Is It Safe? Ch. 01

PROLOGUE

Valerian was a villainous nonentity. On a fiery August day in New York, I watched from the river bank as each effortless stroke took him nearer to the centre of Paris. He was a strong swimmer, and as he coasted through the waters of the Seine, I knew I wouldn't catch him.

It started at Madison Square Park. I was perched on the roof of a Yellow cab at the intersection of West 26th Street and Broadway. It was the lunch time rush hour, the cab was stationary and cars were bumper to bumper. It was the time of day where traffic is gridlocked to the extent that New Yorkers know it's quicker to walk.

I wasn't in need of a ride. Standing on top of the cab was an essential vantage point to find Valerian. He was only a tad taller than five feet and difficult to locate amongst the pack of pedestrians who crowded the sidewalk. At length I saw him a block away, as he meandered through the crowds, heading uptown towards Times Square. He didn't know it, but he was about to lead me to Mrs Tolley. Both of us wanted to talk to her, but for different reasons.

It's no more than a mile to the Square, however with the oppressive heat and the crush, it was fifteen minutes before we reached it. He took a right into 42nd Street and, after a few minutes, entered the five star Wyndham Hotel.

It was obvious that our mutual 'friend,' Mrs Tolley, was not afraid to spend the money. Foolish, I thought, although it was such recklessness which made my job easier.

I was twenty seconds behind Valerian as I entered the lobby.

"Damn," I said, as I looked around.

He'd 'magiced' the hotel interior into an art gallery. The lobby had been elongated and the unnecessary items such as elevators, stairs and reception desk had been removed. I was in a long, unfurnished hall, bright lit by high Palladian windows, with paintings on three walls.

He must have known I'd followed him and, although he lost me once before with that trick, I was determined he wouldn't do it again.

"Sir, excuse me," beckoned a voice beside me.

He was a tall young man, with a Fifties crew cut, dressed in a conservative blue suit with a name tag attached to the lapel. He extended his hand. "Your invitation, please."

I dug into the inside pocket of my jacket and pulled out a wad of papers, and as I rifled through them, I inspected the gallery.

"Harold," I said, as I peered at his plastic label, "are there any exits?"

"No sir," he answered smugly, "you know there aren't."

I ignored his jibe and observed the other guests. It was no surprise that Valerian was not amongst them.

I handed over the invitation and took a couple of steps.

"Sir," he called after me.

"Yes."

"This is a Rolling Stones concert ticket."

"Oh! Is it?" I stepped back. I didn't remember buying it. "When's the gig?"

He scrutinised the wording. "Ah, it's not for a little while, Sir. April 6th, 2030."

I gestured for the return of the ticket, replaced it in the pile of papers and resumed my search.

Harold pointed to a purple edged card which protruded from my papers. "May I?" He pulled the embossed invitation from my hand and examined it. "I thought it was you, Mr Burbank. Thank you. Enjoy the preview."

I took a few steps, double checking the thirty odd people who milled around the gallery. They were strangers. It was time for the hunt.

From nowhere a sleek Eurasian woman glided towards me as she held out a catalogue. "Thank you, Sir."

I smiled and accepted the offering.

"Would you care for a drink?"

"No, thanks."

She flowed away to find other guests and I looked at the mauve coloured catalogue. The title read, THE VALERIAN COLLECTION and underneath, in smaller letters, 19th CENTURY FORGERIES. I opened it to see how many exhibits were displayed; there were eighteen. I reckoned he must be confident to use so few hiding places.

I started at the right hand wall and discounted the first two exhibits; they were portraits. I ignored them. Valerian could only hide within the confines of the painting. I realised he may have concealed himself behind the people who posed, but that wouldn't have been a challenge. Whatever I thought of him, he was a professional with flair and initiative. Wherever he was, he would not be easy to find.

Before I reached the next painting, I was certain that's where Valerian would be hidden. For one thing, it wasn't a forgery, and when I was in front of it, I knew. There was no proof, yet I realised it would be the near perfect place.

The original artwork hangs in Chicago's Art Institute. It's a massive three by two metre high canvas with the figures in the forefront painted full size. It was the famous work by Georges Seurat, the Parisian artist, and it was that painting which launched the 1880s school of Neo-impressionism.

