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SNAFU Part 33

by Angharad

This is a work of fiction any resemblance to anyone alive or dead is unintentional.

*****
I met up with dad at dinner time; “How did you get on with Andy Wilson?” he inquired.

“Fine. He translated the piece of script I had, which was what I wanted.” I decided to keep quiet about the other stuff.

“I thought he might, run of the mill stuff for him. So he thought he remembered I had a son?”

“Yes, sorry about that.” I blushed as I apologised, it was a cross I would always have to bear.

He hugged me. “Never apologise for something that wasn’t your fault.” He said quietly as he held me.

“No, Dad,” I said, sniffing back the tears. This man meant so much to me. It was humiliating for him to have to explain this discrepancy every time I met one of his old friends or colleagues. “But it isn’t your fault either,” I said, as tears spilt down my face.

“I love you,” was all he said, it was more than enough.

“I love you too, Daddy,” I responded, and we tearfully embraced for several minutes. I could smell his manliness, and feel the strength of his body. I felt comforted by it. Even if my life had not been detoured courtesy of the army, I don’t think I would ever have become something like my father, a man. I would have been a shadow of that archetype, maybe even a parody. Despite my initial resentment of what happened, I now considered it had been for the best. Whether I had been fortuitous or my fate had been long decided, I wasn’t sure: but now; I considered I had been lucky; however that luck had originated.

I stood, protected by this masculine strength, yet embraced by its paradoxical gentleness. My father was a gentle and sensitive man, who could shed a tear of joy for beauty as well as sadness, and yet balance it by tackling someone hard on a rugby pitch. Or at least he did when he was younger. His gentle-ness was not weakness.

It struck me as almost ridiculous, that I, as a woman, and I hoped a reasonably feminine one, had at times behaved more physically aggressive, than he had ever done. I had taken life several times, not hesitating in the act. Now I was seeking to find and neutralise, the group who were trying to destroy me.

Although at times appearing like a comic book heroine, I acted always in response to someone else’s instigation. I didn’t start it, but I was developing a reputation for finishing things! Sadly, this seemed frequently to mean, a life.

‘For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.’ So says Kipling. Who am I to argue? It’s true of many species, spiders, mantids, birds of prey and of course, lions! The ancient Egyptians, or their forebears, knew that nearly all the hunting of prides of lions is done by the females. Adult male lions have little function other than breeding and holding a territory. When eventually usurped by a younger male, they will eventually starve or be killed by hyenas. They are simply too heavy to hunt successfully. So the ancients made the server of the justice of Re, viz. Sekhmet, a lioness; an effective huntress and killer.

Was I simply a manifestation of that energy? I hoped not. I hated doing its work. I just wanted to be an ordinary person: a job; a home; a partner and some children. Not necessarily in that order. The irony of life had made sure that I couldn’t be a natural parent and there was a shortage of children for adoption.

I accept that at twenty years of age, well nearly; I was too young to have children, or at least to care for them properly. I didn’t have enough life experience, and still had developmental needs of my own. Mary may have purportedly had Jesus at age twelve or fourteen but I wouldn’t think it was a particularly good idea. For me to have a child would require a bigger miracle than happened to Mary.

The mixed-up thoughts which washed over my mind as I embraced my father ran pseudo-logical trains as in the above or became a morass of emotion. An example was the recent event in the concert hall. He could have been killed. I would then have lost him.

Alright, being mediumistic, I may have been able to see him occasionally or even talk to him, were I lucky, but to hold him as I was now…no chance. I wept again, my mind torturing itself with that thought. It reminded me of another man I loved, who seemed fated never to be with me, and I cried some more.

Whether my dad understood or not, it mattered not; because he continued to hold me and cry himself. An act which I have since considered possibly his love for me, holding me while I dealt with my distress; or perhaps dealing with some of his own; the loss of his son, for starters.

When my mother came home from a meeting and saw us hugging and howling, she joined in the emotional mess and we made it a family occasion. The catharsis of it certainly cleared my emotional banks, probably washed clean by the gallons of salty water which flowed down my face. So it had been useful and perhaps a family who weep together, keep together? Who knows, but it sounds right.

That night, I performed my ancient ritual, communing in a tongue I didn’t know but which seemed to flow through me. I asked my goddess if I might reveal the ritual to another. Her answer was ambiguous and rather cagey. Oh well, I’d have to see how I felt about it myself and make a decision. It didn’t need to be tonight in any case, other than to have provided a yea or nay to Wilson, tomorrow.

