Anagram Fall

By L K Hollister

Oxford history professor and minor TV celebrity David Forrester has spent his life exploring the world's ancient past. In the coming months this quiet existence will be turned upside down as his expertise is sought by one of the world’s most powerful bio-pharmaceutical companies. David and his team are tasked with tracking down several ancient artifacts that have been lost to prehistory. What a medical company on the cusp of patenting revolutionary gene therapy technology would need with such items is a mystery. A mystery that David is determined to solve.

Anagram Fall is a science fiction adventure story exploring the ideas of genetic technology, deep history and the emerging control mankind has over this.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L K Hollister
• Release date: May 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310836718

Book preview

About ANAGRAM FALL

Oxford history professor and minor TV celebrity David Forrester has spent his life exploring the world’s ancient past. In the coming months this quiet existence will be turned upside down as his expertise is sought by one of the world’s most powerful bio-pharmaceutical companies. David and his team are tasked with tracking down several ancient artifacts that have been lost to prehistory. What a medical company on the cusp of patenting revolutionary gene therapy technology would need with such items is a mystery. A mystery that David is determined to solve.

ANAGRAM FALL

L. K. Hollister

ANAGRAM FALL

Copyright © 2016 by L. K. Hollister. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

The peace and quiet of the English country lane was broken by the throaty staccato of the accelerating 911. The black horse angrily emblazoned on the Porsche’s golden shield danced as the car ducked and weaved through the rolling countryside.

David Forrester sat behind the wheel, and he was in a hurry. That wasn’t unusual these days, and bending a few of rural Gloucestershire’s road rules seemed to be the only way he was likely to make his 10.30 meeting.

The chirpy ‘bing bong’ from the planner app on his mobile only served to worsen his anxiety. In part this was because the BBC field team had made him get it to keep their presenter to a very strict production schedule. Each increasingly urgent chime reminded him of how important the meeting was. Mainly, however, it was annoying him because he had left the phone on the rear seat of the Porsche and could not reach it in order to shut the thing up.

The metallic black 911 launched out of another bend, sending startled sheep fleeing from behind the freestone walls flanking the narrow roadway. The road was typical of old English lanes, a medieval carriageway that was too cramped for cars travelling at any speed to pass safely. It was hemmed in by sections of ancient stone or thick hedge, limiting any evasive manoeuvres.

These limitations were not lost on David Forrester, who had had a number of close calls over the previous two months during his almost daily commutes from the university base to the dig site. A tractor pulling out from a concealed farm gate and a flock of sheep being moved between fields had both resulted in minor grazes to his three-month-old Porsche.

David’s life had changed immeasurably over the last year and his brand-new German sports car was a daily reminder. He had celebrated his fortieth birthday as a successful but relatively unknown Oxford history professor but was about to celebrate his forty-first as an international television personality. A career including stints at Oxford and Yale had allowed him to forge a reputation as an eminent international scholar in English and European medieval history. An unusual talent for interpreting historical facts together with a commanding persona had allowed him to ascend into the upper echelons of historical academia in his relatively brief career. He was considered a world expert in a variety of areas and had been widely published both in the academic and popular press.

It was the connection with the mainstream media which had led to the sudden change in his career direction. Approached by the BBC on the basis of a series of articles he had written for National Geographic magazine, David had been offered the role of consultant archaeologist for a small pilot programme called ‘Your History of Britain’. The idea behind the show was that a group of eccentric archaeologists travelled around the country digging up private gardens in order to show how rich and accessible British history was. The actor who had been lined up to front the show had slipped in one of the trenches within the first week of shooting and hadn’t been able to continue. The production team hadn’t needed to search far for a replacement. Geoff Hunter the field coordinator had babbled excitedly to his colleagues at the BBC about David’s screen presence. David’s tall frame, rich brown hair and cool blue eyes certainly lent themselves to television, but it was his character and charisma that convinced the BBC executives. He was a natural and the incredible success of the show with its prime time slot and celebrity guests had been largely attributed to David.

‘Bing bong’. If only he could shut that thing up.

Breaking his concentration briefly from the snaking S-bend ahead, David fumbled with the complex array of buttons and dials to programme the stereo. Flicking past the various classical music stations, preset to make him appear sophisticated and cultured when travelling with anyone in the media, he settled on Radio Gloucestershire which was broadcasting the tail end of its ten am news bulletin. The regional nature of the show was evident, something the BBC owners had gone to a great deal of trouble to preserve. This included using a presenter with the local regional accent for the news, as well as allowing local programmers to decide on the content of their shows. In the case of the news broadcast, it had resulted in a friendly, familiar-sounding radio personality describing in great detail the goings-on of the regional centre of Tewkesbury, as the town prepared to host a carnival celebrating the anniversary of a famous local battle. The remainder of the news, consisted of a blitz of rapid-fire facts covering nationwide and world events.

