Till Death us do Part by D W Sherwood

          “Clear!” Again I heard it from behind the closed door with that awful sinking feeling. It was followed by a dull thud and a sort of flopping sound as his body arched and fell back onto the table. For a split second my entire world fell silent, and then I could hear muffled panicky voices again. Hurried and desperate, I heard “twenty milligrams…” and the sound of someone counting breathlessly; “three, four.”

     I could only guess at what was happening but I felt the sweat run down my brow and my heart sinking slowly like a lead weight into my stomach.

     “Clear!” And again the thud. Without thinking I checked my watch. Six minutes since they rushed him through those doors. It felt like six hours! But now the voices sounded calm. The urgency had gone and yet the tone gave me no hope. I couldn’t make out any words, but I heard footsteps head towards the door and felt my heart sink to my feet as I stood and waited for the news. It seemed an age before the door opened, and the doctors’ eyes met mine momentarily and then dropped to the floor. I knew what he was going to say and I felt my legs giving way beneath me.

   “Doctor! Quickly!” The shout came from back in the theatre before he could say a word and as I steadied myself against the wall, he spun about and disappeared back through the doors and I felt a sudden skip in my heartbeat like I’d had the electric shock treatment.

     Once again there was the urgent bustle of activity behind the door and faintly, as though through a mist that clouded my head, I could hear the slow, steady beep of the heart monitor through the sound of amazed voices. I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath, but I let it out now through my teeth with an overwhelming sense of relief. He was still alive!

     It was almost an hour before they let me in to see him, and the shock took my breath away. There were tubes up his nose and another in his mouth, all taped to the side of his face. There was a catheter in the back of his left hand with a clear saline drip and other wires attached to his chest to monitor his heart rate. The screen at the side said he had a good regular pulse, but I found the machine behind that to be more disturbing as it pumped up and down to help him breathe.

     He had always been an active man. Hard working, quick tempered, but active, and to see him laid out so came as a shock and brought tears to my eyes. I had to turn away and compose myself; I didn’t want him to see me cry. Though his eyes were shut and the doctor had said it may be some time before he regained consciousness, I still felt as though he would know if I faced him.

     “He died there Mrs. Willis,” doctor Sutra had said when he’d finally come back out of the theatre. “We lost him for over six minutes, and that’s long enough to declare him officially dead. The fact that he came back, particularly after we’d given up, is nothing short of a miracle.”

     “I’m ever so grateful doctor,” was my feeble response, and then as an afterthought, I said, “and I’m sure James and Julia will be too.” James and Julia being out two grown up children. The doctor just smiled thinly. I thought it seemed a little patronizing, but then, that’s my opinion of doctors.

     “There’s no guarantee that there won’t be brain damage when he comes round,” he continued, explaining things slowly as though I was an old woman. “When the brain has been starved of oxygen for so long, there’s really no telling what the effect will be….” I held my hand u and stopped him. I really didn’t want to hear any more.

     “Are you telling me he’s going to be totally dependent doctor?” I got the thin smile again, though this time tinged with sympathy.

     “There’s really no telling at this time Mrs. Willis, but that is definitely a possibility. If that does turn out to be the case,” he continued, “there are options open to you, and we can certainly help with….” I held my hand up again and stopped him.

     “Thank you doctor.” I was going to add “we’ll just wait and see,” but decided to say nothing more.

     The little room closed in again. The beep of the heart monitor and the hiss and click of the respirator beat a constant regular rhythm and I began to feel sleepy. Turning the light low I sat in the reclining chair and began to doze. As my eyes became heavy my thoughts began to crowd in. The trouble I had suffered in the past was gone, but they would be replaced now with troubles of a different kind. Troubles I may never be free of. And I would suffer them out of a feeling of responsibility and guilt.

   Suddenly someone was shaking me by the shoulder. For a moment I was disoriented and fear jerked me wide awake.

     “Mum! How long have you been here?” My sons’ voice was concerned though not overly quiet. In the background the heart monitor and respirator kept their steady rhythm and my husband still lay motionless on the bed.

     “Hello James,” I tried to smile, “you got my message then? Julia not with you?” He gave me a quizzical look and shook his head.

     “I spoke to her, but she’s not coming. I only came myself for you.” As he spoke he looked over at his Father with some disgust, then with a nod towards him he said,

     “What have they said?”

