Part 1 - Chatter 10

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The derelict ribs of the satellite dish cradled a sour Alistair; he sat with his arms hugging his shins, his chin resting on his knees whilst a slushy rain spattered. Meanwhile, Balderick kept a respectful distance on the ledge, bobbing along and allowing his eye to roll about in constant surveillance.

With Archie and Delilah out, Alistair had borrowed his grandfather's tin box. He'd estimated too many permutations; he was odds on with no chance of cracking the lock, so his mind wandered. He tried to make sense of things: the old lady down in the park, the three lions and the tin box, the snippet of conversation he had overheard; the cold and wet mushed his thoughts.

He shivered, breath leaving his cracked, blue tinged lips, whilst droplets hung off the tip of his nose and ran off strands of his hair. Alistair daren't move; his body ached and his tummy was swollen from David Cooper's ritualistic pummelling, though the icy cold numbed some of the pain. Closing his eyelids, he focused on the drone of an airship; by the sound of the thrusters, Alistair could tell the Captain was a novice and finding it difficult to stabilise against the buffeting wind.

Tired, he hid his face knowing he wanted to avoid Delilah and Archie once they returned home; he didn't need their prying eyes and uncomfortable questions or their lectures and concern. Alistair figured it was best to lie down like a coward then fight and die a hero – against anyone.

Yet Alistair scowled. He wanted to trounce David Cooper and he recalled the time last summer he devised a trio of ping-pong ball sized explosive he called 'sparklers'. Testing the prototype 'sparkler', the first one had disintegrated a dump of cooling-units into a cloud of synth confetti. Pleased with the result, Alistair completed a second test and thought he'd stuff the 'sparkler' down David Cooper's pants. Except he had made enough noise to disturb Archie and Alistair remembered the resultant dressing down. Without Archie's knowledge the third 'sparkler' remained hidden in a small box under his bed; perhaps, Alistair thought, it was time to keep it on his person, just in case he summoned the courage to use the deterrent on his nemesis.

Rubbing damp from the tin box with his sleeves, Delilah's voice was shrill as she sounded their return; a light in his goggles bleeped as she hailed him down for supper. Surreptitiously, he slipped the tin box into his coat pocket, wondering how he was going to sneak it back in to the Archie's bedroom now that they were home. He eased up off the lip of the satellite dish and balanced on the slippery rim before jumping down in to a puddle and sloshing across the rooftop. Balderick joined the boy at the stairwell, and retreating from the rain, the bird loyally trailed behind.

**********************

A few days later, Alistair took refuge in Robert's office and held an ice bag to his swollen eye, whilst Robert rummaged through his cloak closet. Alistair had to explain that David Cooper had unleashed his fists of fury and then, to set an example, had extracted a hammer from his schoolbag.

"And that's when I bolted," mumbled Alistair.

"That's insane!" Robert gasped, before seething. "I can't believe they hit you like this." He continued sifting through a number of archive boxes for something he could not find.

"It's not really a case of allowing them," Alistair promised. "I just seem to take their fancy."

"No matter," Robert answered with his head stuffed in the closet. "I really wish you would tell me their names so I could at least make their parents and the school aware of their nasty habits."

Shifting in his seat, Alistair sniffed, his nose blocked with crusty blood-snot and numb from the icy compress. His uniform was torn and wet and he just felt ever so despondent.

"Ta-dah!" Robert exclaimed with a touch of triumph, holding up a printed T-shirt.

"Def...Leppard?" Alistair read aloud, not exactly enthusiastically.

"It was either this or Geri Halliwell's dress," Robert derided, hoping to have elicited a more positive response. "Regardless, this t-shirt is a design classic!" Robert tossed the shirt to the boy and Alistair caught it, thinking he should be a little more appreciative.

"Oh," he mustered, tacking on a less than succinct thank you. Alistair examined the shirt, where a contorted Janus face was overlaid upon an exploding Union Jack and on the back shoulder it shouted: HYSTERIA World Tour 1987.

"What an album," Robert trumpeted, humming a few bars of Pour Some Sugar On Me. "Trust me; you'll be walking the sharp edge of fashion...in fact all the swish kids wore shirts like this one. So get out of that damp shirt before you catch a death of cold."

Robert hooked Alistair's uniform jacket over a chair and pushed it next to the heater to dry then left the room so Alistair had privacy to change.

Sighing, Alistair did as he was told and pulled on the Def Leppard T-shirt; it fit snugly over his frame and he flattened the Andie Airfix artwork over his belly, slowly coming around. Kicking off his worn boots, Alistair uncomfortably squelched his toes in his squishy socks. Spread over Robert's bench were more of the architectural blue-prints and schematics; the top one was a Transport for London Underground map, complete with all the Tube lines and their corresponding depths, distances, ducts and entrances and exits.