David caught some of the main points: ongoing struggles in Africa; underlying regional tensions; the probable covert influence of major international powers and the strenuous denials of the American Secretary of State that a group of CIA operatives had been captured.

‘Bing bong’.

Boring. David pressed the preset for his iPod and the news was cut abruptly short by House of Pain jumping around. His eclectic musical taste was well known to his academic colleagues and David tended to play classical music if he thought someone was making fun of his more popular musical leanings.

He didn’t have a lot of heavy tracks and some were very well written, David justified to himself.

Ok ok, he said, talking quietly to himself, maybe something else.

A flick of the iPod dial started up his latest Coldplay acquisition. Definitely better driving music. He remembered an incident the week earlier with one of the prettier BBC executives. David had asked her to stay in the car while he picked up some food for their lunch at the dig. Half the reason was that he had become paranoid about someone running into his first new car and thought that leaving someone in the car might help ward off trouble. He had also reluctantly admitted to himself at the time that his car might impress the young woman, a sign of getting old, he mused.

Unfortunately, while the car was undamaged on his return, his ego had taken a bruising. His companion had managed to find his trio of Britney Spears songs and was playing them loudly and snickering unmercifully amongst bemused shoppers.

Breaking the crest of the hill, David gazed across some of the rolling farmland which he had come to know well. Cleeve Hill gave a reasonable vantage point for several of the areas of archaeological interest that the show had centred on over the previous two months. One of the major advantages of Britain, and in particular England, was the density of accessible archaeology. This often meant that different shows at different sites could be filmed simultaneously, with the cast and crew hurriedly commuting between the digs. The crew doing most of the preparatory work would set each dig site up and then move on. The presenters, most of whom were experts in their own right, were left to act out the discovery as if it had been one fluid day’s work. Initially, this had made many of the presenters uncomfortable but they soon rationalised that it was much less fabricated than many news items that made the six o’clock news and far more convenient than waiting at the dig all day.

David slipped the Porsche into third and accelerated through the final stretch of open road before slowing down for the small town of Bishop’s Cleeve. Many of the crew had been using the town as a base. Gotherington, the site of the most recent dig, was only minutes away. David silenced the radio in order to mentally run through his list of to-dos.

The white rose emblazoned across a red standard rippled in the dry north-westerly wind. A multitude of similarly decorated flags, some with encircling green leaves, were peppered throughout the gathered force. Jason Coltrane was a veteran of many battles here and as his gaze came to rest on each standard bearer he judged that this was probably the largest force he had seen during any of his previous campaigns. Approximately fifty men of varying rank accompanied each flag, and from a rough count he guessed anywhere between two to three thousand under the Yorkist command today.

Across the field Jason could make out the standards of the House of Lancaster. The red roses intermingled with the coat of arms of each of the individual factions which made up the Lancastrian army. It had become known as The War of the Roses and Jason was as familiar as any with its bloody history. Henry VI of England had just been deposed for a second time by Edward the rightful heir, and with that meddling fool the Earl of Warwick, the so-called Kingmaker, defeated and killed at the Battle of Barnet, all that was needed was one last effort to secure the crown. The remnants of the Lancastrian army, led by the Duke of Somerset, had been unable to link up with reinforcements across the river Severn and had now been forced to turn and fight.

Jason looked down to check his own equipment. He had done this at least ten times this morning but there would be no time for mistakes or problems on the field of battle. Of his fifty men he was the largest and most impressively adorned. He had made much of the armour himself and it encased his six-foot-seven-inch frame snugly. Leather buckles secured the sections of plate tightly across the underlying chain mail; it had been designed for protection but was flexible enough that Jason could run comfortably. A large voulge was slung across his back, a form of poleaxe that had become standard on the battlefield allowing attacks directed at both infantry and cavalry. In full cry with the red haze of battle spurring him on, Jason had become legendary. He humoured his men, acknowledging his notoriety by wearing around his neck a macabre necklace from which dangled two severed fingers taken from an enemy the year before.

The trumpets began.

Drawing up into formation, Jason looked into the eyes of the fifty that were to follow him onto the field. He had known many of them for years, some since childhood. He knew their families. He knew what lay ahead of them today. With stoic acceptance each of them bowed in acknowledgement of possible death and of their role as part of a greater journey.

The time was close. Jason could feel the thunder of the cavalry on both sides as they circled their horses to warm them and calm nerves. The deep thumping resonated with his ever quickening pulse. And then the familiar crescendo of trumpets, each ordering a standard into battle. The slow procession of heavily armoured pike and swordsmen moved towards one another from across the field. Each side would proceed at a quick walk until the distance between them was small enough to allow heavily armoured men to charge the remaining distance into combat.

Jason could see the faces of the enemy soldiers now. He rallied his men and raised his voulge in one hand before lowering it, gathering momentum on the downward movement. The impact was critical. If the first strike was precise and well timed it could shatter the opposition. Jason and his men were well practised and had picked their targets in advance. The thumping of their heavy boots on the dry earth was now in step; the precision of the strike was all important.

