less threatening twilight-blue. Beneath the blue, the gull could see the pure white of faith, and under that the shining gold of hope, but brighter than them all was the red of love; that grew stronger with every beat of the boy’s heart.

The boy shook his head in disbelief. He threw back his head and laughed, and the sound of his laughter was as high and bright as the sun. “I don’t believe it!”

“Believe,” said the gull. “Be and become.”

“Be? Be what?”

“Only be,” said the gull. “It is enough.”

The setting sun was purple shadowing the sagebrush when the Rocking Horse Kid moseyed on into the town of Moist Gusset to go a courting his sweetheart, Miss Fanny Dimples.

He rode a white appaloosa with black spots painted on its hindquarters, like polka dots on a neckerchief, he called Joiner. Joiner Dots.

Twin leather holsters held a pair of pearl handled revolvers. Not that he'd ever shot anyone. He didn't need to. When the bad guys heard he was in town, they skedaddled for the hills as fast as their skes could daddle.

A white stetson hat kept the sun out of his eyes.

His cowboy boots had pointed, silver tipped toes.

He wore a pair of fringed chaps for fringing the high chaparral.

And spurs that jingle-jangle-jingled.

Miss Fanny Dimples lived in a two room tar-paper shack behind the respectable tearoom where she helped her widowed mother. When he jingle-jangled through the tearoom's door, Miss Fanny looked out the window with its blue gingham curtains.

Where's your horse? She asked him.

The hitching post was already taken, he told her.

Moist Gusset was a one horse town.

The Kid's full name was G. Russell Horne. Miss Fanny had soon shortened it to Rusty. Rusty Horne and Fanny Dimples were often seen parading, arm in arm, down Main Street. Moist Gusset's only street. Fanny twirling a yellow parasol all the way from Paris, Paris Texas. And Rusty trying not to trip over his spurs.

On Sundays after church, Rusty would hire a surrey from the stables to take Miss Fanny picnicking by the river. And if he played his cards right, she might even allow him the familiarity of dunking his jam fancy in her pot of cream.

Everything was satisfactual. Little bluebirds were doo-dahing their zippeties. Miss Fanny was the belle of Moist Gusset's annual harvest barn dance and Baptist Ladies Mud Wrestling contest, taking home the winner's blue ribbon.

Down in the barnyard

Swinging on a gate

Take your girl

And don't be late

Chicken in a bread pan

Picking out dough

Swing your girl

And do-se-do

Allemande left

With the corner maid

Meet your own

And promenade

Promenade

Two by two

Now walk 'em home

Like y'ought to do

Here we go

Heel and toe

Hurry up cowboy

Don't be slow

Swing 'em high

Swing 'em low

Turn 'em loose

And watch 'em go

Bow to your corners

Weave the ring

Cats can't fiddle

And dogs don't sing

Rusty was proudly promenading Miss Fanny in step and in time with the other heel kickers when a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

Pass on through, said Rusty. Nobody's handling my Fanny, but me.

Buck Ryder had been drinking. Corn-jugged to the eyeballs, he wasn't about to take no for an answer. He swung a wild haymaker at Rusty's lantern jaw.

Rusty ducked. Buck just about swung himself off his feet. His punch found the preacher's wife instead. Reverend Lamb was a peaceful man of God, but he couldn't abide to stand there and turn the other cheek. Snatching up a bottle of elderberry wine from the refreshments table, he smote Ryder a mighty blow crying, Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord!

Stumbling backwards, one of the outlaw's windmilling arms knocked the fiddle player's elbow. And while the wallflowers wilted, the young bucks yee-hawed and waded in. All hell broke loose. Tables were overturned. Chairs were thrown. A smashed lamp set the stacked bales of straw ablaze. And the fiddler struck up Bonaparte's Retreat as the barn burned down around them.

Hoisting Miss Fanny over his shoulder, Rusty done git while the gittin' was good.

Flyn Graham

EDWARD

The Calloways moved into our neighbourhood over a weekend in April. We sat on my front fence, watching them come and go, in and out, to and from the large green removalist van parked in their driveway. Mrs Calloway wore a floral apron. Mr Calloway was wearing a knitted cardigan and a bow tie. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case. They might as well have bought a house on the corner of Boring Close and Conservative Avenue. Their two boys were our age. Or near enough. Not that that mattered, really. New faces are always more interesting. All the other families in our street had younger children. The Calloways had just tipped the balance a little more in our favour.

“New fish,” I said.

“Big fish,” said my best friend, Peter.

“Is our little pond large enough?”

“The minnows will just have to make room.”

I asked him if he thought they might join in our games.

He shrugged and said, “There’s only one way to find out. Let’s go ask them.”

So, we did.

Their names were Luke and Liam. Luke was the older. Sensible haircut. Plaid shirt buttoned to the collar and tucked into iron-creased jeans. Sensible shoes. He looked genuinely disappointed when he shook his head and said, “Can’t come now. We have to help our parents unpack and - ”

“Tomorrow, then?” Asked Peter, hopefully.