     “They don’t know yet. They had to revive him, and he was gone for over six minutes, which is apparently a long time. He may have brain damage.”

     “He’s always had that,” he said sharply. “I thought you were going to leave him?” I turned my face away and stared blankly at my husband lying still on the bed, the soft regular hum and click of the machines keeping him alive filled the awkward silence.

     “I was going too,” I said at length, “but I can’t now, I’d feel guilty. Besides, what would people think of me if I left him in this state?” James put a huge hand on my shoulder and turned me back to face him.

     “No one would blame you Mum. Do you really think no one knows the truth? Do you think they believed that we all used to walk into doors so many times? Or fall down stairs?” He was shaking his head as he spoke but I caught my breath and stood back from him, totally horrified at the thought that everyone knew. All these years I’d covered up, and they knew. And even worse, they knew I’d let it happen and done nothing about it.

     “If he’d died it would have been so much easier,” I whispered, “but now I can’t go.” James was shaking his head again and turned me back towards him, this time putting both hands on my shoulders and looking into my eyes.

     “Whether he recovers or not,” he began, “if you stay now, he’s won. If he’s in some way disabled, you’re going to be his slave for the rest of your life. You’ll be exactly where he’s always wanted you.” I nodded my head. I knew he was right.

     “And if he’s not disabled,” I said quietly, “he’ll never let me forget. Bastard!” James gave me a curious look. I don’t think he’d ever heard me swear before, or say a wrong word about his father. “What do you mean?” he asked almost in a whisper. The sound of the respirator and the heart monitor seemed to become deafeningly loud as my thought and my guilt closed in on me.

     “I was packing my bags,” I said, turning and looking at the bed again. “He came home early and caught me and started kicking off, but he would have done that anyway. It made me more determined to go, I felt no guilt at all, even after I’d pushed him down the attic stairs.”

     My son let go of my shoulders and stepped back with a look of surprised shock on his face, turning from me to his dad and back again.

     “That’s just how he looked,” I continued. “I was so angry he actually backed away from me. Big mistake,” I almost laughed at the thought. “The stairs from the landing are much longer.”

     James’ mouth fell open and his eyes widened.

     “It was the cellar steps that did the real damage though.” I looked over at my husband and the wide gash along his temple that was now beginning to blacken as the bruising spread down the side of his face and the guilt of all those years seemed to clutch at my heart. Till death us do part seemed like an awful long time away now.  

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Don't Pay the Ferryman by Jason Stathom

     There were strange looks and an instant silence when Cohlm had said he needed to go across to the island tonight. The whole bar had stopped whatever they were doing and turned to look at him. Aside from an instant feeling of discomfort, he took the opportunity to ask who was in control of the ferry.

     “Why on earth would you want to go o’er there at this time o’ year man? There’s nowt there, an’ the weather’s closin’ in. Once this storm front reaches this bay, you’ll be stuck there for days, maybe even weeks. An’ there’s only one other possible way off if’n it’s urgent.”

      There was a murmur of agreement from around the little room and a few sharp intakes of breath. Cohlm frowned looking across at the barman and the woman who sat close by him who had almost dropped her glass. He shrugged his broad shoulders and held his hands out in question, hoping someone would explain the sudden cold shiver everyone seemed to be suffering from.

     “Up there,” the barman jerked his head in the general direction of outside, “at the north side of the bay, there’s a bridge of spiked rocks that jut out of the water.”

     “Yes, I’ve seen them,” said Cohlm.

     “The waters go on for another three miles, swinging around to the west before it reaches the sea again.”

     “That’s what makes it an island,” Cohlm put in a bit smart. He regretted it the moment he said it, but these people did seem as though they’d come from two centuries earlier.

     “There’s another bridge of spiked rocks at the other end,” the barman continued as though he’d not heard Cohlm’s comment. “It creates a sort of lake, but it’s fed by the sea from both sides, and it’s riddled with those rocks throughout. It’s treacherous even in calm weather.” Cohlm shrugged his shoulders again, not really understanding why they were telling him about this lake. All he wanted was they ferry to the island, not the bloody history of the entire region.

     “You will listen if you have any care of your life,” the barman snapped, “there’s many a man gone over there never to return at this time of year, only for their body to wash up on the rocks of yon lake weeks later.”

     Cohlm stood back in surprise frowning again. What on earth kind of place had they sent him too this time?

