A New Shirt

A New Shirt
The phone rang. I answered.
“Hi, it’s Alex. Fancy coming to celebrate my birthday starting at the Union tonight?”
“That sounds good.”
“See you in ten minutes at the bottom of the Common.”
Ten minutes gave me time for a weather check, a new shirt and a quick canter up Northlands road to meet Alex. He was wearing the usual jeans and golfing T-shirt below his mop of straight black hair. Alex Chan was 23 today. He was my co-conspirator in an MSc in Marine Biology at the University.
As we turned into the Common, we chatted. The Island came up.
“You found that mythical island yet?” Alex was skeptical about my story.
“No. The internet drew a blank. Even weather satellite pictures show nothing in the right area of the Indian Ocean.”
“What did I tell you! You dreamed it, mate. Satellite cameras don’t lie.”
“Doesn’t prove it. Alice said that GPS was fixed to avoid the Island. Maybe the weather pictures are edited as well.”
“Oh damn!” said Alex suddenly, “I’ve forgotten my new camera. Keep going, I’ll catch you up.”
“Right. I’ll go via the subway.”
I walked on. The light was fading. The Common was settling down for the night. The footballs gone from the lawns, the boating pond still. A full moon grew in importance. I always thought of Alice when I saw a full moon, remembering a long evening phone conversation rounding off an extraordinary day. Long before the batteries on my phone gave out, we knew that many obstacles of culture and geography would keep us apart. It was a year ago now, I smiled as I thought of her and hoped she remembered me.
Footsteps approached as I entered the shadow of the subway. Turning, instead of Alex, I was confronted by a figure in a black coat and balaclava. A hand was bulging in a pocket.
“Your phone and your wallet.”
With a feeling of unreality, I recognized the Balaclava Robber who had been much sensationalized in the local media. Cold eyes watched me impatiently. Damn me if I would give this jerk anything! Recklessly I lashed out. He dodged easily. Suddenly there was a gun lunging towards me. Desperately I reeled away. There was a terrific noise magnified by the confined space. I felt a blow to the chest and fell backwards and hit my head on the blue tiled wall. Darkness fell.
Suddenly all was clear again. I was lying twisted on my back and he was rummaging through my pockets. A gun was by his knee. With a roar, I grabbed his eye sockets and smashed his head forward against the wall. Caught unawares, he groaned and rolled onto the concrete. Furious, I sat across his chest pinning his arms with my knees and, grabbing his ear bulges, crashed his head onto the floor several times roaring un unison with anger and fear. I saw the gun again and scooped it up. A 38 revolver. It was cold and heavy. Suddenly icily livid, I cocked the hammer and, ripping off the balaclava, I put the barrel between the young, frightened eyes.
“Stay very still.” I whispered. Eerily cars thundered overhead unaware; starlings twittered unconcerned.
Running footsteps brought Alex down the steps.
“Len, what the hell..?”
His glance took in the gun, the balaclava, the culprit.
“Woe, Len, you’ve caught him!…..Oh, man! Pictures!”
The new camera was soon pressed into action.
“Never mind that!” I yelled. “Call the police and tie his legs with my belt” The gun did not move.
Minutes later the shutter was off again. Every angle explored.
“Ho ho!” Alex was having a ball. “The video clip.”
Like a Hollywood director, he panned his shot slowly ending with a zoom onto the guilty, bloody face…
So we never made it to the Union Bar. Two flashing cars took us down to the Central Police Station. The desk sergeant was rather pleased to meet Balaclava Robber. A detailed statement was agreed with a snappily dressed DI Nash and we were driven back to my flat – a part of the first floor of a long divided mansion set back from the road in its own grounds. Alex was elated as we reviewed his images later over a beer from the fridge. He declared it to be “the best birthday ever” especially after we heard a police statement on the local TV

“Following an incident involving a firearm in the Common at 7.45 this evening, a man is helping Police with their enquiries into the Balaclava Robber”

Later that evening, during a much-needed shower, I noticed there was a lot of blood on my new shirt. It was an expensive one so I put it into soak. I was badly bruised on my chest and back but otherwise fine and thankful that his shot missed.