“What this?” Said their father from the hallway. “Making new friends already?”

Luke introduced us. “This is Peter and - ”

“Edward.”

Mr Calloway shook our hands, smiling. “The Kings of Narnia. Come out of the closet, have you?”

“It’s Edmund, dear,” called an unseen Mrs Calloway from somewhere inside the deepest darkest heart of their California Bungalow.

“Who is?”

“In the books. It’s Peter and Edmund. Not Edward.”

It was Liam who saved us from any further embarrassment by dropping a box of kitchen utensils on his foot. Hopping up and down and swearing under his breath.

“Tomorrow,” said Luke. “For sure.”

There was a special needs school run by the church just a fifteen minute bike ride down the coast road. The kids there were a rag-tag bunch, most of them had trouble spelling their own names, but like the saying goes: Brains and beauty are handed out on alternate days. The trick is to be there for both.

We straddled our bikes near a gap in the chain-link fence, keeping a weather eye out for any of the Brothers.

“There’s Miles,” I said, pointing him out on the other side of the playing fields.

One of the little-uns chased a ball close enough for us to get his attention.

“Pssst. Hey!”

As little-uns go, he had more sense then most, looking around to make sure no one was watching before coming any nearer.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Jonah.”

“Do you know a boy called Miles? He’d be in sixth form?”

“Always wears a red jacket,” said Peter.

The little-un’s face lit up. “Sure. I know him!”

“Can you give him a message for us? Tell him Peter and Edward are here?”

He nodded and ran off, taking his ball with him.

Squeezing through the gap in the fence, Miles followed us further into the roadside fringe of Oleanders.

“Sorright?” He saluted.

“Sorright.” We replied.

Peter handed over a packet of cigarettes.

Miles slipped them into a shirt pocket.

“Would you mind,” I asked, “if we double-bunked?”

“Maybe,” said Miles, suspiciously. “What do I have to do?”

“Peter on the bottom. You in the middle. Me on top.”

“So, I’m the bunk?”

“Precisely!”

Miles shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Sous le dome epais.”

“Ou le blanc jasmin.”

“A la rose s’assemble.”

“Sur la rive en fleurs!”

“What the fuck?” That was Miles.

“It’s opera,” I said. “I’m singing.”

I heard Peter snigger.

“Under a dome of white jasmine.”

“With the roses entwined together.”

“On a river bank covered with flowers."

"Laughing in the morning.”

“Gently floating on it’s charming risings.”

“On the river’s current.”

“On the shining waves.”

“One hand reaches.”

My fingers found Peter.

“Where the spring sleeps.”

“And the birds, the birds sing.”

Peter said, “That’s not a bird.”

“A cock is a bird,” I quipped. “And cocks of a feather, flock together.”

JAMES

“You got any fags?” He asked.

“Only the two at home.”

His laughter surprised me. I didn’t think someone in his situation, and with his history, still could. It was nice to know he hadn’t forgotten how.

I told him to look in the glove compartment.

“Found some. But it’s nearly a full pack.”

“That’s okay. Keep it. I’m trying to quit.”

“No shit? Thanks!” He lit one and inhaled. “Mr Puller? Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm.”

“Why’d you call your kid Peter?”

“My wife insisted. It was her father’s name. If I’d known she’d pack her bags one day and walk out on us - on him - the way she did, I wouldn’t have given in to her so easily.”

“Bit rough, I reckon, getting stuck with a name like Peter Puller.”

“Maybe. But you can’t say it doesn’t suit him.”

There was that laugh again.

It made what I was about to ask all the more difficult.

“You know Edward’s in trouble.”

“Yeah. Jonah.”

“There’s a way to make it go away. But we need your help.”

“Me?”

“There are men. Powerful men. Men who can make this disappear. One man in particular. But he’s not going to do it out of the goodness of his heart, if you see what I mean. So we need to make it worthwhile for him. An incentive.”

“What do I have to do?”

“There’s a party. This weekend. You’d be required to entertain the guests. You won’t be the only one.”

“How do I get there? To this party?”

“A car will come and collect you.”

“Do the Brothers know?”

“You won’t just be helping us, Miles. You’ll be helping yourself. What would you say if I said I could get you out of Kimble Grange?”

EDWARD

The telephone rang. My mother had answered it before I could get there.

“It’s Peter,” she said, holding up a manicured hand with her thumb and fingers extended; meaning I only had five minutes. I didn’t exactly snatch the receiver from her, but I did grasp it firmly, in case she changed her mind.

“Hi!”

“How’s life in solitary?” He asked.

“A living hell,” I replied. “But at least they’re feeding me.”

“Allowed out yet?”

“Still in lock-down. You?”

“I saw Mr Calloway this morning.”

“And?”

“He shook his newspaper at me.”

“Really?”

“I felt like a puppy that had piddled on the carpet.”

“Was it loaded?”