     “There is a way across the lake,” the barman began again, only this time he appeared to be speaking much quieter as though he didn’t want anyone outside that room to hear. His voice had become rough, as though he’d been gargling razor blades. “It’s where the ferry ran for hundreds of years. The same family ran it, generation after generation, passed down from father to son. Until he came.”

     There was another sharp intake of breath from around the room and Cohlm was more surprised to see every one cross themselves as though to ward off some evil spirit.

     “Who?” he asked, “who came? I just want to get across there, I have business to attend too and I only have two days.”

     “You’re wasting your time with business. There’s no one there now except her.” Again they all crossed themselves and Cohlm was beginning to lose his patience.

     “Well there must be someone there or the bank wouldn’t have sent me,” he said in an irritable tone, “I just need to get a signature from a Francis Locklear and then….” He stopped as everyone in the room gasped. Some of the women put their hands up to their mouths and once again, they all crossed themselves.

     “Alright,” he said with an ironic smile, “this has gone far enough. Who’s in charge of the ferry? I just need to…” Everyone in the room, without exception turned away from him and picked their drinks back up from the various places they’d all left them when he’d first mentioned the island.

     “I can see the boat out there,” Cohlm said in a loud tone, making sure everyone in the room would hear him. “It looks simple enough to operate. Looks like I’m going to have to have a go myself.”

     That at least got a response. A small wizened man near the door stood up and stepped in front of it. In any case, all eyes had turned to him before he moved.

     “If it’s that urgent,” he said in a painful whisper, “I will take you. But I’m not waiting. If the weather stays calm, I’ll come back across for you in the morning. I’ll wait one hour, and then you’ll have to take your chances.”

     “If you’ve any sense,” called the barman as Cohlm reached the door, “which is doubtful, you’ll be there in the morning.”

     Cohlm sniffed and followed the old man out of the door. It seemed they liked to create a mystery in this place, but he just needed a signature. How hard could that be?

     Once outside the door the icy blast took Cohlm’s breath and looking up at the sky, he was a little startled at the slate colored clouds that had swept in from the south in the short time he had been in the bar. He was forced to quicken his pace a little to keep up with the old ferryman, yet another surprise.

     “So what on earth was all that about?” he asked nodding his head back at the bar as the old man cast off the rope and pushed the boat free with an ancient wooden oar.

     “It was a warning for yer,” he said as he sat himself on the middle bench and fiddled with the oars, “an’ yer’d do well t’ eed it. Tis an evil place at this time o’ year.”

     “It’s just an island,” said Cohlm, “are there many live over there?” The old man shook his head as his shoulders strained and his muscular arms pulled on the oars. The boat lurched forward and Cohlm almost fell backwards off his seat.

     “There’s just ‘oliday ‘omes o’er there, but f’ one,” he continued between strokes, his voice rising and falling as he strained and then relaxed. “They all go when’t’ dark nights start t’ come in.”

     Cohlm indicated to his brief case and then asked; “What about this Locklear woman? Is she going to be there?”

     “Oh aye,” he scowled as he spoke, “she’ll be there alright. An’ you’d better watch yerself.

‘E don’ take kindly t’any as goes near ‘er.”

    “Who don’t?” Cohlm fell into the old ferrymans lingo, and then realized, “I mean, who doesn’t take kindly?”

     “The ferryman of course.” As he spoke the wind gusted from the south and the little boat lurched to the side and then rose on a sudden violent surge of the waves. Cohlm had to grab tight hold onto each side of the boat to stop himself being thrown overboard. The old man carried on rowing as though nothing had happened.

     “Does everyone round here speak in riddles?” Cohlm had to shout to make himself heard over the rising wind and the spray that now began to wash into the little boat.

     “Tis no riddle,” the reply came from the old man in his usual husky tone. Cohlm found it strange that he could hear the old man clearly despite the on setting storm.

     “The ferryman was the last in his line, save f’ ‘is daughter,” he continuesd, jerking his head to the north to indicate what he meant. In the growing dark, Cohlm could see the milky wash around the jagged bridge of rocks the barman had spoke of, black and intimidating they stood guard over the entrance to a place of fear.