I studied it. The scene showed Parisians in their Sunday best clothes as they enjoyed a sunny day on a grassy island in the Seine. The island's name and that of the painting was Le Grande Jatte. The lawn was filled with people; most of them promenaded, a few relaxed on the grass and others stood and gazed at the river. The Seine was crowded with boats: rowing, sailing and steam driven and a crew of four, plus cox had pulled into the bank.

There were trees spread around the meadow, all potential hiding places, but I soon realised the trunks weren't even thick enough to hide a child. I examined the horizon and cursed. There was a long line of trees on the opposite embankment and behind those was Paris.

Once over the Seine, Valerian would easily lose himself in the city and, although I knew he may still be on the island, I concentrated on the river.

I stepped back a pace to inspect the water. Seurat used thousands of pixel like dots of paint to form his images and close up, dots were all I saw.

As I studied the painting, it came to life. I ignored the island and within seconds, a tell tale bubble appeared on the surface of the water. It was immediately followed by another. Valerian was experiencing difficulty in staying under and would soon surface.

In the painting, on my immediate left, a man reclined on the grass, resting on his elbow, while he took stock of the river.

I approached him. "Pardon, monsieur."

He removed the clay pipe. "Oui?" he said gruffly.

"Pouvez-vous m'aider, s'il vous plaît?" 'Can you help me?'

He pulled himself up, removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was in no hurry as he brushed the grass from his trousers.

"Quoi?" he replied. 'What?'

I held out my hand to signify a lift up.

With a grunt of indifference, he offered his own, and I pushed mine through the canvas and grabbed his hand. I placed my right foot on the picture frame and launched myself forwards as he lifted me. At first, the picture held to me like clingfilm, but soon gave way. Within seconds I was by his side. Behind me, I felt the canvas pull back into its original place and, as it did so, there was a gentle plop!

Out of the air conditioned lobby, the hot Parisian sun pounded my face.

The adults in the painting were quietly enjoying their leisure, whereas the air was filled with the noise of the half a dozen children as they chased one another around my legs. Everyone was happy, except the man who helped me into the picture. I thanked him and heard the familiar grunt as he sat on the grass.

I glanced into the art gallery behind me. It was no longer there. Instead, there was a garret studio and one occupant, a slim young man in his twenties, tall with a handsome face hidden behind a thick growth of hair. His palette hung by his side and he glared at me, confused and angry.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Seurat," I shouted. "Je suis désolé," I apologised.

He replied although I didn't hear. By his aggrieved attitude, I judged it was a French equivalent of 'clear off' with, perhaps, the substitution of an Anglo Saxon verb. No doubt, what upset him was the unsuitability of my modern clothing within his painting, or perhaps I upset the artistic composition.

I took his advice and rushed towards the river bank as Valerian's head surfaced.

He saw me, trod water while he rotated his body until it faced the far bank and swam away, toward the city.

It was my intention to pursue him, but the instant I removed a shoe, there was an angry, raucous noise behind me. I spun around to see half a dozen swans running towards me, gaggling ferociously. I realised it was geese that gaggled, although at the time, I especially didn't care what noise swans made. They broke arms and legs with their wings and that was my main consideration.

Where the hell did they come from? - there were no swans in the painting.

Panic produces irrational behaviour, which is my excuse for why I relied on the crazy assumption I was able to outswim the swans. For whatever reason, I ran towards the river to escape them.

I ran fast, but the birds were quicker, they were out-distancing me. The swans' hissing and beating wings were louder. They were gaining on me and I wondered if I could fly quicker than they. I leaped into the air, but it was too late. I was attacked and beaten around the head by a feathered barrage of white wings.

D 140801 - 3.

CHAPTER 1

August, 2001

Day 1, Tuesday

The flutter of wings awoke me. I prised open my eyes to see a seagull as he folded his wings. He had an insolent stare, making it clear he resented my presence in his territory.

I ignored the bird and dozed. I sensed something wrong, with no idea of what. It was ... a feeling, nothing more. I tried to re-enter the dream, although I soon realised it was too late. I was awake. With eyes closed against the morning sunlight, I fumbled on the bedside cabinet for my watch and squinted at it through sleep laden eyes. The watch was a Breitling, whilst the one I owned was a Breguet. Similar names, both Swiss and expensive, however the Breitling wasn't mine.

It was 6.20, far too early after a restless night and I allowed my eyelids to close. I attempted sleep, but my mind was alert, something apart from the watch was wrong.

