Stream of consciousness Sunday: The Accumulator, part seventeen…

01 Jan

Welcome to the first 2017 edition of SoCS, wherein Linda G Hill provides us with the inspiration to continue this story by leaving us this prompt;

” “first/last.” Use one or both words, or find words that mean the same. Bonus points if you start your post with “first/beginning/start” etc. and end with “last/end” “

Well, if you insist…

The Accumulator, part seventeen.

Scene: Starting from high above the Earth, the camera plummets down through ragged tendrils of cloud, breaking out into bright sunshine and continuing down towards an urban sprawl that stands out like a scar against the green patchwork of the countryside. Our rapid descent slows as individual streets become visible and levels out until it feels as if we’re speeding along above a quiet housing estate. It is two weeks ago.

The camera sweeps along the street from our high vantage point, dropping below the level of the rooftops and slowing as it turns to face the neat gardens and gravel drives of a middle class neighborhood; finally coming to a halt opposite a house indistinguishable from the rest and zooming in to a window on the ground floor.

The shot carries us magically through the double glazing without so much as a scratch and we find ourselves in a modern fitted kitchen, where Patrick and Cathy are seated at the breakfast bar, drinking coffee.

The camera floats straight past our heroes, however, heading out of the kitchen and making a slow circuit of the property, showing us a comfortable house that has a lived-in look. As we take a look round, Patrick’s voiceover returns, narrating over images of mundane domesticity.

“So, here we are in our latest home; we’ve become suburbanites as you can tell, in accordance with our policy of “blending in”, but it’s taken us a while to get here.

Since we fled our sanctuary in continental Europe, quite a bit has happened, although I’m not sure you need to know all the ins and outs of how we got here. Suffice to say, I employed a similar method of commandeering the property of nefarious ne’er-do-wells and illicit entrepreneurs as I had on our arrival in France, amassing quite a decent little war chest in just a few months. 

We reintegrated ourselves back into English society without any problems; the polite young career couple in search of rented accommodation is so ubiquitous a demographic these days, I doubt the letting agent even bothered to check our carefully faked references. 

We both got dull, nine to five jobs as soon as we had a postal address to send applications from; opened bank accounts under our newly manufactured identities; spent unremarkable amounts of money on our credit cards at unremarkable high street retailers; made casual acquaintances amongst our unremarkable neighbours and work colleagues and generally disappeared into the background of suburban life for over a year.

All the time we were alert for signs of the enemy’s unseen tentacles, stirring just beneath the surface of everyday life, waiting to emerge from the shadows and snatch us back into the dark underworld we had worked so hard to escape. We installed a powerful computer system in the basement, (ostensibly for use in my job as a graphic designer) which we used to scan the press, tv news and internet for clues to their spreading influence, keeping track of destabilized regions of the world, noting the rise in coups and assassinations and looking for connections between suspicious, mysterious or unsolved murders and sudden new political appointments. It took us nearly nine months of patient digging, but two days ago all our hard work eventually paid off and we started to plan our revenge. 

Cathy had been working at the private hospital our investigations had led us to, using her past experience (and some more “creative” references) to get herself a transfer to their psychiatric ward, where she had been working with an amnesia patient. About a month ago she heard rumours that the young man had been held in isolation since being admitted, having been the only survivor of a car crash. The circumstances of the otherwise fatal accident had drawn the attention of a private firm of “security consultants”, who’s client had requested that a sentry was posted outside his room at all times, only permitting nursing staff to enter whilst chaperoned by one of the armed guards.

Her nameless patient had been in an induced coma for three weeks, recovering from emergency surgery on a serious head injury, before Cathy was even permitted to attend to him without one of the silent watchmen looking over her shoulder; but two days ago, on the first day she was alone with him, something happened that told her our search was over.”

By now, the roaming camera has returned to the kitchen and we see Cathy and Patrick in earnest conversation, a laptop open on the counter in front of them.

“…so I was plugging in his drip, when his eyes snapped open and he looked straight at me! It scared the shit out of me, I tell you, but not as much as it did when I saw his hands.”

Cathy turns to Patrick with a tense look of excitement on her face.
“I hadn’t noticed them before, they were hidden under the sheet, but he shot his arm out, grabbed my wrist and stared right at me, and he was wearing black leather gloves.” 

He stared at her, feeling the blood pounding in his temples, not daring to hope that this was what it seemed.

“Are you sure they weren’t just for protection, maybe he was burned or something?”

But he knew that wasn’t it, he knew they had finally found what they had been looking for all this time. And, if there had been any doubt, Cathy dispelled it with her next words;

“But that’s not all; I read his chart, I saw who his doctor was. Patrick, the surgeon who performed the operation, it was Felix Braithwaite!”

Patrick leant over the remains of breakfast, kissed Cathy on the forehead and smiled with satisfaction.

“At last, I think our mission might be coming to an end.”


To be continued (using next week’s prompt {which can now be found HERE})…


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4 responses to “Stream of consciousness Sunday: The Accumulator, part seventeen…

  1. John W. Howell

    January 1, 2017 at 22:44

    I can’t wait to see the plan that these two will hatch.


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