     “’Twas a night such as this, when that escaped prisoner from city gaol called ‘im to take ‘im t’ th’island. An’ then butchered ‘im on t’ far shore.” Cohlm looked up in surprise. The old man had a grin on his face, or maybe it was more of a grimace as he strained against the oars as the waters became rough, Cohlm wasn’t sure which, but felt uneasy never the less. What have they sent me into? He wondered as he waited for the next sentence.

     “So now it’s on night’s like this ‘n, when ‘e rides again, an’ takes revenge on the fools that want to cross in this foul weather!”

     The boat lurched forward throwing Cohlm out of his seat again as it ran aground on the shore of the island. Picking up his brief case,  he clambered gingerly out as the first big spots of rain began to bounce against his head.

     “Folla that path yonda,” he said pointing a bon finger in the direction of the hill. “’Er ‘ouse is on t’ far side o’ t’hill, facin’ t’ lake. If this weather keeps up, ya’ll be wise t’ stay indoors. Don’t stray down by t’ lake.” With that he pushed his boat back out into the water and began to turn away, Cohlm said a feeble thank you and waved, but the old man had already turned away and was straining on his oars again.

     Turning his attention to the job at hand, Cohlm began to walk up the steep path away from the water. Slate clouds had covered the sky now and big drops of rain began to splatter constantly in the dirt all around him, penetrating his light clothes at a touch. At the top of the hill the land opened out to a flat bare plain with wet silver strips of pathways leading off in all directions catching the very last beams of light. Cohlm quickened his pace. In the growing darkness he couldn’t tell how far it was to the edge where the path dipped again over the side and down towards the lake. To either side dark forms of cottages loomed here and there, flanked by bent and wizened trees and shrubs, hanging on to their last crisping clothing of leaves. It seemed an eerie place and Cohlm wished now he’d waited till morning.

     By the time he’d dropped over the north side of the hill, Cohlm was soaked to the skin and the cold was creeping into his bones. On the water below he could see the white foam of the tide washing violently around the jutting rocks of the lake, and from his high vantage, he could even make out the dark line of the path through the rocks. Following up the hill from that path with his eyes, he at last spied what he wanted, a warm light glowing from a house window.

     Francis Locklear was an old woman, small and bent through years of hard work, but with a kindly face. She didn’t seem surprised when she answered the door to Cohlm, though he himself would have thought it strange to have someone knock at his door in the late hours in a storm, knowing the island was deserted but for himself.

     “Get yourself in here by the fire,” she said without even asking him his business, “you need to get those wet things off. You’ll catch your death.” Giving him a thick brown blanket to wrap himself in she bustled off to the kitchen to make him a drink while he undressed.

     When she came back he introduced himself and told her why he was here. The papers he’d brought for her to sign related to her house, which had been placed in trust for her when she was a child.

     “I don’t understand why they’ve taken so long to return them to you,” Cohlm said between sips of his steaming hot cup of soup, “it strikes me you should have had these back years go.”

     “There’s always a reason for everything young man,” she said sitting down in the chair opposite him. “It doesn’t really make any difference to anything. I’ve been here all my life and I guess I’ll be here for the rest of it.”

      “Looks like I’m going to be stuck here for the night,” said Cohlm looking towards the window where a thick fog appeared to be rolling in from the sea. “The old guy that brought me across said he wouldn’t come back for me until morning, and told me I should stay indoors while I’m here.” Francis laughed. It was a strange sound to come from an old lady who seemed quite refined.

     “I suppose they told you about the ferry man who stalks the lake in the storm and butchers any fool who dare to take his boat.”

     “Something like that,” smiled Cohlm, “though they seemed reluctant to talk about it other than to surround it in mystery.”

     “Superstitious fools!” she spat. “It’s really quite simple. My father was murdered some fifty years ago by an escaped metal patient. He in turn was never caught. They think he escaped off the other side of the island and more than likely perished in the open sea.

     “Now when anyone washes up on the shores of yonder lake, and it is quite often, they think it’s my father coming back from the dead to take his revenge.”

     Cohlm smiled and nodded. The story made sense now. It was quite feasible; those people in the bar did seem to be living in a different century.

     Once he’d warmed up by the fire, Francis showed Cohlm to a spare room and told him he could spend the night there. Through the window he could see the fog swirling and thickening in the breeze from the sea. It appeared that the rain had stopped.

     “You’ll be fine here for the night,” she said, “it’s not the sort of night you’d want to be out in with this fog, though the storm does at least seem to have passed. I’ll see you in the morning Mr,..er..what did you say your name was?”

