Runaway Flame

By Richard Youlden

Sophie's birthday celebrations bring to the surface a rather outlandish ambition which she decides to act upon.

Supported, uneasily at first, by her boyfriend, Marshall, she determines to steal the Olympic flame on its relay around England, and hold it to ransom to draw public attention to the plight of those less fortunate - and possibly make a little money on the side!

While her friends are at first reluctant to get involved, they listen, and are slowly drawn in by her outlandish scheme - each for their own reasons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Youlden
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476401584

Richard Youlden

I have been a writer for a touch over 30 years, largely busy writing articles for magazines - well, one magazine "What Satellite" - and otherwise struggling with numerous scripts and other bits and pieces.Lately that has meant producing a newsletter and other small written pieces which have faded into obscurity almost as quickly as they have parted with my computer into the great internet yonder...Born and still living in the same area, I have long had a fascination and pre-occupation with fantasy, sci-fi and crime fiction - with a more recent attraction toward horror (lighter horror that is). Lately I have been drawn to novels involving Vampires and ghosts too.The more I have written the less I understand about the whole precess and the harder it seems to become. Over the years I have slowed down, writing less with far greater attention than once was the case. I would hope this means the work is of higher quality, but dyslexia and distraction being what they are, I am not sure that is true. It remains an aspiration however...Where this might lead, and what it means for the future I have not the least idea. But it will be an interesting journey.

Book preview

Chapter 01: Crawling Around Pubs.

One mid-May night, at almost exactly 8 minutes past 11pm, was when Sophie Froom first tried to announce her grand scheme: just shortly after launching most of the nights expensive chinese meal, she had recently consumed (along with several iced beers), into the gutter. I know, she had slurred, in a somewhat too loud voice. Listen to this, listen - you will like it?. As she spoke, she tried to recover her legs and persuade them to do that walking thing again. We should steal the Olympic torch and hold it for ransom!

Her long time live-in friend and partner, and equally drunk date for the evening, Marshall Glum, burped loudly in reply - and then stumbled, in the most spectacular fashion possible, across the boot of an especially well polished Mercedes. As he slid gracelessly across the finely polished paint work, the metal zip of his cheap leather jacket, scraped through the glossy blue paint sheen to leave a silver metal trail… With an ear piercingly loud beep, beep the horn blared and the cars lights began to flash.

With an uncommon degree of difficulty, Sophie focused her attention on the slumped form of Marshall, as he struggled in the gutter, failing over and again to work out how to crawl. Hard as he tried, he was unable to persuade his legs and arms to coordinate. Eventually he dragged himself across the damp pavement to the wall near the public house. He groped up the brickwork until he found the dark iron rails cemented into this low wall - and gripping tightly; he somehow managed to pull himself up.

Sophie staggered, grasping the same rail to steady herself. It’s brilliant. She continued, so shocked by her loud hoarse - partially vomit tasting mouth - that she pressed her finger to her lips in an effort to silence herself. Quiet, this is decli… decal… dulcet... decollate… delicate. She slurred on, determined to tell Marshall what she had on her mind. Her mind did not agree, it had decided that this was a good time to forget altogether what she was persisting to explain. Damn. What was I sha… shw… shaying?.

The car continued to sound it’s horn and flash it lights - now, it seemed, even more loudly than when the alarm had first sounded. Stumbling forward with the aid of the railing, Sophie reached down to help Marshall. He stared at her, a rather confused expression on his face. What’s going on? He wondered, still unable to focus. Where are we?

Sophie replied: I know I was shaying shomeshing… shay… sh- s-saying!

What? He frowned, not understanding: that hurt.

But Sophie’s mind had ceased functioning altogether, so despite considerable effort, she was no longer able to master the power of speech at anything approaching a coherent level. Oh sh.f…. After she had struggled several feet along the fens, dragging Marshall as best she could - she stopped and tried to determine the time. At first the Micky Mouse arms on the face of her watch didn’t make sense, but slowly she realized it was just after 11:16pm. Oh! She exclaimed. Shtill time for another eshtablishshm-m-shment … Pub! We aren’t done yet!

Speak for yourself. Marshall burped, then, as if in response, his knees buckled, and he sank slowly toward the ground. I don’t think I am going to manage. I can’t walk, love. I’ve had it! He reached out, somewhat awkwardly, to clasp at Sophie for support, but found the fens and clung onto that instead.