“Only with the weekend lifestyle supplement.”

“So, he was armed and dangerous.”

“Positively lethal.”

“Any sign of Luke or Liam?”

“What their parents don’t know won’t hurt us”

“You’ve seen them?”

“When they can sneak out.”

“Which is?”

“I’m meeting them tomorrow. At the log fort. Can you come?”

“I can try.”

“Do.”

“Shall.”

EXCERPT FROM THE WAITANGI DAILY MAIL

Police confirmed yesterday that the body of a young male has been recovered from a dam near the town of Fataroa. The body is believed to be that of sixteen year old Miles Faulkner, who was reported as missing from the Kimble Grange Secondary College by the Brothers of St Pious. Investigating Officer, Detective Sergeant Ronald Merrydew, says the boy’s death is being treated as suspicious. A source close to the investigation has also revealed that there was evidence of sexual assault. Police are warning parents to be vigilant. There are no leads, as yet, to the identity of the killer or killers.

PETER

He mowed lawns in our neighbourhood for money. I think he charged something like five dollars, front and back.

Edward called it slave wages.

I said if slaves were paid wages, they wouldn’t be slaves, they’d be servants. Edward called it a minor technicality. Neither here nor there.

He asked Declan if he wanted to double his money.

“More,” said Edward. “You could make ten times that much, with a lot less effort.”

“How?”

“You know where Peter lives, right?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s a shed in the backyard. You can let yourself in through the side gate. If you go there now, Peter’s dad will be there. Don’t tell him we sent you. Just say you’re expanding your business. Ask him if he has any odd jobs he wants you to do.”

We watched from across the road. Ten minutes. Twenty. Declan doesn’t come out.

“What the hell are they doing in there?”

“What do you think, Peter?”

The next day we rode our bikes past Declan’s house. His dad was washing their car in the driveway. We stopped and said hi. Chatted for a bit. We made sure Declan saw us.

He caught up with us a few minutes later.

“What were you talking to my dad about?”

“Oh, nothing much,” said Edward. “Just stuff.”

“You uhm - You didn’t - ”

“We might have mentioned it.”

“Fuck! Seriously?”

’Of course not.”

“Do you think we should?” I asked Edward.

“A good father would want to know.”

I’d always wondered what a deer in the headlights looked like. Now I knew.

“Please! You can’t!”

“Why?” Asked Edward, innocently. “You only pulled weeds, right?”

“Please don’t tell him. He’ll kill me!”

“Do you know the old rope-swing over the river?” I said.

“Yeah? Everybody does. So?”

“There’s a path,” said Edward. “Follow it. You’ll see a log fort. It’s ours. Be there tomorrow morning.”

“You guys built that? It’s cool.”

“It’s our club-house.” I said. “You really didn’t know?”

Declan shook his head. “Uh-uh. What do you do there?”

Edward flicked his lit cigarette at Declan’s feet. “We pull weeds.”

EDWARD

I’d been let off with a warning. No charges were laid against me. Partly because of my age. And partly because the Brothers had stood piously resolute in their saint-like determination to deflect any and all unwanted attention away from Kimble Grange. Away from Jonah. And especially away from what had happened to Miles.

“It isn’t what you know,” said Peter’s father, “but who you play golf with.”

“It’s not like you to brag,” I teased him.

“I think I prefer you without the prison pallor,” he sniped, surveying my milk-white skin with a grimace of disapproval.

“This is the first time I’ve been out of the house in eight weeks,” I said. “What do you expect?”

“You’re welcome.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a total, unmitigated prick?”

“Frequently. And you’re an ungrateful whelp.”

“Oh, James,” I simpered, falsetto. “You always say the nicest things.”

LIAM

“James?”

“Hmm.”

“Why is the window blocked out? If the paper wasn’t there, I could see my house.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh? Oh! You mean - "

“I can’t imagine either of your parents looking favourably on what we’re doing.”

“They’re so square.”

“Windows?”

“My parents.”

PETER

His underpants had red fire-engines on them. I thought they were cute, and said so. He smiled. Maybe they were his favourite pair.

MATTHEW

I’m flying. Next thing I know someone has picked me up and carried me into their house. I’m bleeding all over the furniture. It looks expensive. There’s a whole wall full of books behind a desk. I’ve never seen so many ’cept in a library one time. The desk is like something I only ever saw in a movie. Some kind of dark wood. Solid. Heavy. Polished. There’s this dude. He’s old enough to be my dad. He looks normal. But smart. Shirt and tie smart. Suit trousers. Lace up black shoes. There’s a first-aid kit open on the floor next to him. He’s holding a towel to my head. I don’t think you’ll need stitches he says. How many fingers? I tell him two. And now? Three I say. He asks me what day it is and I say it’s Saturday. Can you tell me your name? There’s blood on the towel. Blood on his shirt. Matthew. My name is Matthew Kelly and I live at 47 Pine Drive. 07695503. He tells me he’s Richard and I want to say Dick but I know it’s wrong. Even if his bow tie makes him look like one. Then he says Does it hurt anywhere else? He’s looking at my crotch and when I look down I’m holding my plums and I didn’t even know it.