     “Colhean,” he answered sitting down on the bed and staring out of the window, “Cohlm Colhean.” She nodded her head slowly with a thoughtful expression on her face.

     “It’s an unusual name,” she said, “especially around these parts.”

     Cohlm dozed off fairly quickly in the darkness, with little sound but that constant wash and spray of the waves on the rocks out on the nearby lake. And then something woke him suddenly and he sat bolt upright on the bed. Movement at the window caught the corner of his eye and he stood and peered out into the darkness to see a strange tall hooded figure disappear into the fog. He felt a little shocked and wondered if he was dreaming, and so pinched him self to make sure that he was not.

     He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but after fumbling for five minutes in the dark with his clothes, he crept back out of the room. There was no sound of movement, and the only light came from the room fire which still crackled and flickered to itself. It appeared well made as though it had just recently had new logs thrown on, but there was no sign of Francis. Assuming she had gone to bed, Cohlm crept out side into the fog. The night was cold and damp and the fog threw an eerie grey light around the cottage.

     Setting off in the direction he was sure the figure had gone, Cohlm knew he was heading towards the water and came to it much quicker than he’d expected. He felt it around his ankles before he saw it, and as the mist swirled and broke he was shocked to see the bow of a small boat push up onto the shore beside him. Cohlm jumped back in fright, and as the mist broke again he caught sight of a tall hooded figure standing in the stern holding a long pole.

     Cohlm stepped back as a sudden fear grasped him and he fell over. The figure moved lightly across the boat toward him and he felt a scream rising in his chest but no sound came. He could see no face within the hood and scrambling back to his feet he turned and ran back for the house.

     After two minutes of blind panic Cohlm realized he’d missed the house in the fog. Catching his breath and trying to steady the thump of his heart in is ears, he traced his way carefully back down the slope until he reached the safety of the house where he worked his way around to the door. As he opened it he hesitated. There was a light inside that hadn’t been lit before. Had he woken Francis?

     Creeping inside and closing the door quietly something caught his eye. Catching his breath, he turned to see a large grey hooded cape hung from a coat hook to the side of him. He felt the leaden fear growing swiftly up his legs and down his arms as he saw the tall figure stood before the fire. Confusion added to his fear as the figure spoke to him in a woman’s voice.

     “You didn’t think you could escape this day did you? Cohlm Colhean.” Cohlm couldn’t speak. Fear captivated him as he watched the icy breath coming from this tall figure’s mouth.

     “Fifty years I’ve waited for you,” as Francis Locklear turned to face him Cohlm fell back against the wall as his legs turned  jelly and gave way beneath him. She was no longer stooped like an old woman, but tall like he’d never suspected and her face transformed into a mask of bitter hatred. The sickle she held in her hand glistened in the firelight as she moved towards him.

     “From the day your grandfather butchered my father out on those rocks, I knew that one day you would come to me, and my quest would be at an end.” She swung the sickle high and brought it down with a force…

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Career Break by Paul J C Kimber

I sit on the proverbial fence on many controversial issues – like global warming and GM food - but one of the few about which I am unequivocal, is burglary. I’m not keen on it to put it frankly. Indeed, let me leap off this morally rocky barrier and land squarely on the side marked ‘Against’. I should make it quite clear that the reason for my atypical clarity of mind is not so much that I think burglary is a scourge of society and should continue to be outlawed, but more that it just doesn’t work for me.

I imagine you have need of further explanation. I accept there is a modicum of justification in this insistence and I will therefore explain myself.

Some months ago I discovered, much to my disquiet, that I was bereft of funds. My parents had the incredulous notion I should make my own way in the world and cease my reliance on their generosity to fund the hedonistic lifestyle to which they considered I had become accustomed.

Naturally I ignored this preposterous suggestion – up to the point my allowance dried up – at which time my churlish bank manager suggested it might be better for all concerned if I considered depositing slightly more into my current account than I was withdrawing. Inconceivably it seems this policy is widespread across the entire banking fraternity and takes little account of one’s standing in society.

