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A “Captain Scarlet” story for Halloween by Hazel Köhler The pretty girl sat at the reception desk,
filing her nails. It had been quite
quiet today, not at all like the regular receptionist, Serafina, had described,
and of that she was very glad. She
hadn’t been here very long, and this was her first day manning the reception
desk on her own. This was, luckily,
not a busy department – in fact, she had hardly seen a soul all day. So it was with mingled relief at having
something to do at last, annoyance at having her quiet day interrupted, and
trepidation at being suddenly faced with a client, that she heard the main
entrance door swish open. She looked
up towards the newcomer with a bright smile. “HellomynameisAngelacanIhelpyou?” The man looked a little startled at the
sudden rush of words, then smiled as he mentally inserted the spaces. “No thank you, just passing through.” Angela frowned as he strolled past her desk,
obviously heading for The White Door. She might not have been in this job very
long, but there were two things Angela was very well aware of. Firstly, no-one was allowed in without a
ticket, and secondly, no-one, but no-one,
was allowed through The White Door without a special pass. That point had been made so forcibly to
her that The White Door had acquired capital letters in her mind. She swallowed her first-day nerves, and
called out: “Sir! Excuse me, but I’m
afraid you’re not allowed to go through there.
And I have to look at your ticket.” The man looked a little startled, then a
little embarrassed. “Sorry,” he
apologised, coming back towards her.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?
I’ve got a pass – hang on a second.”
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a wallet, flicking through it
with a slight frown on his face. “I
know it’s in here somewhere,” he muttered.
“I only used it last week… Ah, here it is.” He withdrew a small rectangle of plastic
from the wallet and held it out to Angela. Her expression changed abruptly from
slightly-impatient-but-nevertheless-polite-guardian-of- the-door to wide-eyed
awe. “Oh!” she breathed. “I’ve never actually seen one of these
before!” The tickets people normally had when they
came through here were made of thin card, in a variety of colours. Most were single-use, with a blue or pink
stripe across them, indicating male or female.
She’d checked any number of those while learning the job from Serafina.
As well as blue or pink stripes, there might also be all sorts of other
markings, according to the complex system of classifications the company used to
differentiate its clients. But this
one was very, very different. It was
coloured the palest of reds, shot with silver and white, like mother-of-pearl. The company logo shimmered on it like a
watermark, but apart from that, it bore no other markings at all. Serafina had told her about these special
cards – only a handful of people in the entire history of the company had one. The Managing Director, of course, and his
son who was probably going to take over one day, Sir Nicholas (to whom Serafina
had daringly referred as Old Uncle Nick) – that was about it. And now, this one… Angela took the card almost reverently from
his hand, turning it so that the light gleamed on its iridescent surface. It seemed almost sacrilegious to pass the
card through the reader, but nevertheless, she did, handling it like the finest
porcelain. The reader beeped, and a picture appeared on
her monitor, a picture of the man standing in front of her. Details of name, date of birth, and
registration number scrolled across the bottom of the screen. She carefully extracted the card from the
reader and handed it back to the visitor with a tremulous smile. “That all seems to be in order, sir,” she
squeaked, biting her lip. He smiled at her as he replaced the card in
his wallet, and she felt her knees go weak.
Gosh, he’s nice-looking… “Do you know where to go, sir?” she asked. “Yes, thanks,” he said, with another
knee-weakening smile. “I’m one of
your frequent fliers.” And with that, he pocketed his wallet and
strode towards The White Door, which opened at his approach, and closed
soundlessly as he went through.
Once through the white door, Paul Metcalfe
strolled down the short corridor that led to an enclosed footbridge. It was difficult to judge how far from
the ground this bridge was, but what was certain was how different the views
were on either side. The first time
he’d come here, the difference had rather disconcerted him, but now it was just
part of the wallpaper, so to speak, and he ignored it.
It was unlikely that he’d ever go to either section, anyway. His destination was a set of double-doors at
the far end of the footbridge. A
discreet notice informed him that “Entry to the Anubis Lounge is restricted to
VIP cardholders only”. Paul took out his card again and swiped it
through the lock. The door opened
with a soft hiss, and he found himself in a small, comfortable lounge. He helped himself to a drink and a
handful of peanuts from the complimentary bar, checked the Departures list,
noting with mild annoyance that his flight hadn’t been called yet, then wandered
over to the smoked-glass window that ran the entire length of one wall. The window looked out over the enormous
public waiting room. There were many
people in there: some relaxed, others tense, some laughing, some crying, all of
them clutching cardboard rectangles on which were printed number and letter
sequences in a variety of colours. The public address crackled into life:
“Flight 666 now boarding. Holders of
green tickets, ED001 to ED499, please proceed through door H.” There was a flurry of number-checking, then
the lounge slowly emptied as people slouched, trudged or hurried towards the
door. In a remarkably short space of
time, everyone was through the door and gone.