The next morning, a simulation in the tide tank was interrupted by DI Nash.
“Good morning, Mr. Stone. The local press and TV are interested in your story. Can I give them your address?”
“No don’t.” I had anticipated this. “Tell them I’ll meet them at the subway at 2pm.”
Alex was away on “urgent business” at the Media Studies Department so I could only tell him over lunch in the Union. He seemed keen to come so we arrived promptly.
There was one TV camera with crew and one reporter and photographer. I explained what happened and posed for a few shots but, rather than heroic, I felt rather foolish. How could I risk my life for a phone and £25?
That night, TV South ran footage of a sheepish me at the “Scene of the Crime”. The Echo had a headline of “Student Hero Len’s a Hand” above a dramatic storyline. It was another headline, however, that caught my eye.
“Local man’s cruise hit by Pirates” introduced a story of a yachtsman in the Indian Ocean who awoke to found his boat raided but he remembered nothing. Alice had told me that this was how Islanders dealt with interloping Valth; drugging and setting them adrift. She had saved me from this fate. A cold, new thought clawed my stomach. Were the Islanders searching for me to erase my memory of their existence?
An elated Alex on the phone interrupted my concerns.
“Len, I’ve just sold some of my pictures to the Mirror for 5K. I reckon I can get twice that for the video clip. Media Studies told me how to get the stations bidding against one another. The Mirror wants you to give them an exclusive interview. We’re rich, Mate!”
Sure enough, a whirlwind descended for a few days. Countless interviews, banner headlines. With a few pictures, an editor can turn a local pinprick into National News! A digitally enhanced clip of me plus gun ran on News 24 all day. I was a nine-day wonder at work. Students jumping out demanding all my seaweed. Tutors starting lectures with “Stay very still!” The only consolation was that Alex and I were 15K better off and that my designer shirt washed spotless

Two days later, a phone call brought me to the Department’s Reception. A tall black guy introduced himself as Ben Chipunza from some paper or other.
“Mr. Stone? I am researching an article about heroism running in families. Would it be possible for you to meet me sometime?”
“Okay, just once. All this publicity is killing me!”
For a moment he looked completely nonplussed by this..
“How about this evening at the Nelson? I’ll treat you.” He smiled weakly
“That’s rather posh. I wouldn’t normally be seen dead in there. But if you’re paying…”
Again he hesitated, looking blank.
“Shall we say 7.30?”
“Right.”
I wondered if he was foreign and as I reviewed the conversation a suspicion began to form in my mind that all was not as it seemed.
We met as appointed. Nelson’s was the best club in town. Pools of light on tables in a darkened lounge. He bought me a glass of white wine at the bar. We found a table in a remote corner. He admired my shirt, which was all I had to smarten up my image, and kept glancing at it.
“Have you given any thought to heroes in your family?”
“I would dispute my actions as being heroic. Foolish, yes.”
“Heroes are not always wise, but they are brave.”
“Debatable, but anyway.” I got to the point.” I don’t have any living relatives. My parents were killed in a car crash eighteen months ago. My grandfather was decorated twice in WW2.”
“That sounds interesting, tell me.”
“I have a printout of a homework I did on him. Here we are. Walter Stone. Born; 1915. Fought in the 7th Armored in the Desert and then in Normandy in 1944. Military Cross with bar. Came through unscathed. I don’t really remember much about him except that he died on his birthday.”
“When was that?” Ben sounded interested.
“Let me see. Died; 1985.”
“That’s exactly what I’m looking for.” His eyes sparkled. “Same again?”
When he returned from the bar, I had my plans ready.
“I just overheard someone,” I chuckled falsely. “ If you carry on pigging burgers like that it’ll send you to an early grave. Isn’t just what a Valth would say?”
He choked on his drink. Froze. Then recovered himself. “Valth?” He said weakly.
“Valth? Did I say Valth?” I tried to look blank. “ Wolf, I meant wolf.”
He smiled, relieved. I sat back sipping my wine not listening as he talked about his article. Ben Chipunza was an Islander. Key words work both ways. My fears about being tracked were realized. I started to sweat. At least this was a public place. What do I do now? The room seemed to darken. Too late, I realized he had spiked my drink. The lights started to swim. Then black..
When I came round, Ben was bending concerned over me. I checked I could still remember Alice’s lovely face. So far so good. He glanced at his watch.
“Len, are you okay? I’ve got to catch a train back to London, but I’ve ordered a taxi to take you home.”
“I’m fine now. Got a bit hot.” I said nothing of my realization. “You go I’ll be fine.”
So, rather to my surprise, he went. I took the taxi home and was not followed. I deliberated. I could not run. What was the point? My memories of Alice were, in reality, a wistful dream. So losing them was not a terrible loss. Nonetheless, I wrote out this account of all that had happened and hid it under the carpet in my bedroom. Hopefully, after the Islanders had wiped my memory, I would still know it did happen.