A little dude comes in. Richard asks him to help me with my shoes and pants. The kid says Is he ok Dad? I think so says Richard. It looks worse than it really is. Little dude tells me Luke put your bike in our garage and I say thanks. Richard turns his head and sort of nods at a framed photo on the wall of two boys. Richard says Luke is our oldest and this is Liam. I say Bro. We bump knuckles. I’m wondering where their mum is. I don’t want her to see me with my junk out. Richard checks me over like he knows what he’s doing. It’s weird but ok. He has kind eyes. Doesn’t touch me any more than he needs to. You have a nasty gash on your thigh he tells me. And a bruise on your ankle you’ll feel tomorrow. The cut here he says and points to his right temple is minor so a butterfly dressing should do. You’re lucky you were wearing a helmet or. Or what he doesn’t say. You might be concussed. I know what that is. I tell him I’m a hard nut to crack and he laughs. Never the less he says. Who even says that? Never the less he says I think it would be better if you stayed here. Where I can keep an eye on you. It hurts too much to argue so I say ok. I like Richard. He’s one of the white hats. I can tell.

Luke and Liam take me to the bathroom and watch me piss. Luke says they’re supposed to check to see if I have blood in my urine. I don’t. Liam goes to tell their dad Richard and Luke turns the shower on. Liam comes back and they help me out of my clothes. It’s no different than showering in front of other guys at school or after footy. Luke’s about my age. A bit of a dork but not a total dweeb. Little dude is cool as. We bump knuckles again. I say Preciate you looking out for me Bro and he says Sorright. I slip and hit my shoulder on the wall and next thing I know they’re there holding me up. Their clothes getting wet. Liam looks at Luke and says Fuck this. He strips off his wet things. They both do. I tell them it’s ok. That I can manage by myself. But Luke says We’re staying. He says their dad won’t be too happy if I fall and break my neck. Again it’s no different than the male nurse washing me when I was in hospital with my appendix in a little glass jar next to my bed. They soap me all over and rinse me off and even rub me dry with a couple of towels. Then Luke runs out and comes back with clean clothes for me to wear. He says he thinks his will fit me but his dad has some if they don’t. I tell him I don’t look good in a bow tie and Liam cracks up. I’m liking the little guy more and more.

My bike’s a mess. I’m not going anywhere on it soon. Richard say he can’t in good conscience take me home to an empty house. I’m not out of the woods yet. I tell him I’m ok and I can take care of myself. I don’t need my useless fat bitch of a mother to wipe my arse for me. He says I’m welcome to stay and the way he says it and the way he looks at me I know he means it. He cares what happens to me. Actually honestly genuinely cares. And for the first time in my life I feel like I matter. I want to hug him but I don’t. I want to say something but I can’t think of the right words. Anything I say will just sound. So anyway Susan comes in. Mrs Calloway. And she says she’s made up the bed in the spare room for me or there’s a trundle in the upstairs linen press if I’d rather bunk in with the boys. And I swear she doesn’t bat an eyelid. But she must know. She can’t not know. Richard thinks it’s an excellent idea. They’ve taken a shine to you he says. I’m thinking you ain’t whistling dixie brother. But all I say is I don’t want to be any trouble. It’s no trouble says Susan. The more the merrier. Is she serious?

What’s wrong with these people? Why are they so fucking nice?

JAMES

I heard the door close quietly and looked up from the chair in my study to see Peter standing there, chewing his bottom lip, his hands clasping and unclasping at his sides. He wiped them on the legs of his denims.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be?”

He shrugged. Fidgeted. Avoided making eye contact.

“You have a voice, Peter. Use it.”

“I don’t know. I thought - ”

“All boys experiment,” I told him. “It’s a part of growing up.”

“So, it’s okay?”

“If your friends are okay with it.”

“Really?” .

“What you do in the privacy of your bedroom is your business.”

The tension flowed visibly from his body as he slouched into the other chair.

I closed the book in my lap and reached for my cigarettes. “Smoke?”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s nearly the end of term,” I said. “Do you and Edward have any plans for the holidays?”

“We thought we’d hang out here.”

“Under my feet?”

“Edward has a tent. We thought, maybe, we’d camp out in his backyard.”

“It’s not exactly roughing it, is it? Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Another shrug. It was a habit he’d picked up lately. I let it pass.

“What if we rent a beach house?” I said. “You can still sleep in the tent, but there’ll be beds if you decide you’re not suited for the great outdoors.”

He pricked up his ears.

“Seriously? It won’t be a working holiday, will it? I mean, you’ll do stuff with us, won’t you?”

“I didn’t think you’d want your old dad spoiling your fun.”

He came around behind my chair and draped his arms over my shoulders, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

“You’re not old.”

