guessing, wasn’t a thank you. The matron placed the device into Jim’s hand and pressed a button on the side. The reflection of his daughters face in Jim’s eyes as he smiled frantically, tears streaming down his jagged face dripping onto his bib and onto the device giving a splatter that distorted the picture. The matron wiped away the tear and left the room.
‘I’ll be back in five minutes Jim’ softly spoke the matron, shutting the French doors behind her and exiting through the dark room attending to the door and lighting a cigarette.
‘Jim, how are you?’ asked Kerry in the knowledge that he couldn’t respond.
‘We are coming over to see you and Frankie in a few days’ added Kerry.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to check on you. Rupert wishes you well; he’s working quite a lot at the moment. I will call you again before we get the flight out to England. Hope you’re ok and we are looking forward to seeing you soon, love you bye’ ended Kerry as the device screen went blank and returned to the normal screen menu. Jim looked wildly happy as the matron returned. All of his family together made him feel safe, if only someone could look him after.
The matron placed the pills and liquids into Jim’s mouth and rubbed his throat to ease the effort of swallowing and wheeled him to the lift next to the stairs, clicking the lights off as she went.
The telephone rang with an almighty clattering ting that shook Frankie who was leaning back on his chair, feet raised on his desk in his army barracks tent looking over the papers of new recruits, he found something odd about the applicants’ similarity. The tent was full of dusty guns, papers, medical equipment and the length of the tent was rather huge, designed for around forty or fifty persons. The assessment of the new recruits and its deadline all vanished as he was distracted by the telephone over to his left, bellowing away making the table vibrate. Frankie left his desk and proceeded over towards the small rickety table and lifted the receiver, placing it to his ear and mouth, although not speaking.
‘Frankie here of the London Intelligence Alliance’ said Frankie with an element of authority.
‘Sir, may I bring to your attention that there is suspicion and possibility of a terrorist attack in London and in America, England being the major target’ said the young man as the receiver died to a monotone decibel.
The red and white underground train station of St Angel was in pristine order on the contrary to what had happened later that night, that of drunken louts clabbering on anything possible and acting in a rather stumbled way. The pavement glistened just like a polish boot and there was a stench of dust and debris that clogged up the eyes and nose of Jessica Platts. Coughing and sneezing as she only just managed to see the step on exiting the train on to the platform at Piccadilly Circus; she remembered her favourite shop and located some coins in her tiny purse where she kept her diary and other girly items.
‘Mummy are can we go to Mr Biggles sweet shop’ said Jessica with an urgent whine, one that her mother Lensa frequently heard.
‘Yez, okay ve will go and get sum sweets if zat is vat you want’ replied Lensa Wolfgang Platts, Jessica’s and Alexandra’s German mother. Her accent was slowly wearing off from living in London ever since Jessica was born back in 2009, the year of the house price fluctuation. This was a good thing really considering their father; Eric Hoovenstaad Platts was of Dutch origin, so this created a mixture of languages, enunciations and interpretations along with colloquial misguidance, sometimes the household conversations can be pretty lengthy.
Eric is an architect and a highly respected one, coming up with such designs as the Manchester auditorium, the bridge to nowhere in Calcutta, various football memorabilia and statues and offices in London that have won e-co awards and
‘I’ll be back in five minutes Jim’ softly spoke the matron, shutting the French doors behind her and exiting through the dark room attending to the door and lighting a cigarette.
‘Jim, how are you?’ asked Kerry in the knowledge that he couldn’t respond.
‘We are coming over to see you and Frankie in a few days’ added Kerry.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to check on you. Rupert wishes you well; he’s working quite a lot at the moment. I will call you again before we get the flight out to England. Hope you’re ok and we are looking forward to seeing you soon, love you bye’ ended Kerry as the device screen went blank and returned to the normal screen menu. Jim looked wildly happy as the matron returned. All of his family together made him feel safe, if only someone could look him after.
The matron placed the pills and liquids into Jim’s mouth and rubbed his throat to ease the effort of swallowing and wheeled him to the lift next to the stairs, clicking the lights off as she went.
The telephone rang with an almighty clattering ting that shook Frankie who was leaning back on his chair, feet raised on his desk in his army barracks tent looking over the papers of new recruits, he found something odd about the applicants’ similarity. The tent was full of dusty guns, papers, medical equipment and the length of the tent was rather huge, designed for around forty or fifty persons. The assessment of the new recruits and its deadline all vanished as he was distracted by the telephone over to his left, bellowing away making the table vibrate. Frankie left his desk and proceeded over towards the small rickety table and lifted the receiver, placing it to his ear and mouth, although not speaking.
‘Frankie here of the London Intelligence Alliance’ said Frankie with an element of authority.
‘Sir, may I bring to your attention that there is suspicion and possibility of a terrorist attack in London and in America, England being the major target’ said the young man as the receiver died to a monotone decibel.
The red and white underground train station of St Angel was in pristine order on the contrary to what had happened later that night, that of drunken louts clabbering on anything possible and acting in a rather stumbled way. The pavement glistened just like a polish boot and there was a stench of dust and debris that clogged up the eyes and nose of Jessica Platts. Coughing and sneezing as she only just managed to see the step on exiting the train on to the platform at Piccadilly Circus; she remembered her favourite shop and located some coins in her tiny purse where she kept her diary and other girly items.
‘Mummy are can we go to Mr Biggles sweet shop’ said Jessica with an urgent whine, one that her mother Lensa frequently heard.
‘Yez, okay ve will go and get sum sweets if zat is vat you want’ replied Lensa Wolfgang Platts, Jessica’s and Alexandra’s German mother. Her accent was slowly wearing off from living in London ever since Jessica was born back in 2009, the year of the house price fluctuation. This was a good thing really considering their father; Eric Hoovenstaad Platts was of Dutch origin, so this created a mixture of languages, enunciations and interpretations along with colloquial misguidance, sometimes the household conversations can be pretty lengthy.
Eric is an architect and a highly respected one, coming up with such designs as the Manchester auditorium, the bridge to nowhere in Calcutta, various football memorabilia and statues and offices in London that have won e-co awards and
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