The knock on the door came as I was enjoying a late Saturday breakfast next morning. I opened the door tentatively. Alice was standing there. Beautiful, living, breathing Alice - on my landing! Next to her was Ben Chipunza.
“Hello, Len.” She said quietly. A lovely, low voice and a shy smile.
I stood rooted to the spot, gaping..
“Can we come in?”
“Of course, please.” I gathered myself and ushered them into the lounge, thankful I had hoovered and tidied recently. My mind raced. What was she doing here? How did she feel about me? I pointed her to an armchair and sat opposite. Ben found a chair.
“It’s lovely to see you again. What on earth are you doing in England?”
“It’s all your fault.” She smiled. “After meeting you last year, I wanted to clear away the rest of my prejudices. So I applied for a six month posting as a Gatherer. After training, I was, by coincidence, sent to England.”
“Gatherer?” That did not sound too threatening.
“Yes. You see, a Nekron gene occurs naturally in all races to about 0.05%. So, very infrequently, when two carriers marry, someone is born who, like us, has both genes. They will live ‘till they are exactly seventy. We have teams in every country searching the press and genealogies for such people. When we find one, we invite then to come and live on the Island where we understand them better. The teams are called Gatherers.”
“So in a free moment, you looked me up?” Hope died, the old barriers were still there.
“Not exactly. I didn’t know your address or even your surname. No, I’ve come for a different reason.”
“Have they sent you to wipe my knowledge of the Island? You see, I realized that Ben is an Islander.”
“No, Len. I have come to invite you to live on the Island. You see, you have two Nekron genes.”
“What! Surely not. My parents are both dead.”
“Yes, but think about your grandfather. Unscathed throughout WW2 and then died on his seventieth birthday. The genes are in the family.”
“Oh, that what Ben was up to. I couldn’t figure him out.”
Ben took over.“ I proved, what was suspected from all the blood in the video clip, that you had been shot through the chest in the Balaclava incident. There are two bullet holes in your shirt.”
“What? No there aren’t.” I ran to fetch it from the laundry basket.
“The bullet entered here, just below your ribs.” He put his finger to a tiny hole, “and exited here between your shoulder blades.” Another small hole. “How could you have, minutes later, wrestled your attacker to the ground, after receiving such a wound?”
I was too shocked to reply. Could this be true?
“Neither of these pieces of evidence are conclusive. So, after I spiked your drink, I took a blood sample. That is definite; you do carry two Nekron genes. You are one of us.”
I just sat there, slumped in my chair. Slowly, after a few minutes, one thought started to stand out of the jumbled mass. A tentative hope dawned.
As if reading my thoughts, Alice spoke.
“I know this is a lot to take in, but I want to add two things; first, when I received the file last night and saw it was you, I cried.” Her eyes misted up. “With happiness.” She paused.
“Second, a year ago I invited you to lunch and a chat. A telegraph pole and genes got in our way. Do you know anywhere round here where we could try again?”
Certainty.
My turn.
“I think I could manage that.”