He traced his finger over the QEII Line then dragged his finger in an anti-clockwise fashion; he counted off twelve stops then home on what was his Bakerloo Line. Listening out for Robert, he cheekily lowered his goggles, switched to camera mode and captured the whole network in high definition. Up until now, Alistair had had no full record of the ghostly Tennant Line but with the assistance of his new images, he now knew its true route and entrance points where he could sneak in.

Stepping away from the desk, Robert returned with a mug of hot tea with a teaspoon of honey stirred in.

"Sip this," Robert said. "It will warm you up."

Politely thanking Robert, he sipped on the hot brew. Robert sat and spread out a blueprint of the Southwark Square, colloquially known as The Birdcage whilst Alistair hovered over the corner of the desk. The Birdcage's lofty height and its intricate, interconnecting steel framework had been an architectural breakthrough that London briefly marvelled over before it was promptly dwarfed.

"Who is King George VII?" Alistair asked innocently pointing out the name printed underneath the three lions seal. Robert didn't answer at first, so Alistair asked him again.

"No...I heard you the first time," Robert replied without looking up. "However, you must remember a lot of what you may see and hear in this room cannot be spoken about."

"It's just a name," Alistair grumbled.

"Yes," Robert said quietly. "But it is a name that should not be mentioned. Not aloud...not at all. And never in polite company." Alistair went to ask another question but Robert raised his finger to his lips and this time looked right in to the boy's eye.

"Alistair, curiosity killed the cat," the curator warned, rolling up the blueprint and sliding it in to a protective tube. "Perhaps, we should chat about something else altogether different?"

Alistair shrugged and Robert toned down his earnestness.

"There is much you have to learn," Robert said sagely. "I'm just not a good teacher. One day, when you can judge for yourself, there are things we could discuss. However, that is for another day. Between you and I, if you get my drift, the three lions don't mean anything at all."

Fine Alistair thought. He felt like Robert was treating him like a kid, exactly as Archie and Delilah usually did.

Robert put the tube away then lifted Alistair's jacket off the chair, flapped it and as he did so, much to Alistair's horror, the tin box slipped out of the inner pocket and slid across the floor. Surprised, Robert knelt and picked up the tin box.

"Wait," Alistair started, jumping up and snatching the tin box out of Robert's hand and in doing so, splashed his mug of tea down the legs of Robert's trousers. The curator recoiled as the lad mounted a defence.

"It's junk," Alistair blurted, clutching the tin box, hiding it from sight. "Nothing special...I found it in the dumps."

"Ok, ok," Robert surrendered before placing the jacket over the seat and dabbing at his pants. "I'll have to go and dry these."

"I'm really sorry," Alistair apologised, snatching his jacket, and stuffing the tin box back in to the inner pocket. He dashed to the door.

"I swear it's mine. No need to tell anyone."

"I'm not angry," Robert said concerned. "Alistair, are you alright?"

Alistair ran out the door still muttering nervously whilst Robert tried to make sense of Alistair and thought perhaps it was best not to. Kneeling, he picked up the broken shards of the mug. It was at skittish moments like this, Robert feared Alistair was overly affected from all the bullying and he knew something had to be done.

Despite Alistair's frightful overreaction being very out of character, he was in possession of an antique Loyalist lock box; a lock box quite uncommon and unusual to be in the hands of a fourteen year old boy, and an item of interest to a number of people Robert was acquainted with. Robert considered where on Earth Alistair could have found it and if he had managed to open it. Next time, he had to play his cards right and under calmer circumstances they could discuss the box and investigate the contents.

Ever so briefly, Robert joked to himself that Alistair was not the kind of lad who could get mixed up with the resistance movement. He shook his head and laughed at the absurdity; Alistair was just a boy after all and what could he know of the Loyalists plot to overthrow the government?

**********************

What was I thinking?

Alistair chastised himself wincing at the close shave in Robert's office. Having returned the tin box to his grandfather's cupboard, he dived in to his bedroom and changed, pushing his wet hair back over his brow. There was no way to cover up his black eye and then he heard the front door and grimaced as his elders returned home earlier than he had expected.

When he finally came out of his bedroom, Delilah fussed and she scanned his face for internal damage whilst Archie demanded answers; Alistair lied and told Delilah and Archie that he had burnt out a thruster mid-air in a tight turn and had tumbled off his HyperBoard. Banging himself up had merely been an accident; Delilah thrust an icepack on to the bruising.

"Don't fidget," Delilah clucked, forcing him to sit on the settee before busying herself with food prep chores. Alistair sat quietly, icing his wound whilst Archie sat stonily silent in his armchair; his eyes boring into Alistair's as he judiciously contemplated his words.

Before too long, Delilah had supper on the table and Alistair was sat glumly pushing peas across his plate, trying ever so hard to swallow glutinous lumps of stew. Archie chewed, his eye never shifting, watching the boy like a hawk. Awaiting a lecture, Alistair squirmed.

