Happy Ending

David Stokes

Description

A 97 year old hero becomes involved in a very 21st century problem... A novel for those who enjoyed 'The 100 Year Old Man Who Climbed out of the Window and Disappeared' and 'The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry' "This is a feel-good, heart-warming novel, full of fun and whimsy that also touches on a serious theme."When his wife of seventy years dies, Harry Pigeon considers joining her in the grave as he feels his purpose for living has gone. A freak accident outside his bungalow draws him into the sordid world of modern slavery and a quest that re-invigorates his zest for life. Single-handedly rescuing two girls from an international trafficking operation, he finds the tables are turned when he is accused of kidnapping them. When the girls also admit to using him to gain money, Harry's old-fashioned values suddenly seem inadequate. Can someone of his age still make a contribution in the modern world? Also running through the story is a sub-plot involving Harry's deceased wife, Betty who retains a strong voice in his life through their amusing, daily conversations that show his continued dependency on her for advice and guidance. Clearly they've had their difficulties in the past - in particular over the daughter he never met who died before he returned home from the war. Can Harry hope to resolve his feelings with Betty from beyond the grave?

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 septembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781788030465
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2017 David Stokes

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781788030465

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
My father, Charlie Stokes who died in 2015 aged 102, was the inspiration for this book together with my mother, Florence who died in 2009. Like Harry, my dad was supported from the grave by my mum, talking to her every day after she died. Although the plot is entirely fictional and my father never had any involvement with anti-trafficking, he was adventurous and joined the RAF in the 1930’s. Many of the anecdotes of Harry’s earlier life are taken from my father’s rich repertoire of stories. He became the full-time carer for my mother during the later years of her life when she suffered badly from arthritis and other illnesses. His persistent search for solutions to the problems that he encountered was an inspiration to all who knew him.
No book can be produced without a considerable team effort and I would like to thank all those who have contributed to this, the final product. In the writing phase, I received much needed encouragement and advice from other writers, especially those involved in the Writers’ Workshop including Debi Alper and Susan Davies whose help was invaluable. In the production phase, the editorial staff at Matador and Troubador Publishing all demonstrated considerable expertise and patience. Any errors that persist are my own. The insidious and wicked practice of modern human trafficking, which is the serious theme of this book, is finally receiving much needed attention and I would like to acknowledge the work of all those involved in fighting it. If you want to know more about the business model behind this terrible trade then read ‘Sex Trafficking: Inside the Business of Modern Slavery’ by Siddharth Kara (Columbia University Press). You will be shocked at the continued global scale of the slave trade which we ‘abolished’ in the nineteenth century.
Finally I give thanks to Sue, my mentor and muse who has patiently read every page in several drafts and inspired me to do less, better.
Contents
The Morphine
The Police
The Memorial
Bituin’s story
The Seaside
London
The Break-In
The Journey
The Business Plan
The Club
The Escape
The Fire
Nadia’s Story
The Capture
The Police
The Plan
The Slave Trade
The Custody Suite
The Counter-Attack
Lilly
The Betrayal
The Sting
The Happy Ending
CHAPTER 1
The Morphine
Every day, I look out from my bungalow over the field towards the cemetery. Wedged in amongst all the headstones is one that simply says:

Elizabeth Margaret Pigeon
1922 – 2011
Beloved wife of Harry
for 70 golden years

That’s Betty. It’s funny how we try to put a whole life into a few words on a piece of marble like that. Still, she’s not far away, so first thing each morning, I look in her direction and say:
‘Hello. I still love you.’ Then I tell her what’s been happening – well, not everything; I wouldn’t want to upset her with some of the goings-on down here.
One day, I didn’t choose my words very carefully and it was nearly the end of me.
‘Betty,’ I said from the doorstep of my front door. ‘I made out the food order, did the washing, just as we always do on a Monday. Didn’t see anyone. Couldn’t go out because of the rain. Nobody came round, not even the postman. Just sat at home and read the paper until I fell asleep. Days like that make me wish I was with you, over there, in a wooden box.’
Her reply was as bitter as the east wind that tugged at the overcoat I was wearing over my pyjamas.
‘That’s not what you told me, Harry Pigeon. “We go when our body says its time to go, not before.” That’s what you told me, even when I begged you to let me go. So just you get on with life. Do some cleaning if you’re bored.’
That blast from Betty hit me so hard I had to grip the doorpost to stop my bent old frame from doubling over. It took me straight back to her last days. She would plead with me, tears in her eyes, to give her more morphine. Night and day, that wicked pain tormented her, wearing her down, draining all the fight out of her until it had eaten up every little bit of who she was. I knew she was on the maximum dose and any more would likely kill her. That’s what she wanted, of course. Maybe I should have helped her to go.
I shuffled back to the chair by the window, hoping to see a bird on the feeder or a dog chasing a ball in the field. Instead I watched misty rain turn to icy sleet that obscured the view. After breakfast, I took Betty’s advice and did some cleaning. Things had slipped since the funeral; I hadn’t even cleared out her clothes. I opened the cupboard on her side of the bed and pulled out a stack of romantic short stories that she liked to read before sleep and a pile of fancy handkerchiefs.
That’s when I found the morphine, tucked away at the back.
She must have been saving it gradually over the years, hiding it away for the moment when she could no longer bear the pain. So why hadn’t she taken it? She asked for it often enough. Maybe she left it for me, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to cope on my own. Closing my eyes, I began to think the unthinkable. What if I took it all now? Faded away, nice and quiet; nothing to worry about any more. Maybe the vicar was right: I’d see Betty again, up there in the sky. That would be a happy ending.
The next thing I knew, my head was lolling on my chest. I forced myself to wake up, wondering what I’d done as I scrambled to check the morphine at the back of Betty’s cupboard. All still there. I read the doses on the label of one of the bottles. More than enough to finish me off. A framed picture of Betty stood on top of the cupboard and I could feel her green-blue eyes watching me carefully as her words came back to me.
‘We go when our body says it’s time to go, not before. That’s what you told me, so don’t even think about it.’
I didn’t throw the bottles away, though. I moved them to my side of the bed.
***
Later, the sleet turned to snow and I watched thick flakes swirl around the garden. It was meant to be spring. Anyone who claims that our climate isn’t changing fast doesn’t go outside very often.
Snowflakes weren’t the only thing to fall that day.
Once the storm had eased, I ventured outside to try clearing the path. I couldn’t use a shovel any more but I did manage to push the snow aside using a broom. It was so cold I could feel the hairs in my nose crackling when I breathed in and my chest heaved and wheezed with the effort. Looking forward to a quick snooze by a warm fire, I came back in, stamping my feet in the hallway to shake off the snow from my boots. That’s when I spotted an odd sock on the floor that must have dropped out of the washing basket earlier. Bending down to pick it up, I felt my body heading down too far. I struggled to keep myself upright, but I lacked the energy somehow and sat down with a bump. Crawling to a chair, I tried to pull myself back up. Do you know, I must have tried a dozen times if I tried once, but each time that I thought I’d made it, my strength drained away at the last minute and I slid back down. I cursed my frail, old body. As a young man, I could do press-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, twenty or more of each. Now I couldn’t do one stand up. I had to press the emergency button around my neck for help; couldn’t help myself any more.
A polite young man assured me that it wouldn’t take long for the paramedics to come round and pick me up. A few minutes later he called back to say that there was a major incident on the by-pass so the ambulances were a bit busy and there would be a delay.
I sat there on the cold, hard floor and waited. Just sat there, not able to do something as simple as stand up. Like a little baby, except I didn’t have a mother to pick me up. I was even wearing a nappy. That’s what the doctor had prescribed for me when I went to see her for a check-up. She’d poked and prodded, taken the pressure of this and the pulse of that. Finally she scribbled ‘sanitary pads’ on a prescription to take to the pharmacy. She said they would stop the dribbling. They looked just like nappies to me. I really had become a baby again.
***
Betty was with me the first time that I fell. Not that she helped much, bless her. I was in the garden pruning the rose bushes outside the window where she looked out. She loved to sit there and watch the flowers come and go according to the season. Even in the depths of winter, she had her eye out for chrysanthemums, primroses or crocuses so she could call me as soon as they began to appear. In her later years she spent most of her time in that chair looking out of the window, so I tried my hardest to give her a really good view all year round. It was spring and I was busy pruning. I took a step back to see if I’d got the shape right. Betty w