The game had been Peter’s idea. His way of pushing the boundaries, I suppose. Seeing how relaxed I really was about his and Edward’s promiscuousness. In the twenty or so minutes of Q and A, I’d learned more about their ‘club’ than I ever would have imagined. But then, neither had it been a one way street. There were more than enough skeletons in my own closet to rattle sufficient bones.

“Truth,” I said.

“Have you ever fucked, or been fucked by another guy?”

Typical Edward.

“Does your mother know you use such language?”

“My mother doesn’t know shit from shoe-polish. Answer the question.”

“I did have an older cousin who - ”

“What was his name?”

“Is not in the rules,” I said.

“Screw the rules. Tell us.”

“Do I know him?” Asked Peter.

“His name is Jonathon. When he was younger, everyone called him Jonty. And, no, Peter. You haven’t had the pleasure.”

Edward wanted details.

“How much older?”

“Just older. Does it matter?”

PETER

Edward bought pizza and we shared it, tossing our crusts to the crowding, clamouring seagulls. The first thing that caught my eye was a bright orange bucket and spade. The second thing was his head of blonde curls. A scattering of freckles, like shells washed up on the shore. His dimples and gap-toothed smile when I asked him his name.

“Benji.”

“Like the dog?” Edward asked.

“No, silly.”

Edward to me: “Do you think Benji would like a bone?”

We took a hand each and led him into the dunes.

When we brought him back to the beach, some hours later, the tide had come in and swept his bucket and spade away.

JONATHON

I was surprised when James telephoned me.

“Peter would like to meet you.”

“Peter?”

“My son, Peter.”

“Hmm. An unfortunate name. What on earth were you thinking?”

“Only slightly more so than Jonathon.”

“Am I expected to pay for the pleasure?”

“The tickets have been paid for.”

“Tickets?”

“His friend Edward is coming with him.”

“What, exactly, am I being lumped with?”

“Peter is a lamb. Edward might need a tighter rein.”

“Have them phone the house from the airport when they arrive. I’ll arrange for a driver to pick them up.”

PETER

Edward’s jaw came unhinged.

“Buggeration!”

Our driver chuckled. “That’s just the guests’ residence.”

He carried our bags inside, and I made sure he heard my, “Thank you.”

I’d seen smaller mountains.

“Call me Doop.”

“Sorry?”

“Du Plessis. But Doop will do.”

Edward ran to the floor to ceiling glass wall that overlooked the pool. “Fuck me! You need to see this, Peter!”

“Can we go swimming?” I asked our mountain.

“You’ll find everything you need in your rooms,” he said. “Ring the bell if you get hungry. The staff know you’re here.”

“We have staff?”

“Mister Jonathan will be home this evening. He’ll see you then.”

Sometimes we went to them. Mostly they came to us. We never saw any money change hands, Edward or I, but the bank accounts cousin Jonathan opened in our names kept growing and growing. I remember Edward remarking upon it.

“You’d think we were the only two living, breathing boys on the planet.”

“Cheap and cheerful,” I quipped. “That’s us.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m worth every penny.”

It was Du Plessis who told us to pack our bags. “You’re going home,” he said.

The world, it seemed, had tired of our youthful charms.

Kitchen. Table. Father. Coffee. Morning paper. It was definitely my house.

I think I might have groaned when I sat down. From behind the open Waitangi Daily Mail came, “Awake, are we?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“Hmm.”

“Did you miss me?”

“No. Why? Have you been somewhere?”

“Funny. I’ll put it away in my pocket and laugh at it later.”

Dad folded the paper and looked at me. He was actually smiling. Maybe it wasn’t the right house after all.

“Yes,” I missed you,” he said. “Very much. I love you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why?”

“Why do you love me?”

“You’re my son.”

“Isn’t a reason. Not by itself.”

“You remind me of your mother. I loved her, Peter. I still do.”

“That wasn’t her last night. That was me.”

“Unnecessary.”

“Sorry.”

“How was Durban?”

“Educational.”

“Thought it might be. What do you think of apartheid?”

“Can’t last.”

“It will if your cousin Jonathon has anything to do with it.”

I reached across the table for the paper. “Anything?”

“Another lad has gone missing from Kimble. It’s becoming a habit with them.”

“Really? Does it say who?”

There was a photograph. It was Jonah.

My Uncle David told me to sit down.

“I need you to be quiet and listen. I’ll answer any questions you have afterwards, if I can. And then Detective Senior Sergeant Merrydew will want to talk to you."

Pause.

"Your father has been charged with the abduction, rape, and murder of Jonah Waitihi. He has also been charged with procuring a person for the purposes of prostitution, one Miles Faulkner. And as an accessory in interfering with the body of a deceased person, Miles. Other charges are expected to be laid. The police found camera equipment, negatives, and photographs of a number of boys. Including you, Peter.”

Another pause. I waited.