But ... give up... we can not? Sophie protested, then giggled because she sounded like Star Wars, Yoda! Its shtill early. Just … But it was no good. The considerable quantities of alcohol mixed with an alarming variety of celebratory food - and almost 24 solid hours of partying - had taken their toll. It’s still my birthday, another… She couldn’t managed the maths, a bit longer! Sophie stared at Marshall, a disturbingly wavy image in front of her, and finely admitted defeat.

Marshall struggled to balance off the fens, in an effort to put his arms around her. It’s fine, love. Just fine... We done good. Hell, we done brilli- brill! He leaned closer still, puckering his lips to kiss her, but missed, and crashed into the pavement with a dull thud of skull against tarmac. He exhaled a slow pained groan.

Sophie stared at him, holding the fens to maintain her balance. Are you all right?

Fine. Marshall whimpered, unable to roll over. Fine. Though I may be here some time. He still could not roll, wallowing like a beached wale instead.

Still holding the rail firmly with one hand, Sophie bent over as best she could, and grabbed at his arm and tried to help him up. Amid the confusion of legs, arms and profusion of groaning, somehow they were successful. Both held tight to the rail as the world swam about them. For what was only a few minutes, but seemed like a lifetime, they tried to stand still - waiting for the world to stop swirling uncontrollably.

Since the previous midnight they had managed to visit 12 different establishments around Newmarket - at each consuming a spirit and at least 3 beers (and an orange juice), along with copious quantities of snack food: including Crisps and Chocolate. But also several different kinds of take away. In the beginning it had been Sophie’s intention to celebrate her 40th birthday, this 13th May, by visiting every Pub and Fast Food emporium in town. Now, as it ended - she sadly admitted to herself that this ambition was far from accomplished. In fact her quest had transformed into just another gargantuan dismal failure. How could one small racing town in the East of England have so many pubs and junk food outlets?

Finally, leaning on one another for support, Sophie and Marshall started once again along the pavement, weaving an unsteady course. The remaining pubs and eateries would prevail unvisited. It seemed probable that Sophie and Marshall would have as much success finding their way home...

In their wake the car horn continued to sound, and the vehicle lights to flash. A somewhat less than sober individual staggered from the public house and almost fell across the car. For a moment he supported himself there. Finally he struggled with the keys to open the door. He climbed into the driving seat and sat a moment, the horn blaring and lights flashing. Then he slipped the key into the ignition and switched the alarm off… It was at that exact moment that a Police Officer stepped from the shadows and strolled over to the vehicle, a ready breath-o-meter gripped in his hand. Good evening, sir, he began, politely, I have reason to believe that you may be intoxicated?

The perplexed driver stared up at the officer, completely at a loss how to react. Moments thereafter profane explanations were flowing from his lips, and he was arrested…

Chapter 02: Coffee And Dreams.

The slow rumble of the kettle reaching crescendo as it boiled, sent a ripple of pain through Sophie’s aching head. A tidal wave of sweet discomfort from which she had no means of escape. With a degree of effort she covered her ears in a vane attempt to block out the increasing noise - it was no use. Bloody hangovers she thought, resentfully. It had always been an annoyance to her that the better the night before, generally speaking, the worse the morning after.

Sophie crumpled over the table as Marshall stumbled into the room and slammed into the chair - he grimaced as the noise shotgunned through is brain, pulverizing it. Oh, God: what did I drink yesterday? He said, wriggling and scratching and grimacing.

Whatever, please stop with the chair, and the scratching. It is far too noisy. Sophie pulled herself from the table. Her chair scraped noisily on the Lino - and she stopped to allow the pain to pass. It didn’t, but she needed coffee. Somehow she was able to complete the round trip, and get back to the table with a fresh cup of steaming coffee. With great care she sipped her hot beverage. The noise slurped through her mind, reverberating 10 fold. The heat seared her lips and burnt her tongue. Oh! She could manage no more.

Following Sophie’s example, Marshall poured himself a cup of coffee and settled opposite her. And there they both sat, each afraid to move, unsure what might best relieve the agony of their respective hangover headaches.

Do you know what we did? Marshall whispered - but his voice was far louder than he expected. He cringed. Did I embarrass myself?

I think so!

Yeah! He frowned. I must have.