Contemplating my options I determined that, although I had limited funds available to me, there were many who had more than they reasonably needed. The most prudent course of action therefore was to transfer a measure of these surplus funds to me. It quickly became apparent there might be an irksome reluctance on the part of those holding the aforementioned resources to release them willingly, and I had to consider this irritation and how best to respond to it. This dilemma was new to me. My family had been, until now, content, and indeed eager to fund my lifestyle - more I suspect to keep me out of their busy lives than as a measure of their parental love. They seemed to believe that their responsibility for my wellbeing should cease, merely because I have reached three score and one years.

Consequently, after a good deal of research revealed a distinct lack of an alternative revenue stream, it became clear that I would have to exercise my initiative to fund any future projects, such as the purchase of food and accommodation. As if I needed any additional inducement to generate capital, it was suggested that I might care to vacate the family residence. Is there no end to their parsimony? My current wife was not amused, but her processor was smugly sympathetic.

My enquiries let me to reject the adage that ‘crime doesn’t pay’. It appeared to me that crime is essentially the most highly paid profession available, and one that grows in profitability by the day. Yes – I am aware prisons are fully occupied and the courts are overstretched. This surely confirms my theory that, as within most professions, there are stupid and inept criminals who boast no clear career paths or ultimate goals, and live to bemoan their woeful tales at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Conversely, there are those focused individuals who work hard to research and assess their market and plan their activities to ensure that success inevitably results. I would be one of the latter.

I determined that my range of personal attributes boded well for a life of criminal success. I am of course highly educated, intelligent, personable and in possession of a quick wit that has proved invaluable over the years. I concluded that I first should devise a plan. It would necessitate a plan so astute that it would take someone of equal brilliance to thwart it. I concluded that such a brain within the local constabulary was not in evidence and therefore I was in no doubt that I would avoid the fate of many of my less intellectually gifted, criminal colleagues.

                                                                                            

I decided that burglary would be my forte. I knew that a careful study of reluctant contributors to my dwindling funds was required and deduced that the municipal housing estate would not reap the rewards that I so required. This left the prestigious properties at the other end of the borough as my quarry. After many nights of careful appraisal I selected a house that was set well back from the road.

I knew I had to dress appropriately for the occasion and selected a rather dashing dress suit that I last wore at my Grandmother’s funeral in ’02 and in which I would surely blend seamlessly into the surroundings. The top hat was lined and would ensure I lost no warmth from my head.

My research had cautioned me to the fact that the authorities have a devious method of identifying potential suspects by their fingerprints and, thus forewarned, I had already purchased some heavy-duty garden gloves at a DIY store. The bright tan colour was not really to my liking but practicalities were such that I had to abandon my usual fashion sense.

I suspected that lightness of foot was a further, obvious requirement in this type of endeavour and I congratulated myself on the procurement of a pair of striking Nike trainers. I had been made aware, by the odious, spotty sales assistant, that the reflective strips on this footwear would prevent a careless motorist causing me a nasty injury by illuminating at least part of my form while I wended my way to my ‘mark’.

Every worker needs his tools of the trade and burglary is no exception. Thus, my financial investment was not restricted to clothing. Forward thinking led me to search for what is colloquially called a ‘holdall’ – an essential item for those in the profession. In this would be held the valuables that I would be relocating from the property. I procured a rather fetching Louis Vuitton case from Harrods that I considered would be fit for this purpose. It was well made, expandable and would last out my career if well cared for.

Seemingly most burglaries are performed during the hours of darkness and, consequently I had to find a way to see at night because it became apparent, from conversations to old ‘lags’, that the occupants of most homes do not leave on lights to welcome uninvited quests. Accordingly I purchased a rather useful little headset light, similar to those used by miners and pot holers when underground.

                                                                                                                    

The next prerequisite would be tools that would facilitate entry into the property and this quandary was solved with the acquisition of a hammer, a chisel, and a screwdriver. These I managed to find as a set, encased in a rather fetching calf-skin case, also from Harrods.

I was now prepared for my initial foray into involuntary wealth distribution.

Caged as I am in this chilly and depressing cell I take time out to puzzle why I find myself in this predicament. I had prepared adequately – or so I thought – and had endeavoured to cover all possible scenarios. Perhaps it was fate – or just sheer bad luck - that a patrol car was cruising in that particular street at 2.30am on that Sunday morning. I wonder what alerted them? Further reflection is needed to solve that riddle, but surely the treatment I received during my arrest was indefensible. I could have been severely injured. Surely, in a civilized society this is no way to treat your future monarch.

End

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