David E Balaam - Columbus Day

Columbus Day

by

David E Balaam

Other titles by the same author;

The Letter

Nothing is Sacrosanct

No One is Sacrosanct

Non-fiction:

A Guide to Church Photography for the Enthusiastic Amature

(c) davidbalaam-books.co.uk

3rd edition 2020

ISBN 9783964549778

Published by: davidbalaam-books.co.uk

English UK dictionary format

This book is a work of fiction.

The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

www.davidbalaam-books.co.uk

To Nicole, my first born,

my first novel

Prologue Prologue It was the 1st of June, the previous year – a date that George would never forget. He let the phone ring for a while before deciding to answer it. He was tired – physically and mentally. Eighteen months ago he had lost his lovely wife Aimee in a hit and run, then six months later was accused of cyber theft. His whole life had been shattered. He was demoralised and confused, but above all, he was angry, very angry at the hand he had been dealt. He was not a religious man, but like most of his contemporaries, George believed in humanity, respect for others, love of the family, and many of the good solid virtues he had grown up with, including justice, and an eye for an eye. He had worked hard over the past ten years building up a good business, and he and Aimee had been blessed with three beautiful children - but then, all of a sudden, and without warning, it was taken away from him. His life had been turned upside down. No wife No job No reputation No reason to live George put the whisky glass down and turned on the table lamp next to him, and picked up the phone. "Yes," he said, in a monotone voice. "You bastard! – I know you did it and I want my money back, Morton!" George remained calm. He knew exactly who the caller was - Oliver Barnes, the now chief executive of Barnes & Barnes International Bankers, but then, at the time of the call, he was Head of Investment. His father, Peter Barnes, was Chairman. The young pretender was working his way, albeit fast-tracked, through the departments, until one day when his father, and the board, was convinced he would be a suitable successor. George allowed himself a wry smile. "Oliver, how are you?" "This is not a social call, Morton. The police may not be able to prove it was you but I know it was, don’t I, Morton!" Oliver spat down the phone line. "I have just heard that the police have dropped the investigation, so I can get back to putting my life together again,” George stated, with an air of satisfaction. "They are rubbish – I have other avenues, I can, and will use, Morton. You can count on it!" Oliver continued to shout down the phone. "I suggest you get on with your life, Oliver. Give my regards to your father." And he was prepared to hang up when Oliver Barnes erupted again. "Where’s my money, Morton!" He bellowed once more. "Your money, Oliver?" George’s tone was relaxed. "I thought it was the bank’s money," and went to hang up again, but added an afterthought. "I don’t owe you a penny, Oliver."

It was the 1st of June, the previous year – a date that George would never forget. He let the phone ring for a while before deciding to answer it. He was tired – physically and mentally. Eighteen months ago he had lost his lovely wife Aimee in a hit and run, then six months later was accused of cyber theft. His whole life had been shattered. He was demoralised and confused, but above all, he was angry, very angry at the hand he had been dealt. He was not a religious man, but like most of his contemporaries, George believed in humanity, respect for others, love of the family, and many of the good solid virtues he had grown up with, including justice, and an eye for an eye. He had worked hard over the past ten years building up a good business, and he and Aimee had been blessed with three beautiful children - but then, all of a sudden, and without warning, it was taken away from him. His life had been turned upside down.

No wife

No job

No reputation

No reason to live

George put the whisky glass down and turned on the table lamp next to him, and picked up the phone. "Yes," he said, in a monotone voice.

"You bastard! – I know you did it and I want my money back, Morton!"

George remained calm. He knew exactly who the caller was - Oliver Barnes, the now chief executive of Barnes & Barnes International Bankers, but then, at the time of the call, he was Head of Investment.

His father, Peter Barnes, was Chairman. The young pretender was working his way, albeit fast-tracked, through the departments, until one day when his father, and the board, was convinced he would be a suitable successor.

George allowed himself a wry smile. "Oliver, how are you?"

"This is not a social call, Morton. The police may not be able to prove it was you but I know it was, don’t I, Morton!" Oliver spat down the phone line.

"I have just heard that the police have dropped the investigation, so I can get back to putting my life together again,” George stated, with an air of satisfaction.

"They are rubbish – I have other avenues, I can, and will use, Morton. You can count on it!" Oliver continued to shout down the phone.

"I suggest you get on with your life, Oliver. Give my regards to your father." And he was prepared to hang up when Oliver Barnes erupted again.

"Where’s my money, Morton!" He bellowed once more.

"Your money, Oliver?" George’s tone was relaxed. "I thought it was the bank’s money," and went to hang up again, but added an afterthought. "I don’t owe you a penny, Oliver."

It wasn’t completely dark, more dim than dark, and there was quietness all around. Only the sound of anticipation seemed to linger. The other faint sound was that of seagulls. The squawking was getting louder and louder – everyone knew it was nearly time – the swaying had stopped, and the sound of the heavy anchor descending told them it was time. One by one they started their engines. Some revved the motor, as if on a starting block, which in a way it was. A shaft of sunlight burst through into the large iron room that was the vehicle hold in the belly of the floating car park. The giant door slowly retreated, like a drawbridge, and came to rest on the harbour floor, with a gentle thud. If there had not been a good queue control system it would have been a free for all. Young Turks revving, and then charging into the sunlight, as if into battle. And some not so young, in their Audi Titus’s or Mercedes SL300’s, keen to show they still had some spirit in them, but resisting the temptation to show-off, especially with the wife gently tapping their arm and saying, "Now dear, we are not in a race."

George, too, could almost feel the urge to press the throttle a little more than he should but thought better of it. After all, he thought he must show some self-control with his son, Christopher, sitting next to him. Slowly the cars started their exit into the daylight, and onwards to wherever they had planned. Over five hundred cars. Five hundred different journeys. George wondered if any of them would be as exciting or adventurous as his might be. He would never know of course, but George liked to think of people taking paths, and where they would lead. His path was to a new beginning. A new country. A new life.