I went to bed, tired but happy; the ritual, as usual, leaving me feeling drained but spiritually lifted. Later, in a dream, I found myself walking down a long corridor, at the end of which were two doors. The doors had some sort of sign on them, but it was so small, and the corridor was dimly lit, I couldn’t make them out. Nevertheless, something told me, they were important. I returned from whence I‘d come to try and find some sort of light or magnifier, or even both.

I returned with a box of matches and a candle. Once more I approached the doors. Feeling pleased with myself, I drew out a match and attempted to strike it. It broke, the head flying off it. I did the same again, and so did the match.

I tried another dozen or more times. Each one was rewarded with the same outcome, the head broke off. I felt so frustrated. No matter how carefully I tried to strike and light a match, I failed. I became angry and threw down the empty box and the candle.

What did it all mean? Clearly, the message was about cutting off heads or something similar. I tried to remember how many matches had broken, but as I’d not been counting them, I couldn’t. So if it was about taking the heads off so many something or others, I’d rather missed the point.

What else could it mean? I racked my little brain until it ached. I almost felt like cutting my own head off, but then how would I work things out? Stupid question.
Or was it? I approached the doors again. I was unable to see the signs upon the doors, and I had been unable to work out what they were. So what would happen if I stopped thinking, effectively breaking off my own head? How could I choose a door? By feelings perhaps? I stood in front of each door and tried to experience at an emotional or feelings level, which one I was meant to open.

I felt a glow begin in my heart, and I waited for it to resonate with something behind one of the doors. I waited some time, and eventually, it did as I’d hoped. I entered the right-hand door.

Traditionally, the left-hand path is associated with the dark side. The Latin word ‘sinister’ simply means left or left-handed, but it has connotations in modern parlance far beyond its original. Qabalistically, the dark side is the Qlipphothic side accessed either through Daath or by a tree growing inverted from the roots of the normal tree. There are possibly other methods, but they are the ones with which I am most familiar.

I might seem a bit of a prude or even a little pious, but the dark side is not somewhere I believe anyone who is working spiritually likes to go. I accept in the completeness of things, we all have a dark side, which we have to integrate. But working with it generally means a heavy measure of ego and enjoyment of ‘having power’. It’s an illusion because eventually, the ‘power’ has you. Then you work for it. Not a nice outcome, as Dr Faustus discovered.

Back to my dream; I chose the right-hand door, and after knocking upon it, entered. I stepped into a strange landscape. Before me, stood a very fine suspension bridge, wide enough only for one to pass. It traversed a very deep canyon or abyss. Behind me, I could see a place that appeared made of gold, which shone with a bright yellow light. I knew where I was, facing the abyss in Daath.

“Jamie; Jamie wake up!” My father was shaking my arm very gently. I was miles away, if not universes. I struggled to come back to consciousness, to wakefulness.

“Wha…., what’s happening?” I managed to splutter to my father, who was standing over me, wearing his PJs and dressing gown.

“You have a visitor,” he said rather tersely.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes again. “I have a what?”

“A visitor.”

“Who? Crikey it’s three o clock.”

“I am well aware of the time!” Said my father with an edge in his voice, “Shakespeare was just going to tell me about the play he never published and the bloody doorbell rang.”

“Oh,.” I said.

“Who is it?” I asked getting out of bed and grabbing a wrap.

“Someone from your office.”

“Office, I don’t have an office,” I challenged.

“One of your SIS chaps. Look I don’t care if you have an office or not, can I get back to my flipping bed?”

“Sorry, Daddy.” I kissed him on the cheek and went down stairs to meet my mysterious visitor.

I was more than a little apprehensive as I went into the room, not forgetting how clever the ‘Oliver’ set were in disguising themselves; and poor Dad wouldn’t recognise them if they wore labels. The energy felt okay, so I believed the visitor was real and not a threat. However, I wasn’t infallible, so I prepared myself for fight or flight, magickal style!

“Hello flower,” said my visitor, “even in the middle of the night you look a million dollars.”

“Don,” I said and threw my arms around him. We hugged and pecked each other on the cheek.

“So dis is how de posh peoples live, while us poor niggers lives in slums?” He joked regarding the décor of the lounge.

“Don, you sound more like Al Jolson than Al Jolson.” I gently chided. Then with a resigned seriousness, “What trouble is he in now?”