I thought you said you would work on that?

Probably. He thought about it, but nothing came to him. I don’t recall.

When I’m drunk... Sophie confessed. I usually talk crap.

Marshall nodded, straining to find the memory which he had drowned beneath an ocean of inexpensive alcohol, and buried under mounds of curry and chips. And slowly, very slowly, a vague shadow of the night before loomed haltingly into view.

Are you constipated? Sophie asked, staring at his strained expression.

No. Thinking. He replied, scratching various unmentionable parts of his anatomy.

You should stop it. It looks painful.

Last night. I think you said you wanted to steal the Olympic torch. He announced, triumphantly. Then he frowned. Why would you want to do something that stupid?

I am not sure that I did? Sophie matched his frown, a look of concentration now furrowing her brow. She could vaguely remember saying something along those lines. Oh… I think you might be right!? She agreed, still concentrating on the blur of pubs, clubs, and eating, which had filled her 40th birthday celebrations. A day of excess which had exceeded all expectations. Yes, I did. I decided we are going to steal the Olympic torch.

Hey! Marshall raised his voice, but regretted it. Oh! He grabbed his head. I must remember not to shout. He warned himself. I think you might find I didn’t want anything to do with it. and wriggled on the chair, uncomfortably; scratching his leg.

Sophie opened the packet of bread, which was sitting to one side on the table. The rustle of the plastic rapper caused her to wince with pain. Every tiny noise crashing through her brain like a jack-hammer eating into concrete. For a moment she held the bread, giving herself time to recover. Then, very slowly, she took a large bite.

I don’t know how you can? Marshall said, his stomach churning at the mere thought of food.

Toast calms the gastric juices. Sophie explained, as she swallowed with some difficulty. Her throat had contracted to a fraction of its normal size, and the massive lump of sodden puffy dough forced its way through her esophagus with difficulty. Was I really talking about stealing the Olympic torch?, she helped the bread down with a slow gulp of coffee.

That isn’t toast, it’s plain bread!

I like my toast rare when I’m hung over. She replied. It’s quieter!

This made sense, Marshall was satisfied. You were. He continued, returning to his previous point. You wanted us to steal it… and please; stop shouting.

I don’t think I am shouting? Sophie’s voice hurt her own head.

Well, it sounds as though you are.

She could not argue with hat. She leaned closer, then whispered. I’ll keep it quiet. But in her own head even that was not quiet enough. Why would I want to steal the Olympic torch? What would I do with an Olympic torch?

Don’t ask me. It wasn’t my idea!

It was mine?

I think so.

Are you sure?

No. But he added. It is the sort of half ass idea you come out with when you’re pissed, singing karaoke at the top of your lungs.

Can’t argue there!… Did I really sing karaoke?

Marshall nodded.

Did anyone notice?

No. He laughed. You were the picture of discretion.

Right, my voice is maybe a little flat. I’m sure no one would complain. My effort was likely appreciated. She paused a moment, then asked, somewhat reluctantly. It was appreciated, wasn’t it? -

I think so.

Good. I wouldn’t want to lose my dignity.

Actually. I’m not sure. Marshall finally admitted. I think I might have been under the table by then. At least I think it was a table? I was certainly under something… Or, possibly some one!? I really have no idea.

Sophie considered these details. It sounds like we had a good night. Then she came back to the key point. So I wanted to steal the Olympic torch, did I?

Yes. You did.

I wonder where that came from?

Chapter 03: Security Planning Perfection.

Regional Planning Officer, Councillor Hector O’Bogle had been worrying about this meeting all week. This was not his strongest subject, and he knew it. To Hector, a somewhat work warn individual with a permanent scowl, this last month had been torture - and he could see that it was not about to end. The idea of talking to people sent his gut into turmoil once again. His bowel seemed to be crawling around his abdomen - struggling to find the closest exit. He grabbed at the carafe of water sitting on the long wide meeting table: beautifully polished to a mirror sheen. Shaking with nerves, Hector struggled to pour himself a drink without spilling any water.

The jug and tumbler clattered loudly against one another as his shaking hands competed to ruin the ill considered refreshment - and with a squeak of wet fingers on glass, the heavy, awkwardly shaped, carafe slipped between his fingers and bounced off the table, tilting, spinning, and spilling its content in an expanding pool across the gleaming polished surface, as it rolled inexorably toward the table edge. In an effort to save the disaster from growing, Hector fumbled to recover the jug, lost control of the tumbler, and thus compounded the already awkward situation. Water and spinning containers spread in all directions. It was a miracle, and blessing, that non of the glass broke.