“Has your father ever told you about his childhood? Our cousin Jonathon? He has? Right. Well. When he was twelve, your father skipped school to go to the cinema. He met a man there who took him back to his apartment and kept him against his will for three days. On the fourth day your father turned up on our doorstep. Needless to say our parents were relieved to have him home and, to all appearances, relatively unharmed. He claimed to have no recollection of where he’d been, who he’d been with, what had happened over the period he’d been missing, or what had been done to him. Our parents didn’t push for fear of traumatizing him further. It was never discussed, but swept under the carpet, and as far as our parents were concerned, forgotten. He seemed to grow out of it. Or, at least, I thought so. He met your mother at university and they were married. She was good for him. He settled. Passed the bar and made a successful life for himself. He was devastated when your mother left him. I can’t imagine why she did. She must have had her reasons. In time your father adjusted. Life for the two of you moved on. You seemed happy. Normal. Brighter than average. Certainly not anxious or withdrawn. If I’d thought for one moment your father was - ”

I went to live with my Uncle David and Aunt Margaret.

Edward and I drifted apart.

I hardly ever saw Mrs Weston after Edward vanished. Mr Weston would speak to me sometimes. He wasn’t a young man even then, but the loss of his only son aged him by ten years in the long months of quiet desperation. The not knowing. The waiting.

Miles had died by ‘misadventure’. So the coroner ruled. The detectives investigating could only surmise that a person, or persons, unknown had moved Miles’ body some time after death, but without a witness, or witnesses, or any real evidence, the case was filed, boxed, and shelved as unsolved.

The man who’d asked my father to ‘arrange something suitable’ later retired from public office claiming ill health.

Kimble Grange is still open. There are rumours, there are always rumours, but that’s all they are, and all they’ll ever be, I guess.

The town of Fataroa is only a half-hour bike ride away. I go there sometimes just to sit on the edge of the dam and think. I always leave a flower.

One day, years later, I received a card in the mail. It wasn’t signed. There were no identifying postage marks. No stamp. It simply read: No pearl is perfect. They all have their flaws. Their faults. But that shouldn’t make them less precious.

MATTHEW

I visit the Cs when I can but I don’t get a lot of leave. The army’s my family now. I’m being transferred to a Special Forces unit. Black Ops. Anti-terrorist. Everybody has something they’re good at. Everybody has a place. I found mine. Richard slams the paper down hard enough to rattle his cup of tea in its saucer and for him that’s really saying something. It’s true he says. What is asks Susan. Oh no she says. I reach across and read the article. Members of what is believed to be an international paedophile cult who call themselves the Eternal Brotherhood were arrested yesterday in dawn raids across the country by New Zealand police. There’s no mention of that bastard Puller but there wouldn’t be would there? He’s in it though. I know he is. Up to his bloody neck and no mistake. Ten years. Ten fucking years. The whole trial was a cock up from the start. The Calloways wouldn’t let Luke or Liam testify and fair enough ’cause nobody needs to go through that but when the Connicks pulled their kids out too. Flush! Down the bloody toilet. Total waste of time. Then the prosecution fuck up the murder case to boot and they might as well have said piss off mate you’re free to go. Ten fucking years for killing a kid. It’s a joke. A sick joke. They should’ve hung the bastard.

I meet my mate Benj down the pub and I say remember telling me what happened to you when you were a kid and he says what about it. I ask him if there’s anything he hasn’t told me. Like what he says. Did one of them talk like his shit didn’t stink? Now you mention it says Benj Yeah. A right tosser. They both were. I say somebody should do something about it and Benj says we’ve been through this. I’m not reporting it he says. It’s dead and buried far as I’m concerned and it’s gonna stay that way. I don’t mean the law I tell him. We could do it. Just you and me. I know he gets my meaning ’cause he looks at me over his beer and shakes his head. Not worth it he says. Not now. Just forget I ever said anything. I know who they are, I say. And I know how to find them.

PETER

The two boys who turned up unexpectedly on my doorstep could only have been Edward’s. The resemblance was uncanny. It was as if Edward had found a way to clone his teenage self; twice.

“Are you our Uncle Peter?” Asked the Edward on the left.

“Course he is,” said the Edward on the right. “Don’t you remember the photo Pere Jonty showed us? It’s him. He’s just older.”

“A lot older!”

“Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not. I’m simply making an observation.”

The taxi parked across the street told me they hadn’t just magically appeared out of nowhere, or I might have thought I was delusional, dreaming.

The driver crossed the road with a nondescript, somewhat knocked about, suitcase in each hand and set them down on the front path. Both Edwards said thank you, and Edward on the left palmed him what looked like a hundred dollar note saying, “Keep the change.”

The driver looked from the note in his hand to the Edwards, to me, and back to his tip. “Yous takin’ the piss?”

“Isn’t it enough?” Asked Edward (Left).

“Oh, it’s enough, mate. Too bloody right it’s enough!”

He was positively beaming when he shook their hands.

“You got yourself a pair a good-uns,” he told me. “Polite. No trouble. Not like some.”