“Who?” asked Don with feigned innocence.

“Look, I know you weren’t making a social call at three a.m. So it has to be John. What’s happened now?”

“That’s just your suspicious mind.”

“The only time you want me, sorry I’ll rephrase that….” I smiled and he sniggered.

“I want you all the time girl, but my missus would kill me.”

“Every time John is in trouble, you send for me. It’s happened two or three times, so it seems to me to be a reasonable deduction. Do you want some tea or coffee?” I wandered towards the kitchen with Don following close behind.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, “and with all your magical powers an’all, we can’t fool you.”

“Cut to the chase, Don,” I said switching the kettle on.

“Okay, ma’am.”

“What?” I said.

“Well, you are still an acting captain,” he smirked at me.

“Since when have you taken any notice of that?” I fired back at him.

He stood at attention and saluted me. “Staff sergeant Don Masters reporting for duty, ma’am.”

“I’m not the duty officer, sergeant,” I replied, making up two mugs of instant coffee.

“Black or white?” I said then realised what I’d said.

“I’m always black, ma’am,” He said back, struggling to keep his face straight.

“Your coffee, you idiot,” I replied.

“Like my body, black, ma’am.”

“Very funny, Don. I suggest that unless you are going to drink it at attention, you stand easy.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.”

“Stop the crap Don, what gives?” We walked back to the sitting room.

“When you have finished your coffee, I have instructions to drive you London.”

“Do I get to dress first?” I asked in between sips of coffee.

“Personally, I’d prefer you didn’t, but the PM might not have the same rampant lust that I do.”

“The PM?” I put my cup down. “So it’s not John?”

“I don’t recall saying it ever was?” he winked at me.

“Yeah well my second sight isn’t working tonight, I think I got conjunctivitis in my third eye.”

“You what?” he said looking confused.

“Forget it, I was cracking a joke but my audience wasn’t up to it.”

“Yeah, right.” He shook his head, “Sometimes I worry about you girl.”

“You worry, how do you think I feel?”

“I should imagine you feel pretty hot.”

“Down boy,” I snapped at him. “I’ll go get dressed.”

Thankfully, I had showered before going to bed, so a quick wipe with a flannel and I was ready to dress. “Geez, what do I wear?” I said to myself. I opted for a navy suit with a contrasting red silk blouse, red court shoes and bag. Then I combed my hair and slapped on a little makeup. It was about an hour or so to London, plus whatever time we had to wait to see the PM or whoever was designated to deal with us. I was ready in fifteen minutes, okay twenty.

As we sped towards London in the Jaguar, driven by an army driver, I asked Don, “Do we know what this is about?”

“Not yet, ma’am.” He indicated the driver as a potential security risk, and we then chatted about any and everything to pass away the journey.

“Where are you taking us, driver?” I asked of the young man at the wheel.

“Whitehall, ma’am.”

Obviously, this was high-level stuff. I was lost in my thoughts as we raced through the relatively empty London streets. I half noticed the speed we were going, it was fast.

We stopped and were ushered in through a large wooden door, along wainscoted corridors and plush carpets, up a flight of stairs, then into an office bigger than my parents’ lounge. “Please wait here,” was what the minion said, so we obliged him.

“Something heavy going down?” I whispered to Don.

“Must be if you’re here,” he whispered back.

“Ha bloody ha, now come on, what’s happening?” I hissed back at him.

“I don’t know any more than you, didn’t you check your crystal ball before you came out?”

“Any more of that, sergeant, and I shall forget I’m a lady and an officer and…”

“And what, ma’am?”

“Turn you into a toad.”

“As long as it’s a black one, I don’t care.” We both began to giggle. Of course, that was when the big cheese walked in.

“Captain Curtis, Sergeant Masters?” we shook hands, “Thank you for coming at this early hour. I’m Sidney Chafey, under-secretary at the Home Office.”

Before we could settle to our meeting, the minion returned with coffee and croissants. I was starving. We all tucked in and for several minutes nothing was said.
“Thank you Mr Chafey, those were delicious. Would you be so kind as to explain why my beauty sleep was disturbed?”

“Of course. You are both aware of the impending visit of President Susan Carlton?”

“Mr Chafey, I was asked to do this detail before and I declined.”

“Captain, you won’t be asked, you will be assigned as and when, the powers that be, decide. You might be an officer, and a very young one, but you do what you are told, same as the rest of us.”

