A Stone Called Fred by S. M. Locke

Author:S. M. Locke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
Published: 2018-08-13T16:00:00+00:00

THE AFTERMATH

He didn’t go down. Instead, his expression changed to that of an angry bull. He towered over me and looked like a giant to my rather puny frame. He punched me back with a strong left hook. It shook me to the core. I felt my body quiver with the shock, but I desperately tried to stay standing. I shot out an arm to return the blow, only to find it seized firmly by my much-more muscular opponent.

“Fiona, get somebody to throw this fellow out.” he called out. Fiona hesitated, but the alarm had already been raised. The next moment, I found my collar seized by one of two burly men and marched firmly to the door, down the stairs and as we reached the ground floor, a voice from above (Justin Savin’s) shouted “and you can take this bloody thing with you” and Fred was tossed after us. At that moment, I noticed the lights go on in Mainstream’s office and heard the sound of everything coming back to life.

But Fred had no intention of being thrown - anywhere! That would have been beneath his dignity. To the amazement of the guards - and mine - he clattered down the stairs, one by one, taking each step with the precision of an automatom, finally landing at my feet. In their astonishment, the guards had relaxed their hold on me. I picked him up, and leaving the two burly chaps with no collar to hold, just thin air, strolled with dignity past the doormen into the street, leaving behind four fellows looking wildly round for the villain they thought they had collared.

Once outside, I noticed with some amusement a newspaper seller with copies of the latest edition of Mainstream and the heading: “Her Majesty’s Views on the Merits of Whisky Distillers”. So my eavesdropping was not entirely wasted!

Invisibly, I walked down Fleet Street to the place I had left the car, placed Fred reverently on the back seat and this time, and now in full view of everyone, drove home with the consolation I had at least left Justin Savin with a sore lip even if he had left me with a rather aching jaw.

Compelled by a guilty conscience, I went back to work that afternoon. “Oh, so you have decided to honour us by making an appearance, have you?” was the reception I received from Mr. Rantover. He sounded more sarcastic than usual, if that was possible. “Come into my office, Watt” he said.

With a sense of foreboding, I followed him into the office which looked as gloomy as he usually did with a big worn leather chair and a big mahogany desk. Everything was dark brown from the bookshelves filled with dark brown leather-bound books, I doubted whether anyone ever read them, they were there for intimidation purposes only, to the brown baize curtains at the large smoke-encrusted windows .

Mr. Rantover seated himself at the desk rearranging some papers and depositing one or two in one of the desk’s two drawers all done to instil fear and trembling in the interviewee.

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