Door H closed with a thunk, and a blissful silence settled over the
waiting room. Apart from a cultured female voice coming
from the Customer Services desk. The
owner of the voice was currently conducting a conversation on the phone, and
sounded as if she was holding on to business-like politeness by her beautifully
manicured fingernails. Paul grinned. He picked up a half-full coffee pot from
its stand, tapped on the window to attract her attention, and waved the pot at
her with a look of enquiry. Her face
adopted an expression of almost comical acceptance, tongue hanging out like a
panting dog. Paul poured coffee for himself too, and
swiped his passcard through the lock of the door which connected the private
waiting room to the public one. He
took both cups over to the woman’s desk. You
angel, she mouthed. He laughed, and mouthed in response, Close, but no cigar! She rolled her eyes at him as he made
himself comfortable in the armchair beside the desk, then turned her attention
back to her conversation. “Yes, that was Paul Metcalfe. Did you want to have a word with him?” She paused, then: “All right. Give me a call when you’re ready, and
I’ll bring him.” She put the phone down, sighed, and looked
over at Paul. “I’m glad you came in.
Nick wants to see you. Urgently, he says.” “Hi, Petra.
Was he giving you a hard time?” Paul asked. “Nick?
No, but BZ is. Ever since the
merger, he’s been insufferable.
Thinks he’s God’s gift to management.” Paul managed to turn a guffaw of laughter
into a cough. He didn’t know BZ all
that well, never having had any direct dealings with the HF&D department, but he
knew him by reputation. A thoroughly
nasty piece of work, in Paul’s opinion. “What does Nick want to see me about, any
idea?” he asked. Petra bit her lip. “Paul – have you got your VIP card?” “You know I have. You saw me come in with it just now.” “Have you ever lost it, or lent it to
anyone?” “No, of course not! Nick made it perfectly clear what would
happen if I ever did that!” Paul
stood up to lean on the desk.
“Petra, what’s this all about?” Petra took a deep breath, and looked around
to make sure that no-one was within earshot, then leaned forward and lowered her
voice. “Apparently, at about the same time as we gave you your card, another one
was stolen. You know that BZ was
very much against you having that card?
Well, Nick thinks he wanted it for someone else…” Paul raised his eyebrows. “Is that what Nick wants to see me
about?” At Petra’s nod, he shook his head.
“I don’t know what he expects me to do about it.
I’m only a visitor, not a member of Nick’s security staff, no matter how
often I drop by.” “He’ll tell you all about it,” Petra said.
“He’s got someone with him at the moment, but he’ll call down when he’s ready.
Shouldn’t be too long, if you don’t mind waiting?” The phone rang. Petra lifted the receiver and spoke:
“Immigration, Petra Aghios speaking.”
She listened for a moment, then replaced the phone and looked up at Paul
with an apologetic smile. “That was
Reception. There’s another batch of
immigrants on their way. They’ll be here in a moment. Could I ask you to make your own way to
Nick’s office when he calls?” “Of course.” Paul straightened up. “See you later.” Paul strolled back to the bar and helped
himself to another drink, mulling over what Petra had said, and wondering how
long Nick was going to be. Suddenly,
over the Tannoy came an announcement: “Would VIP passenger Paul Metcalfe please
report to gate 001 immediately, where his flight is waiting?” Paul lifted his drink in a bandaged,
bloodstained hand, finished it, and glanced over to Petra, but she was already
swamped with the new wave of arrivals.
He waved at her as he hurried towards the door – she looked up and tried
to disentangle herself from someone convinced that his reservation was with
Elysian Airways, not ED666. “Paul!
Where are you going? You’re supposed to be seeing Nick…” but by then, the
door was already closing behind Paul’s departing back. “Ah well,” she sighed to herself. “Nick can wait until next time. It’s not as if that’s going to be very
long…” Captain Scarlet awoke from his latest death
with the nagging feeling that he’d been interrupted in the middle of something
important. But that was ridiculous. You die, you lie around for a while, you
wake up. What else was there…? THE END Author’s notes Just occasionally, I like to play around with somewhat
heavy-handed allusions, hints and puns.
I’d like to acknowledge the influence of Andy Hamilton and Tom Holt on this
regrettable tendency. The examples
in this story are: Angela and Serafina, the
receptionists – derived from “Angel” and “Seraphim” respectively The White Door is sort-of the
Pearly Gates Petra Aghios – pidgin Greek for
Saint Peter Old Uncle Nick – Old Nick, aka
the Devil BZ – Beelzebub HF&D – Hellfire and Damnation Flight numbers – ED stands for
‘Eternal Damnation’, and 666 is of course the Number of the Beast. Door H – the departure gate for
Hell The view from the footbridge – this is the sort of thing I
had in mind:
The Garden of Earthly Delights, by Hieronymus Bosch.
The Anubis Lounge – in some
versions of Egyptian mythology,
Anubis awakens the dead, and helps Isis bring her husband back to life.
I thought ‘Anubis’ was therefore quite an appropriate name for the lounge where
Scarlet waits for his flight back to the living world. Three guesses about who’s got the
stolen VIP card… I have no idea who owns the
rights to characters, concepts and vehicles from Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons these days, but whoever it is can
rest assured that I am making no profit from this story, or any other fan
activity. Many thanks to my friend and beta
reader, Marion Woods, who is much better at finishing stories than I will ever
be! Thanks for the brain-storming
sessions and the wine! Thanks also
to Chris Bishop for the Spectrum Headquarters website, and many happy years of
friendship and collaboration. Finally, indestructible thanks to
Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, and all the wonderful writers, puppeteers,
model-makers, effects artists, etc., who created such a wonderful world for us
to play in. Hazel Köhler, October 2010
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