The seagull, no doubt bored with me, launched into the air with a noisy flapping of wings.

I flashed my eyes open and looked towards the window. As the bird soared out of sight, I saw a doorway, but no window. There were two glass partitioned doors, they were open and led onto a balcony. That confused me; I didn't have a balcony. I threw back the single sheet, staggered into the fresh air and clutched the rail. It was a magnificent morning, cool and peaceful and the clear cobalt sea shimmered in the morning light. It was pleasant, yet bizarre. I lived a hundred miles from the sea and I didn't anticipate a harbour entrance outside my bedroom.

At first, I was certain it wasn't a dream, that fantasy was in New York. Nor did I think was it a new dream, nor even a false awakening. What was beyond dispute was that I wasn't in England and if I wasn't at home in bed, I must be in a dream world. It made no sense, but perhaps I was in another lucid dream. I was baffled and gave up until my mind was clearer.

I trampled down my confusion and studied the view from the balcony. I was in a town, the buildings clustered together and the style of architecture was Mediterranean. In front, the port was packed with boats, ships and yachts, many large and expensive. In an instant, I recognised the battlements of the Palace which formed one side of the harbour. It was the Palais du Prince, the home of Prince Rainier.

"Monté-Carlo," I whispered, "très bien."

Monté-Carlo, one of the quartiers of Monaco, was without doubt, the most opulent of the four. I surveyed the view and reminisced. It was four years since we last visited and it was good to be back, even if it was a dream.

I returned to the cool of the bedroom. It was a generous size, furnished with a Mediterranean refinement which included a double bed, a modern four poster with brown and cream linen. I poked my head through the two doors on the wall opposite the balcony; one led to an en-suite bathroom and the other was a dressing room.

In the bedroom, above a chest of drawers, hung a gigantic gilt framed mirror. I studied my reflection with a degree of puzzlement. I'm an expert on lucid dreams and I know it's impossible to see one's reflection during a dream. More confusion!

I studied myself. Adam Burbank looked back, six feet tall, grateful to appear early thirties, in reality I was edging on thirty nine. My build is satisfactory, though not exceptional, muscled without excess and with a fine tan. I wouldn't look out of place on the beaches of Monaco.

I stepped up to the mirror to examine my face: clean shaven, smooth skinned with dark blue eyes, and a longish nose, not unlike John Lennon's. I've been told it's a handsome face, however if that's true - which I doubt - it's never benefited me. Women are a mystery ... but enough on that subject. I'll return to it later.

I was unimpressed with my hair - it was blond and I didn't know why I chose the colour as it didn't suit me. It was too short, fashionable perhaps, and yet I was comfortable with longer hair. My natural colour is black, jet black. I stared at the mirror and willed it, but it was hopeless and remained blond. I gave up and picked up a cotton dressing gown from the bed. I was keen to explore my new home.

The lounge was spacious with a tiled floor and simple, yet expensive furniture - a quiet elegance. In the centre was a massive coffee table and, on each of three sides, were cream leather settees. The seating was arranged to benefit the view of the town, an outlook provided by the floor to ceiling window which filled the wall. There were well stocked book cases, an expensive sound system and the walls were covered with a selection of my favourite paintings and prints, including a Pollock and two Hockneys. Around the room were ornate lamps and vases filled with fresh flowers. I was impressed.

I decided further exploration of the apartment should wait. I was primed for breakfast. Croissant and coffee beckoned. The town was asleep, however the café owners would soon open for the early trade.

As I showered, I thought back to the row with Sam the previous evening. I felt sick as I recalled the way I'd treated her. Sometimes, I can be such a bastard.

Afterwards, in my bedroom, dressed in T-shirt, denims and sports sandals, I ran through the long pile carpet and launched head first from the balcony.

The exhilaration of flight was short-lived. I fell twenty metres and two seconds later, crashed onto a Mercedes convertible. My fall ripped open the canvas roof and I landed upon the gear stick. It punched through my throat.

---

England.

It was the blaze of sunshine that woke me. I shielded my eyes and searched the bedside cabinet for my watch. It wasn't there, nor were my framed photos. At that point I remembered I wasn't at home, I was at Dad's house. I call it Dad's, however until a while ago, it had been the family home. When Mum left him and took my sister and I, everything changed!