I stifled my indignation. I had turned down a request from the Prime Minister to look after the US President, why should I be bossed around by his underling? I know he had a point, I’m supposedly a soldier and follow orders etc. But I thought I was supposed to be a bloody nurse.

“I wasn’t sure I was up to it,” I added.

“Others beg to differ, including the President herself.”

“Oh bugger,” I said to myself. “Now I am stuck with a week of being a lackey. I don’t move in this world or with these people, why couldn’t they have left me in bed?” I yawned.

“We, in conjunction with US intelligence (I was tempted to ask if that was an oxymoron?), believe that an attempt might be made on the President’s life while she is a guest of HM Government.”

Don and I looked at each other, the word, ‘heavy’ was shared silently between us.
“Do we know who specifically might be posing this threat?” I asked, trying to sound interested.

“There are three possible groups,” he handed us each a file, “You can read up on those later. “Your orders are in these envelopes. You will read them later. Any questions?”

“Yes, I have one. What about clothes? I don’t have the sort of wardrobe to escort a President about.”

“I’ll arrange a one-off contribution.”

“Will we be armed?” asked Don.

“Yes, usual issue of weapon and clip of ammunition. Are you both fire-arms certified?”

Don nodded, I shook my head. “I have no idea?” I said. He rose and went to his computer.

He punched in various things, then drily said, “It would appear, Captain Curtis, that you have a maximum score.”

“Which means?” I asked.

“You’re a better shot than Robin Hood.”

“Not with a bow and arrow,” I threw back at him.

“Just as well you’ll have a handgun then, isn’t it?”
I did not like this man, but I wanted to read my orders and the file, to see how much I was going to be involved. Plus I was going to need some time for shopping. What a bummer it all was.

“If the US President is in danger, why not simply cancel the visit until it’s safer?”

“Do you know how long it takes to set these things up? Years.” He answered his own question. “This was all in motion before Mrs Carlton won the election. There are all sorts of meetings and receptions as well as visits to hospitals and other worthy causes. A stay at the palace, visit to Parliament and lots of other equally sensitive sites. It takes years to set up.”

“But if she gets hurt or killed, wouldn’t postponement have been better?”

“It’s your job to see she doesn’t get hurt or killed, just like it’s mine to ensure everything else runs smoothly.”

“I wonder if Armani do shoulder holsters?” I said pointedly.

“Try Marks and Spencer,” said our host as we left.

Our driver was still waiting as we emerged into the weak daylight. “I cannot believe that they are using me on this one,” I said rattily to Don.

“By special request, too,” he smirked back at me.

“Get stuffed.”

As we drove back to the office I didn’t know I had, we chatted again, deferring the opening of orders until we were in more secure surroundings.

“So where is he, then?” I asked.

“Who?” replied Don.

“As if I would be asking about anyone. Your usual partner in crime, that’s who.”

“Oh him. I haven’t the faintest.”

“I thought you two worked together,” I said, surprised by his answer.

“Sometimes, but he’s been on royals.”

“What do you mean, royals?”

“He’s off with a member of the royal household, somewhere or other abroad. Dunno where.”

“What; bodyguard stuff?” I asked concerned.

“General security, which would include bodyguard, checking places out, routes, vehicles, schedules, all that sort of thing. You didn’t know?”

“I’ve heard nothing from him for weeks,” I said, suddenly feeling sad about it.

“Well I told him to snap you up or someone else would.”

“I think I was a bit short with him the last time we met.” Now I could add guilt to my sadness.

“He probably asked for it.”

“I thought you were his friend?”

“I am, that’s why I tell him the truth. When he comes back I’ll send him to you. I promise.”

“Only if he wants to come.” I began to understand how Bridget Jones felt, except she was older than me.

We arrived at the office. I had no idea about being based here, I didn’t even know if I was on secondment or anything else. Don led the way up to his office, the one he shared with John. “You might as well have his desk for the moment.” He said, then after dumping stuff on his desk he said, “Tea or coffee?”

I chose tea and sat down at John’s desk. It was full of his energy, and it felt good. I opened a drawer and found a photo of me. I nearly began to cry. I wanted to speak to him so much. I wanted to tell him, that we had both made mistakes and needed to start again. I wanted to start again. Damn, I missed him. I heard Don’s approach just in time, shoved the photo back in the drawer and was opening my orders as he came in.