With a dull thud the jug hit the carpet, and deposited most of its remaining content in a growing dark puddle across the thick shag pile flooring - while the stubby tumbler came to rest against Hector’s name tag, emphasizing who had caused this chaos.

As quickly as he was able, Hector used his neatly folded handkerchief to soak up as much of the water from the table as he could manage. He gathered the carafe and tumbler and set them neatly back where he found them. His wet hanky he fumbled to fold up again - finally managing to tuck it back in his pocket: it was at this moment that the door opened, and his smartly dressed boss: Arthur Floop, entered.

Councillor Floop was a round man, with a big round head. His thinning hair was pasted across his bold pate like string neatly spaced as though it were about to be counted. He wore thick pebble glasses - their fine wire stretched uncomfortably to reach his ears. His bright red cheeks spoke of impending heart failure and stroke. He was wearing a waistcoated suit, with all the buttons tightly fastened. He carried a large black briefcase.

Hector, he said upon seeing his subordinate. Are we ready?

Hector nodded, but could not find his voice.

Arthur went to set his briefcase on the large table, but stopped part way through this operation. He frowned at the table top, and lifted the case too examine it more closely. This table is covered with water!? he pronounced.

Disgraceful!, Hector returned, rather too quickly. I will go and -

Please, no. Not on my account. Arthur interrupted, irritatedly. The meeting!

Of course, sorry.

Well?

Well, what? Hector was confused, he moved closer to Arthur.

You were bringing the notes?

Right here. Hector produced a neatly folded single sheet of closely printed A4 paper from his breast pocket.

Arthur took the page and squinted at it a moment. Then he handed it back, saying somewhat tersely, What is this?

It is the plan. Hector said, checking that he had handed over the correct document.

How do you expect me to read this?

I didn’t realize you were intending to read it.

What did you think I was going to do with it, wipe my backside!?

No. No, of course not!, Hector returned, thinking: it isn’t big enough. Then he added, quickly, his voice now barely concealing the irritation he felt. I thought it was just meant to be a guide.

WHAT!?

Hector frowned, innocently.

Do you have a larger print copy? Arthur asked, speaking deliberately slowly to make sure he was understood, his suspicious eyes fixed on Hector.

Sorry, yes. Of course. Hector started to move towards the door. I can do that.

Where are you going?

To make another copy!

You don’t have one?

I have several. As he spoke, Hector fumbled through is pockets, producing further identical copies of the single page report from each in turn. Just in case!

All the same?

Of course. He couldn’t see the problem with this.

Arthur sighed, Forget it, give me one of those.

Are you sure?

The door into the meeting room swung open and further members of the committee filed in, each looking around and focusing quickly on the place they had been assigned to sit. Several saw the still spreading puddle of water, and kept clear of it, but a few didn’t, and where soon mopping water off their possessions.

Peter Pruit, 32 - was a slender man, wearing an eye-catching well cut shiny pinstripe suit. He lead his small contingent of Councilor’s from Bury St. Edmond’s, to their designated seating, only slightly up stream from the spreading pool of spilled water. Hector noticed Peter’s shoes were polished to a mirror like sheen, and didn’t feel even the slightest pang of guilt when he placed his pristine black leather briefcase in the puddle of water before noticing it!

The others’ in the tiny group of 3, observed their leaders misfortune, and avoided making the same mistake. Handkerchieves were shared, and the situation swiftly dealt with. This should not have been as amusing as it was.

Hector handed his boss a 2nd copy of the document.

Arthur received it with the slightest acknowledgement. Then found his seat and settled. He opened his case and rifled through it. In here were several folders, all arranged in colour order. Whether or not these actually contained anything important was far from clear. Once satisfied, he placed the briefcase aside, then settled back to observe the others in the room.

More and more individuals filed solemnly into the room, each seeking their seat and settling down and arranging various items on the table: pens, note pads and a considerable number of electronic devices. Many more discovered the puddle of water just a little too late, and were forced to take hasty remedial action!

Councillor Jane Jones, from Cambridge, lead her small team of 4, to their assigned seating around the table. Jane