Spared

(Part Three)

The young boy walked away from the scene. A smile slowly growing upon his face. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a mobile phone. It was the phone of Marie which he had grabbed while she wrestled with him. He couldn't understand what she was doing running after him with the mobile phone in her hand, but he was glad of the encounter for the device he now had in his possession. He couldn't wait to see his boys and tell them of the property he had now 'taxed.' He was sure as 'shit,' they would be impressed. He made his way back to Darnhill housing estate, smiling the smile of the proverbial cheshire cat.

Back at Oxfam, Detective Sergeant Russ Browning took the loud hailer off the young constable beside him, and bellowed through the mouthpiece. He really hadn't had a good morning at all. Trying his best to restore faith in his young fourteen year old son, and relieve him of the pirate copy of an Eminem album in the process. A CD he had heard a thousand times at full volume from his son's bedroom. He had failed, and made it his own solemn wish, that when his son was back at school from the Easter Break, he would use stealth to obtain the CD.

He began! “Mrs Anderson. Marie, we know you're under a lot of pressure at the moment. What with elections coming up it must be that of a strain for you. We are glad you let the young boy go. Now please, we beg of you. Remain calm and let the two Ladies go. We are all under pressure these days, you will be properly respected and I'm sure, be given every sympathy in your current circumstances. We are approachable, and mean no harm. Please, I beg of your better judgement, and release the two ladies. We shall then be able to talk properly.” He smiled to himself. He couldn't have put it in a better way. He remarked to himself that he had kept his composure well, after what had been a stressful morning.

“Sir.” The young constable said. “You have to turn the hailer on first. It's this button on the side.” And with that, the young constable reached up and turned the loud hailer on. The detective sergeants patience faded abruptly, he put the hailer to his mouth, and shouted:

“COME OUT OF THE SHOP WITH YOUR HANDS UP YOU SAD BITCH!” He turned to the young constable, “You better phone GSG9, we have a situation here.”

“Isn't that the German special police, said to be rather brutal and somewhat fascist?” The young constable asked.

“Fight fire with fire constable, fight fire with fire.” He said reflectively.

“What about our own special forces?” The young constable asked again rather alarmed.

“They're busy overseas.” The detective said.

“Oh, Afghanistan I suppose.”

“Luxembourg young constable. They are in Luxembourg. They had a tip off Osama had left the region and was heading for Europe, I can't say too much. Don't want to compromise my sources. But Osama is now clean shaven and holed up in the Holiday Inn, in Luxembourg. I keep my finger on the pulse, those who know me know I have contacts, people know me around here.” The detective said authoritively.

The young female doctor from the ambulance interrupted the conversation. She approached the constable and asked; “What the hell is going on. You cannot address someone who is in a high state of anxiety like that. Remarks like sad bitch are just going to infuriate her.”

The detective was about to respond before the doctor cut him short. “Excuse me, I'm speaking to the organ grinder here not the monkey.” She snapped.

“If you will, I am Detective Sergeant Russ Browning, I'm the officer in charge here. I do know this family and I know what I'm doing.”

“Okay, but just be aware I will make a formal complaint if comments like that are used again to address the situation. Now who is she?” The doctor enquired.

“She is councillor Anderson, her family is known to the police, her son has some form, an ex military man who was kicked out of The United Nations for photocopying his arse in Yugoslavia during the Balkans. Posted it all over UN HQ. Her father happens to be an ambassador. He is the one who keeps pulling the strings for them. Gets them these high brow jobs. He is an ex RAF Navigator, having flew missions during the cold war in Vulcan Bombers. We have had our eye on them for some time. As I said, they are known to us.”

“Has she any history of psychiatric illness?” The doctor asked.

“Apart from living on Darnhill, not that we know of. Off the record they're all as nutty as fruitcakes.” The detective said.

The doctor made a mental note that most fruitcakes don't actually contain nuts before continuing. “Can I speak to her?” She begged the loud hailer. After it was reluctantly given to her, she began. “Mrs Anderson. I am doctor Forester. Please, for yourself and your family, come out of the shop. Let the ladies inside go. We can help you. If there is anything you want to talk about, or anyone you wish to speak to, let us know and we shall try our best to help.” She lowered the hailer.

Inside the shop, Marie was busy speaking with the old ladies, she had calmed down somewhat, and was discussing where the money actually goes, the money Oxfam raises. After hearing the words of Doctor Forester, she got up from the chair she had been given. Made her way stealthily to the door, and shouted back; “I want to speak with my father.” She closed the door swiftly and returned to the seat and picked up her cup of tea. “So your telling me”, she continued, “That very little of the money goes on lobbying the government. You should spend more money lobbying. So we can address curing poverty, not simply treating it's symptoms.”

“We do often protest in various ways.” Betty replied, the first old lady that spoke earlier. Marie then threw the cup at the window after finishing her tea. “It's okay, I'm just keeping them busy. Don't you girls ever feel like doing that?” she asked smilingly.

“Oh but of course dear.” The second old lady said, and promptly threw her cup at the window.

Outside, the officers became agitated. Having witnessed the fury of the smashed cups at the window, they wondered just what was happening inside.

“It's getting ugly in there.” The detective said to the doctor. “If you have any plans then speak now, as we may have to use force to arrest the situation.”

“Can you get in touch with her father?” The doctor enquired.

“We can try, we have his details. Let me see if communications can patch through to him. Constable.” He commanded.