I smiled and nodded, and we all three waved as he drove away.

“I guess you’d better come in.”

There names were Nathaniel (Nate) and Zachariah (Zach), and despite what I’d thought originally, and in my defense understandably, they weren’t twins, Nate being a year older. Their father, they assured me, was still very much alive and living with their Cuban mother in Belize.

“And Pere Jonty?” I asked. “How is he?”

“He’s well,” replied Nate. “He retired to Juan-les-Pin.”

“It’s in France,” said Zach.

“Yes, I know. I’ve been there. It’s beautiful.”

“We’ve heard a lot about Bondi,” said Nate. “Can we see it?”

“Now?”

“Is that okay?”

I shrugged. There was no reason why not. “Sure. But let’s put your bags away first.”

“How on earth did you find me?” I asked.

“We gave the cab driver your address.”

“Well, yes.” I laughed. “But how did you know where I lived?”

“Pere Jonty,” said Zach.

He made it sound as if locating someone his Pere had lost touch with, more than a decade earlier, was as easy as throwing a dart at a map of the world and saying, “There.”

“Do you live with Jonty?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” said Nate.

“When we’re not with our parents,” said Zach. “Or at school.”

I showed the boys around and let them choose a bedroom each. Nate picked the one next to mine, and Zach took the one opposite because it had glass sliding doors that opened onto the pool deck. They weren’t overly impressed by Bondi. I suppose it paled in comparison to the French Riviera, or the tropical turquoise waters of Belize. I treated them to hamburgers - with pineapple and beetroot - and the obligatory chocolate milkshakes, and they wolfed them down like any boys their age would.

“What does your father do?” I asked, getting raised eyebrows in reply. “For a living.”

“International trading,” Nate told me.

“Gold,” said Zach. “Diamonds. Pearls.”

The inference wasn’t lost on me. Somehow Edward’s involvement in human trafficking - young boys, I naturally assumed - didn’t shock me as much as perhaps it should have. Nor did the fact that, after the trial, he would have sought out the one person with whom his past wasn’t going to be an issue.

Back at the house, they wanted to swim in the pool. I’d always been told as a child not to go in the water after eating. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now.

“Did you pack your togs?” I asked.

They both looked perplexed.

“What are togs?” Asked Zach.

“Your bathers,” I said. “Trunks. Swimsuits.”

“Do we need them?” Said Nate.

“Well, no. Nobody’s going to see you.”

They probably swam naked all the time when they were staying with Jonathon. Edward and I had, when we were in Durban. It was de rigueur.

“I’ll get you some towels,” I said.

“Uncle Peter?”

It was Nate, standing beside my bed.

“Can we sleep with you tonight?”

“We?” I asked.

“Me and Zach. We were talking about it. I told him I wanted to ask you first.”

“Sure. Why not?” It was becoming my answer to everything. “Go and get your brother.”

“Can we use your shower?”

“You have your - Yes. Sure.”

They played around in there for almost an hour. I didn’t want to spoil their fun, so I read and waited. The shower was turned off, and I heard teeth being brushed, rinsing and spitting, then what I could have sworn were two horses pissing in the bowl at the same time, and the toilet being flushed. Finally the boys came out. They stood and looked at me until I put my book down on the bedside table. Neither boy seem to mind that I was naked. Pere Jonty’s influence again, no doubt. I wondered what else they’d be comfortable with. Had he been intimate with them? Had Edward? Someone else? More than the one someone? Were they sexually active with each other? Friends? Schoolmates? They’d been in the shower, together, longer than soaping, rinsing, and towelling off would normally take. What had they they doing in there? I was imagining the possibilities when I fell asleep.

I opened my eyes to see a gun in my face. Zach and Nate were sitting up, huddled together, in my bed beside me, terrified. Muzzle flash. Where Nate’s head had been was a splatter of blood. Before Zach could open his mouth to scream I heard/saw another shot.

I started to say, “What the - ”

Muzzle flash.

Oleanders.

Jonah won’t stop crying.

I pick up a rock and hit him with it.

I don’t stop.

JAMES

My doorbell rang. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when I answered it.

“Mister Puller?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Kip Marshall.”

“Yes?”

“You know my dad. Knew my dad.”

“Sorry? Knew?”

“He died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, “but you need to leave before - ”

The door was three-quarters closed when he said, “Please!”

“You have a pool?”

“It came with the house.”

He stood staring out of the window at it. What is it with boys and water?

“Listen, Kip?”

“Christopher,” he said, still distracted by the sunlit, shimmering blue. “But nobody calls me that. Unless I’m in trouble.”

“You can’t tell anyone you’ve been here - With me.”

“Is it because - ”

“I need you to promise.”

“Cross my heart.”

I pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

I took the chair next to his. “When did you lose your father?”

“Almost a year ago,” he replied.

“Can I ask how?”

“It was cancer.”

“Kip?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you here?”

“He kept a journal. I found it."

"A journal?”