There was a hush and I assumed it was early since I couldn't hear Dad's morning practice on the guitar. It was normal when I woke to hear strumming as he grappled to position his fingers on the frets in his search for the elusive chords. He was a slow learner, but persistent and wouldn't cease until he mastered it.

I knelt on the bed and inspected the garden. Dad adored the countryside. He lived in a cottage, set on the outskirts of a wood where there was always a fair chance of seeing local wildlife. Nothing as exciting as deer or anything larger than a badger. After all we lived a few miles from Birmingham, England's second city. It was a pleasant morning and at the top of the lawn, out of cover of the woodland a squirrel foraged for food.

Thoughts of the long summer holiday ahead sent a thrill through me. There were nine weeks before the Michaelmas term in October, the promise of plenty of leisure time with the less enjoyable prospect of study. More immediate was the anticipation of the day ahead. We'd stopped the night at Dad's to make an early start - it was to be a day out with the three of us, Dad, my sister Charlie and I. Since he sold his business in February, we spent plenty of time together, whereas when we were children, his time was rationed ...

"Samantha!"

My day dream collapsed under Charlie's bellow. She shuffled into the room and posed by the side of my bed as she knotted her dressing gown. She glared at me. I was unable to remember the last time she was out of bed before me, so I figured it was late.

It was obvious from her attitude she was in a mood - nothing unusual, however the clincher was her habit of calling me by my full name when she was cranky. Any other time I was Sam.

"It's way past 10," she snapped, "we should have left by now."

I bounced off the bed, picked up my watch from the dressing table and somehow avoided the expletive used by Scarlett in Four Weddings when she overslept. My restraint was remarkable, particularly as Charlie's annoyance was aimed at me.

"I've told you a million times, don't exaggerate," I told her. "It's five past. We've all overslept."

Despite her petulance, she was her usual stupefied state after she woke and I knew I must take charge. "Charlie, get ready while I wake Dad." That would be the only time of day she would tolerate my authority.

"OK," she mumbled as she made for the bathroom.

I well-nigh forgot. "Charlie!"

She turned, but remained where she was. "What?"

"Is she here?"

"No. I heard Dad ring her after you went to bed. He asked her not to come."

"Good."

"Oh, c'mon Sam. You know you like her."

"I do, but she's not much older than me. It's ... it's ..." I shuddered.

"She's far older than you. She's twenty seven."

"Only just. She's nearer twenty six." Whatever she said, I knew I was right. What's more, I didn't believe Dad liked her that much. They would never marry.

Charlie humphed. "I know your problem. Since Mum left, you don't want him to have anyone else. Nobody's good enough for Daddy's little girl."

She never learnt. So often, she used the phrase expecting it to niggle me, but it was the opposite. I may no longer be little, but I was pleased to be his girl. Whoever took Mum's place, no-one would ever change that.

My kid sister glared at me, clearly waiting for a response.

She and I were near identical, so alike we were often mistaken for twin sisters, despite our age difference. She was seventeen, three years younger. We have black hair, mine short cut, just below the ears, with the recent addition of red lowlights and hers was down to her shoulders. Charlie was pretty and boys flocked around her, which gave her plenty of choice. I also attracted them, although I was more discriminating. Our main attraction were our charcoal grey eyes, large and with the combination of long eyelashes, were usually irresistible.

I guess Charlie realised I wasn't going to argue. She shrugged and wandered away.

I fast-footed down the hall to the master bedroom and poked my head around the door. Charlie was right, he was alone. "Dad, we're late."

He was asleep, so I snuggled up.

Most of my girl friends considered twenty was far too old to have a friendly relationship with their fathers. To their way of thinking, girls were supposed to communicate with them when it was of vital importance, for example when they needed money! They would've been amazed to see me hug him, still I reckoned it was their loss.

"Hey, wake up!" I whispered into his ear. "We're supposed to leave early. Remember?" He didn't stir, however I saw his chest rise and fall.

I rocked him with my body. "Dad, wake up."

I was considering what to do next when I remembered our argument the previous evening. Was that his problem? It started when I teased him about Nina, and what began as a joke, soon got out of hand. In view of the fight, I wondered if he pretended to sleep, although he'd never harboured a grudge before. First time, maybe? If it was a sulk, I wouldn't allow it and I playfully grabbed his nose and squeezed hard. It had no effect. I sat up and shook him. I was rough, but he didn't budge. In a final mix of increased fear and frustration, I shouted. More likely it came out as a scream.