A story by Marion Woods
She slowed to a walk
at the corner and strolled nonchalantly into the corridor.
It was empty. Glancing at
the security camera, she kept close to the wall until she reached the door. She gave one more quick glance around
before her nimble fingers typed in the password.
There was a momentary delay and she
wondered if the password had been changed.
Then the door slid back, coming to a halt with the usual muted thud.
She slipped inside as soon as the gap was
wide enough and waited with bated breath until the door slid shut again. No alarms sounded, and no commanding
voice asked her what she thought she was doing in someone else’s room, nor how
she had knowledge of the personal code to activate the digi-lock in the first
place. After a few seconds – that
seemed to last a lifetime – she sighed out the breath she was holding.
The room was familiar
enough, although she couldn’t remember having been in it alone before. The few personal items, and the odd
luxuries that made each officer’s quarters ‘home’, were well-known. A quick glance showed her that
everything was where it ought to be – no
surprise there – and that the valet had been round already, cleaning and
polishing with her usual enthusiasm.
The only thing left
out on the coffee table was a hardback book, the bookmark protruding from about
half-way through, where the reader had left it.
As she walked across, she swivelled it round with her finger to read the title.
“The Mill on the
Floss” she murmured aloud – hmm, well, at
least I’ve heard of that one.
She raised the cover curiously and saw an elaborate bookplate which read ‘Senior
School English Prize awarded to…Dianne Simms….. Summer 2060’ Ah, well that would explain it.
She
dropped the cover shut and moved to the desk.
A small flat-screen monitor stood on one side, but apart from a blotter,
that was all, so she carried on her search, moving quietly around the room.
She didn’t find what she was looking for on the bookcase or the bedside table. She bit her lip; if she didn’t find it she’d have an awful
lot of explaining to do…
Where can it be? It
has to be here, I’ve looked everywhere else.
The thought came to
her that if he’d found it, it must have been after the start of her last duty in
Angel One – or he’d have brought it to the Amber Room for her. Of course, the red alert had happened during her shift and
he’d been sent with Captain Scarlet to Madagascar… so, he would have put it somewhere safe…
She returned to the
desk and tugged at the top drawer, where she knew he kept his own ID items – but
it was locked. Rolling her eyes,
she wondered where he’d have left the key, but after only a few minutes
searching, she found it – in a compartment of the pen tray on the other side of
the desk.
When the drawer slid
open she grinned.
The first item she
discovered in there was a leather-bound A5 sized photograph album and she moved
it aside, wondering what it was doing there. There were a few albums over on the
bookcase and he was renowned for always putting things in their place. It was one of the things they bickered
about – for she was equally as notorious for never putting anything away.
Maybe he was looking at it when the red alert sounded?
She looked back into
the drawer, and the album was forgotten immediately as she saw the missing
wallet that held her Spectrum ID cards.
“Yes!”
She grabbed it and
restored it to her uniform pocket.
Her sigh this time was pure relief.
She lifted the album
to put it back in the drawer, and on impulse flipped the cover. The faces on the
first page were familiar, and she stopped to examine the pictures.
The Svensons are a good –looking family, and no mistake.
Adam had obviously
taken this some years ago, as it showed his parents along with his two brothers,
ranging in age from a well-grown boy to a young man, and his sister. There was his father; his proud - as you might say,
aristocratic - face for once wearing a genial enough expression. Beside him stood his wife – slightly out of focus as usual -
for she never seemed to keep still.
Peter’s wan smile, so typical of his begrudging enthusiasm for anything his
elder brother did, was balanced by Katherine’s cheerful grin. The only daughter of John and Sarah
Svenson was a beautiful young woman, rather spoilt, but intelligent and likeable
Next to her stood David, the youngest, a smaller replica of his eldest brother:
not as tall, not as clever, and not,
she thought zealously, nearly as
good-looking.
The first double page
of pictures showed the three sons together; Adam looking absurdly young and
proud in his WAS uniform, towering over Peter while David acted as a buffer,
with his arms linked through both of theirs, ignoring the obvious antagonism
between the older brothers.