“You’re in it.”

“When you say - ”

“You and the others.”

“Others?”

“But mostly you.”

“Kip?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me James.”

“Okay.”

“There is no - ”

“Can I go swimming?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

RESOLUTION

There is a man standing at the end of the bed. Seeing Kip stir, his mouth assumes the shape of a smile, but it never reaches his eyes. They remain as cold and lifeless as a shark’s.

“James!” Says Kip, shaking the sleeping man beside him.

James sits up, runs a hand through his thinning blonde hair, pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and finally, quietly, regards the man standing at the end of the bed.

“Nice company you keep,” says the man.

“Why are you here?” Asks James.

“Can’t I visit an old friend?”

Outside - under a vine covered loggia - James and the man sit, poolside, at a wrought iron table. James is wearing a white towelling bathrobe. The man ashes his cigarette. His gaze drifts languidly over the pool and its surrounds, never pausing to focus, like ripples in the water. James smooths a fold in his robe. Kip stands behind James’ chair. The man ashes his cigarette. He turns his attention to Kip.

“And who is this?”

“This is Christopher,” replies James. “Kip - Stephen Marshall’s son.”

The man inspects the gold banded filter of his cigarette. He gives no indication of recognizing the name.

“Stephen passed away,” says James. “Cancer.”

The man exhales fragrant smoke from his nostrils. James reties the terry towelling belt of his robe. Kip shifts his weight to his other foot. The man ashes his cigarette.

James says, “Are you here for Matthew Kelly?”

The man closes his eyes, as if the morning sun filtering through the leaf shaded loggia is suddenly too bright.

“Having eyes only for their sufferings,” the man quotes, “not for their misdeeds.”

“Don Quixote,” says Kip, who has read Cervantes for an English assignment at school.

The man flicks the gold banded filter of his cigarette. “Brains and beauty.”

“Many were the offences to be undone, the wrongs to be rectified, the grievances to be redressed, the abuses to be corrected, and the debts to be satisfied.” Kip has the man’s attention. He almost wishes he didn’t.

“There is no recollection which time does not put an end to,” the man says, “and no pain which death does not remove.”

James has curled an arm around Kip’s waist, a hand rests on the boy’s hip. Kip feels emboldened.

The man grinds his cigarette under a boot heel. Lights another. He flicks an eyebrow at Kip. “The most perceptive character in a play is the fool.”

James stiffens in his chair. “Unnecessary.”

For the first time the man actually looks at James as if he’s really there. But then the false smile returns. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“This,” says James, “is Edward Weston.”

James asks, "How?"

Edward looks at the boy and James motions for Kip to leave them.

"There are ways," Edward says. "But you know that."

James nods.

"Have you heard from Jonathon?"

"Not since - "

"I thought my boys would be safe with Peter."

"Yes."

"After they were extradited we arranged a transfer to a different prison due to over population. Kelly and Miller and four guards in two cars. The guards were ours. Send the boy home. Check your e-mail."

Rising from his seat, Edward kisses James on the cheek, briefly waves to Kip who is sprawled on the living room sofa in front of the television, and leaves via a side gate.

It's a link to a site on the dark web. A video. Two men sit facing each other, secured to metal chairs that are bolted to a concrete floor. The two figures are lit by spotlights suspended directly above them. Both men are naked. On the floor between them is a mesh cage. Inside the cage is a writhing tumult of black fur. Cut to a close-up of Kelly's face. It's barely recognizable. Bruised and swollen. The ears, nose, and lips have been sliced off. The camera pans down to his genitals. The charred stump of what's left of his penis is nailed to the top of a long, narrow, rectangular wooden box. The box must have an opening at that end because it fits snugly over Kelly's scrotum. The camera follows the length of the rectangular box to where it's fixed to the cage. The cage is full of rats. The image blurs. Focuses. Miller's bruised and mutilated face. There's no wooden box, but electrically wired alligator clips bite into the loose skin of his scrotum. Miller's face again. A black gloved hand forces a metal ring between his lipless teeth. An orange nylon strap tied to the metal ring travels up to an unlit and unseen ceiling or rafter, and then down, to where the other end of the strap is threaded and tied through a hole in a timber board that seals off the opposite end of the rectangular box. On the floor next to the bolted metal chair Miller is secured to is a car battery. An alligator clip is connected to one of the battery's two terminals. A black gloved hand holds the other clip. The camera pans back to a wide shot. A hulking figure dressed completely in black, military style fatigues crouches over the car battery with his broad back to the camera. His face is hidden, but James would know that man mountain anywhere. It's Du Plessis. Blue sparks. Miller's body jolts. He throws his unrestrained head back, pulling the orange strap tied to the metal ring clenched between his teeth taut. The board is raised. Movement inside the mesh cage. Nothing. Several seconds of silence. Then Kelly's screaming echoes inside the unlit and unseen building.

The video still has another twenty-three minutes of running time when James closes the browser. He's seen enough.