Across London in a quiet damp backstreet, a car door opened and a man stepped out. The door was closed from the inside and the car sped off. The man was left feeling a little lost but a quick glance around assured him of his exact location. He knew London well. If he turned to his left and walked a short distance down the dull street he would reach Finsbury Park tube station from where he could catch an over-ground train to Hertford North. He turned left and walked a short distance down the dull, damp and grey street.
The late autumn sunshine made him feel slightly refreshed. He was hungry but now was not the time for food. People brushed past him in the street. His strides were purposeful and gained in speed as he progressed. A sense of urgency began to flow through him. His long black coat began to open as he accelerated. He reached the station in a few moments and ascended to the platform. The television screens showed that he had a ten minute wait for his train.
The feeling of urgency started to spread into frustration. He needed to calm down if he was to be any use to them when he arrived in Hertford. He sat down on one of the cold red benches next to a young man in a base ball cap and a leather jacket. The young man was talking earnestly to a young girl on a mobile phone. From the conversation he gleaned that the pair had recently broken up. Normally he would have found this interesting. But now he just found it slightly boring. He wished the two would kiss or fight, anything in between would irritate him.
Eventually after what seemed like an eternity train arrived. He got on it. The young man boarded the train further down, much to the man’s relief. The train journey passed without much to raise any interest in his mind. His eyes flicked over the landscape and sub-urban scenes as they passed. He stood up as the train pulled into Hertford North station and left the train as soon as the doors had hissed open.
Looking around he soon located the way out and he quickly made his way down the stairs that led from the platform to a tunnel underneath. The tunnel was dark and smelt of damp and there was a faint smell of urine. Shortly the tunnel gave out onto a foyer made of red painted steel and glass. There were a few people milling around waiting for trains or friends to turn up. He barely gave any of them a second glance. He paused only to buy a paper and some cigarettes from the kiosk. The woman who served him would not remember him when she was later interviewed by the police.
The man left the station and crossed the road. The air felt much lighter here, much more breathable and less oppressive than it had in London. He started the walk down from the station to the main town centre. He had only been there once or twice before and even then it hadn’t been for long. He only knew the way so accurately now because he had studied a map for many long hours. It was to be a military operation with real precision. He couldn’t stop and ask for directions.
Soon he saw the town centre’s shopping precinct. He walked along it for a short distance and entered McDonald’s. Without hesitating he walked straight up to the counter.
“Good afternoon, sir, can I take your order?” asked the employee without any real conviction.
The man said nothing for a moment. A frown past across his face briefly before he took a pistol from inside his coat and shot the employee in the chest.
Out in the Bedfordshire countryside, Norma and the professor were enjoying spending time together. Their afternoons together in the professors old cottage in the village were rarer these days. Norman was much busier in his new job and the professor was not as well as he used to be. Today, they both found a new enthusiasm in their friendship.
“If I were to choose my favourite lemon, it would have to be number 342. An incredible specimen, I think you’ll agree. But if you want to talk about oranges then let me show you number 2034, now that is an orange.”
The professor pointed to what could only be described as a shriveled lump of orange-green fungus under a glass jar. It was at this point Norman knew the professor was worse today than he'd been in a while. He was quite quite mad.
Norman smiled and nodded. He wasn’t sure why the professor had brought him to this part of the cottage.
“Now then young man,” said the professor slowly, turning to look Norman in the eye. Norman felt a chill on the back on his neck. “Crumpets or muffins?”
“Er, what for?” asked Norman trying not to let his concern show.
“For afternoon tea, silly.”
“Muffins would be lovely.”
“Excellent,” announced the professor as he pulled a small revolver from his pocket and shot Norman twice in the head.
Some miles away, near the south coast, there was another house. In that house was the room. The room looked old. The crafted oak paneled walls looked beautifully old and even wise. There was a deep elegance about the room, from the dark green leather on the antique chairs to the polished brass gleaming on the door handle.
The floor was uneven after many years of wear and tear. It gave the impression that it would creak musically if anyone were to walk across it. The sunlight that filtered through the leaded windows had the heavy, hazy, golden quality of late summer’s afternoons.
The sunlight half lit an old oil painting of an ancient sea battle and cast long shadows in the room. There was some unopened correspondence causally left on the large mahogany desk which looked quite small in the cavernous space surrounding it.
“It looks absolutely fantastic. Is it ready?” inquired a tall and thin man with a wry smile.
“Nearly. It needs another week of work and testing.” replied a woman with glasses.
“I want it finished by tomorrow morning.” ordered a second woman.
“As you request.” the tall thin man replied bowing slightly as he spoke.
The second woman turned and walked slowly out of the small dark room.