At the conference in Geneva. The British Ambassador sat in between the Iranian Ambassador, and an Arabian prince. He poured himself a glass of water, and placed his headset on. He glanced at the Iranian ambassador, and thought he looked vaguely familiar. 'Clean shaven,' and smiling dementedly, a very tanned man sat agitatedly next to him. He was busy looking all around him, as if in unfamiliar surroundings. He caught the British Ambassadors gaze, nodded his head several times, and said, “Hello, I am O......” He cut himself short, and picked up his name plate that was on the table and looked at it, then smiled some more. He tried again; “Hello, I am Muhammed Ali.” He thrust his hand in the direction of the British Ambassador, and shook his hand enthusiastically. As he did so, they both vaguely heard the sound of metal clanging under his robe. He quickly adjusted the robe, and continued smiling. The British Ambassador, frowned slightly, then sipped his water. Just then there was a tap on the Ambassadors shoulder. “Sir, there is an important patch coming from home. Apparently there is a situation developing.” And with that, the Ambassadors secretary left the ambassadors phone on the table, and made haste his exit from the Summit conference hall.

The ambassador looked very concerned with himself, and with the knowledge North Korea had developed the delivery systems for Nuclear missiles fresh in his mind, he began to fear the worst. This could be an opportune moment for the communists to strike, he thought. Tension was high, but his years of navigating Vulcan Bombers helped him keep his composure. A tic formed on his lip.

“Sir, the numbers have been entered, we can patch through to both phones now using conference calling. Do you want the call to go ahead?” The young constable asked of detective Browning. It was a long shot, the detective hoped Councillor Anderson had her phone with her. He looked grave. “Make the call.” He ordered in a low tone of voice. The constable radioed through the instruction, and sat back in the car.

At number 46, Deano sat with his two friends. They had been called in by Brian and Sandra, and were presently eating sweets of liquorice and swizzels and jelly tots, provided by Brian and Sandra. They were inspecting the mobile phone now in their possession. Brian and Sandra were in the kitchen, cooking chips and burgers for the three boys now sat in their living room. They used the money Brian had gained from the bet. It was the best they could do for the young boys that lived on the estate, where money, was always tight. Where neighbours could only dream of just one package holiday in a lifetime, just to see their kids smile in the sun.

In the conference hall, where the summit was about to proceed. The British Ambassador was sharing some thoughts with the Arabian prince on his left, waiting for the important call to come through. In his headphones, the address to the nations began. “Bonjour.............

On his right sat Muhammed, who was now busy looking at the phone now ringing on the table. It was the British Ambassadors phone he knew. However, the phone was placed by him more so than the ambassador of Britain. The ambassador to Britain himself, could not hear the phone for the address that was now playing in his headphones. Muhammed picked up the phone.

At number 46, Deano, now holding the phone ringing loudly in his hand turned to his two friends. “Shit man! Should I answer it?” His two friends giggled excitedly. “Dare you.” The third one said who was in fact the boy who stole the phone from Councillor Anderson in the first place.

Deano answered, as did Muhammed. Muhammed said “Hello!” Deano replied; “Fuck off big nose.”

Then quickly hung up. In the conference hall Muhammed was stunned. He quickly tapped the British Ambassador on the shoulder, and gave him the mobile with a look of confusion. He then placed his own headset on, and pretended he knew what was being said. Through his robe, he fingered the safety catch of his AK47.

“Sir, we lost the connection.” The young constable said to detective Browning.

“Try again in five minutes.” The detective said frustratedly. All was quiet in the shop, and the detective began to fear the worst. He shuddered at the thought of the two old ladies, and the plight they must be going through. In the shop, Marie turned to the two old ladies and said finally; “Poverty is poverty, no matter where or which womb your from. It sucks, it's got to be one of the most demeaning forms of existence, we ever have to endure. And the real thing is, none of us, as compassionate human beings need go through it. And here's the skinny, there is enough wealth and space in the world for all of us. But we just don't share. It's wrong.” She sipped the last of her tea, got up from her chair, and began the journey of walking outside, and gaining the repair she so desperately needed, after years of living a life of stress on the edge.

At 46, the young boys had given up on the phone, and were playing poker. A card game Deano's father had taught them all, in the hope that they had more than the one chance of becoming labourers to make money for themselves when they were older. As Deano declared himself the winner, the phone rang again. He picked it up and answered. As did Ambassador Anderson, at the summit. Deano held the cards and the phone in the air to stop the other boys from getting his hand, or the phone. As the ambassador answered the phone, Deano shouted at the other end; “ITS A ROYAL FLUSH.” He hung up, threw the cards and the phone on the floor and began to wrestle with the other boys. An Asian lady, the IT professional that was waiting for the return of Mrs Anderson, picked up the phone and cards and began to try and calm the boys down. Too much sugar she thought. And laughed as she joined in with the boys. In the kitchen, Sandra and Brian engaged in a kiss.

The ambassador dropped the phone. A look as dark as Old Glory himself came over his face. He knew from his days of Navigator, the op words for a full strike; The Royal Flush! Possibly a pre-emptive strike. He hadn't time for the details. He took off his headset, and made his way to his temporary room situated within the complex. He pulled from his briefcase, a browning nine millimetre, put the barrel to his head, and pulled the trigger. He pulled again. There was a blockage. He threw the gun on the floor, buried his head in his hands and began to sob. His secretary entered, and began to pour him some tea. The British, could cure anything with tea, it seemed. Tea! Which came from India. If only the British would invest in themselves, their inventions, their equipments, as well as the world, he briefly thought, then perhaps she would be further down the road than she is now, and perhaps my weapon would have worked. He stopped crying, and began the task of gaining a long needed holiday, after being informed by his secretary all was clear.

Michael climbed into the ambulance with his mother. Just to take her to the hospital she had avoided all her life. “If you want to be taken seriously mother, you got to stop being foolish to yourself, you have to stop being the clown.”

In Luxembourg, several athletes turned to one another. “Well, that's us then. He got close, too close. But they got him at the conference. Take it on the chin guys. There's nothing for us to do for a while. Anyone for a swallow?”