"May I leave the table," Alistair finally asked, hoping he had cleared his plate enough for Delilah to excuse him and he could make a mad dash to the solitude of his bedroom. Archie shook his head no and laid his fork on the side of his plate. He lit a smoke and put it between his lips before he asked Alistair to raise his chin. In the kitchen light, the shadow accentuated the injury.

"Fell off your board, did you?" Archie finally asked.

"Yeah," Alistair nodded; the pretence of his lie easily read.

"Rubbish," Archie disagreed.

"Honest," Alistair countered.

"Och laddie, and I'll be a monkey's uncle," Archie said, tapping a touch of ash off the end of his smoke in to the ashtray. "Or may I suggest something else: someone thumped you instead?"

Alistair gulped. His grandfather poured a small glass of whiskey; Archie was a patient man, who would extract the truth in any manner, even if it was excruciatingly slow. Archie sipped whiskey as Alistair ruminated on a mouthful of stew. Delilah, with needle and thread, stitched up a tear in Alistair's uniform and found a matching button to replace the one that had been lost. Archie drummed a finger on the tabletop and Alistair began to sweat.

"Oright then," Archie conceded, stubbing out the smoke with a slow, extremely nuanced, grinding motion. "Then why do you look like a raccoon, lad?"

"Eh? Impact falls don't swell like that and you're more likely to have skinned palms and knees, as well as grazes across your face to match that nice set of bruises."

"Dammit!!! Stop stringing me long lad, and tell me the truth," Archie demanded. The old man rarely swore in his presence but it had the desired effect. With the pretence of the lie over, the sham trial could begin.

"I don't want to talk about it," Alistair said meekly. Archie crossed his arms across his chest and Alistair's chin dropped and chock full of emotions, he couldn't summon the words.

"Come on, that's a shiner lad, and I've seen plenty of those in my time. That's no accident...that's some wee jessie using you as a punching bag. He's certainly smacked you in the chops and for mine, I cannae believe you're a wise-cracker, so are you going to tell me who gave you that black eye, and why?"

Alistair placed his fork down on his plate; the conversation felt like torture.

"There's no point," Alistair whispered, his throat hot and sore, he could feel a betraying tear welling, and he bowed his head penitently then sniffed, trying desperately hard not to look weak in his grandfather's eyes.

Archie brought his hand to his face and rubbed his mouth and tried to hold his own emotions in check, looking for the right words.

"Son," he said softly, "How many times do I have to tell you the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

Again Alistair was mute.

"Oh Alistair, what I have I told you? Don't let anyone put you down or ever change your point of view."

"It's not that simple," Alistair countered.

"You must tell me who is doing this to you, and I can end it quick smart."

Alistair's tear drop fell from his cheek and he watched it splash on to the thigh of his pants. He prayed there were no more tears and feeling humiliated, he reminded himself that boys don't cry.

"Boys don't cry," Archie softly admonished.

The ensuing silence was awkward and interminable; Alistair tried to clear his sinuses without Archie hearing, swallowing salty snot tears, daring not to wipe his face. Archie looked on with pity; his heart filled with love for his grandson, this was no way he wanted to see his boy. Badgering Alistair further would gain no benefit.

"You may leave the table," Archie finally agreed. "But someday soon, you need to face your demons. Letting a wee jessie slap you around is not something you put up with."

Alistair meekly pushed his chair back and as he slunk out of the kitchen, passing a sympathetic Delilah. Once in his bedroom, he closed the door and slid on to his bed, curling up in a blanket wanting to hide away from the whole wide world. As tears streaked down his cheek, he failed to hold in emotional sobs. So full of pent-up adolescent frustration, he drifted off to sleep dreaming of the day he could stand on his own two feet and show-up David Cooper.

Back in the kitchen, Archie sucked air through his front teeth. Fascist bully boys were a damn nuisance and he wanted his grandson to be confident enough to fight back, not just survive. Archie rose from the table taking his whiskey with him and joined Delilah. Muttering under his breath, he threw back the whiskey and then poured another, before reclining in to his armchair where he stared at the ceiling, looking for answers.

Delilah looked at Archie's sad, worn face; a hundred hard fought life battles etched into the wrinkles of his grizzled cheeks. Archie had oft feared Alistair was being bullied; he now had the miserable truth. Telling him to run away was not a real solution and yet he worried that Alistair could be lead astray by cheap thoughts of revenge.

"Perhaps it's time," Delilah said softly and Archie exhaled bleakly.

"He has much to learn, we have to guide him," Archie sighed and Delilah agreed dutifully as she tied off the stitching behind the replaced button. Straightening her shoulders, she sat demurely, her hands in her lap.

"He must not become a Futurist cog," Archie said resolutely. "There is a future for that boy...this country needs good boys like him to lead them out of the mire."

"Let's begin with a sensible approach," Delilah assuaged.

Archie grimaced, ruing that this day had come. Realising fate was upon him, it was time for Alistair to begin to learn a few home truths. 

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