Opposite that was a photograph of Adam looking far more relaxed, with Kate
nestled against his chest and his arms around her and his mother, whilst David
stood close by, sporting Adam’s peaked WAS cap.
She chuckled and
turned the page, and here she saw a face she did not know.
It was of a young
woman, with long, black hair, dark eyes and honey-coloured skin.
She was standing in an overgrown garden next to a notice board, her hand
reaching out to obscure the first letter of the notice, so that it now read
‘OLD’ in bright red letters. In the
background was a rather dilapidated Victorian house – badly in need of
renovation.
On the adjoining page
was Adam, sitting forlornly on the doorstep of the same house, a comic look of
resignation on his face and a set of keys dangling from his outstretched
fingers.
Symphony turned
through the album, examining the photographs that monitored the progress of the
restoration project. There was Adam
in filthy jeans and T-shirt, and the woman in paint-splattered overalls,
enthusiastically decorating their home.
The later pages
showed the finished rooms and the last two double-spreads illustrated what was
obviously a party to celebrate the completion of the task.
Numerous unknown people milled about in the now tidy garden, a barbecue
stood on the patio and a large wooden table was laden with food and bottles.
One photograph showed Adam holding the woman in his arms, against a backdrop of
garden greenery. Whatever he was saying to her was making
her laugh.
The last page of all
only had one picture – taken indoors late at night and presumably with a timer -
it showed just the two of them, collapsed on a wicker-work sofa, hand-in-hand,
while a long-haired, ginger cat nestled between them.
Beneath it was a
label in Adam’s upright script:
“A job well done: Soraya, Honey-Bucket and me.”
The date was exactly
ten years ago – today. He must have
been looking at them when the alert sounded and he’d thrust it into the drawer
with her ID card wallet, which she’d so carelessly left behind when she’d
visited him earlier.
Symphony Angel closed
the album and thoughtfully put it back in the drawer, locking it and placing the
key back in the pen-tray. She
wondered if he’d mind that she’d seen the pictures; he’d realise she’d opened
the drawer as soon as he saw her ID wallet was gone, and he knew her too well to
have any doubt that her curiosity would make it impossible for her not to take a
peek.
He had told her about
Soraya – eventually – but she’d never seen a picture of her before and he might
think it an unwarranted intrusion on her part.
Yet, she was glad she had seen the pictures – glad she’d seen what she
still thought of as ‘the competition’ - the one woman she could never directly
compete with – the source of the uncertainty that dogged her self-confidence,
for the now unanswerable question was always in the back of her mind – would he have left Soraya when
he met me?
She glanced across at
the mirror on the wall and went to study her reflection.
It was odd that he
should have chosen two such disparate women.
We are nothing at all like
each other and we have nothing in common.
She stared at the reflection for a long moment, imposing the memory of the photographs beside her own face. Then, she shook her head and gave a slow smile as realisation dawned – they did have something in common – something those photographs had shown only too clearly. They had the unalloyed satisfaction of being in love with, and knowing themselves loved in return by, the same man, and although a decade of years – and the impassable barrier of death - separated them, the contented happiness so apparent in Soraya’s face was mirrored in her own reflection.
“Nice to meet you at
last, Soraya,” she muttered as she walked to the door.
She put out the light and said, “I’ll take good care of him – don’t you
worry…”
The door slid back
and she glanced along the empty corridor before striding back towards her own
quarters.
Author’s Notes:
This story was inspired by some un-posted fiction
I have, concerning Captain Blue and his adventures in the World Aeronautical
Society. The characters of Symphony Angel, Captain Blue and
Captain Scarlet belong to the TV series Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons
™. The Svenson family members were
created by Chris Bishop in her story Symphony in Blue and the character
of Soraya is purely my own invention – she is mentioned in several of my stories
as Captain Blue’s fiancée who was killed by a car bomb when he was heading the
WAS security division.
My thanks go to Hazel Köhler for beta-reading yet
another of my stories.
Marion Woods
February 2006