Thirty feet, the pitch of the war cry from both sides became deafening.

Ten feet, the whites of the eyes staring fixedly from beneath their metal rims.

Raised weapons fell with a deafening clatter on shield and armour. Accompanying cries and screams rang out from both Yorkist and Lancastrian ranks alike. Jason’s vision began to turn red.

As the armies closed, they left in their wake the dead and the dying, those slain by archers, those whose limbs had been torn free by cannon round, and those trampled underfoot by the relentless sorties of the opposing and sometimes of their own cavalry.

Dust surrounded the field, kicked up by the flight of horses and the struggle of men. It was difficult to tell whether the fighting was really over. Much of the Lancastrian force lay dead on the field, having been ruthlessly mown down by the Yorkist cavalry. The fighting had been fierce but after gaining the upper hand, Jason’s men had forced their opponents to retreat. This had sparked some in the Lancastrian ranks to panic wildly and flee. Unfortunately for the retreating soldiers, King Edward had positioned two hundred mounted spearmen as an ambush to guard against an escape. There were rumours that some of the soldiery had escaped to the nearby Tewkesbury Abbey, but that was for others to worry about. Jason looked around at his men. Not all had survived, but most had. He allowed himself a relieved smile and collapsed to the ground, suddenly exhausted as his adrenaline ebbed.

Jason Coltrane! a voice echoed from over his shoulder, causing him to turn around sharply. You won again, surprise surprise.

David Forrester, where the hell were you? I was looking for your Lancastrian arse in particular. I was going to complete my finger collection.

Jason picked up the fingers from around his neck and wiggled them in David’s direction. Smiling at his old friend, David held up his left hand, extending his remaining index and middle finger in what the Americans considered a victory sign and what the rest of the English-speaking world considered a ‘fuck you’.

David had lost his fourth and fifth digits when Jason had swung his poleaxe a little too enthusiastically the previous year. Injuries were common during these recreations but most were relatively minor. The incident had elevated both the amputator and amputee into recreationist folklore and they were both happy to play it up.

I’ll be at the main event on Saturday, don’t you worry, and you can take those plastic fingers and shove them somewhere uncomfortable.

The men gathered around Jason were always bemused when the much smaller David started proffering verbal abuse at their colossal leader, who was clad in full battle dress and who probably appeared more menacing than any of the warriors had on that day in 1471. This was a source of great amusement between the two and typically ended with Jason wrapping David in a bear hug until he apologised with whatever breath he had left.

How’s the filming going?

Good. I’ve just been at a production meeting at the dig. It’s about five minutes drive just north of here.

Is that five minutes by car, or five minutes by Porsche with a madman at the wheel? Jason was relatively fearless when dealing with things he had some control over. He was a useful pilot, regularly skydived, and had played rugby at a semi-professional level for a number of years. None of this had prepared him for the hair-raising terror that was being a passenger while David drove. It wasn’t that he considered David a bad driver, just that he tended to take a somewhat relaxed attitude to the laws of physics, and the Porsche had only compounded the problem.

Yes, the Porsche is a lot of fun, said David smiling. Anyway I need to catch up with Sarah, you don’t know where she’s hiding out, do you?

Jason sank back to the ground for another rest and to loosen the straps around his plate mail. I think I saw her over at the control tent. She’s been very useful this year standing in for you; you’ve taught her an awful lot. So much so we probably won’t need you next year.

Oh I haven’t taught her everything! laughed David. Anyway you need to keep me around or half the army will end up skewering themselves before they even reach the field.

Both men erupted into laughter.

Sarah White. David had known Sarah from birth. She was twenty-three now and over the years David had watched her grow from a precocious, loveably curious child into a beautiful young woman. Her interest in history and archaeology had been fostered from an early age by her parents who had both been colleagues of David’s at Oxford. David’s bachelor existence had not stopped them from holidaying together and the White family found it endlessly amusing that on each Christmas holiday, David would trot out yet another ‘serious long-term partner’ in order to make the numbers match.

Tragically, Sarah’s parents, who were David’s best friends, had died several years earlier, the exact details of what had happened never having been clear. While exploring the coastal waters off South America, they and their chartered yacht had gone missing. The weather had been relatively calm and the official report was that they had been attacked by pirates or drug runners. No distress beacon, no debris. All that was left was a devastated Sarah. David had tried to console her as best he could. She for her part had borne up well and while intensely proud and independent she had changed a course or two in order to be able to stay in regular contact with David. This included weekly dinners alternating cooking duties, as well as working together on research projects. Sarah had completed her undergraduate degree and was now working on her masters, part of which involved helping David with his TV production. The relationship worked well and despite the difference in age they found each other very easy company.

Well, mostly. David knew Sarah very well and was sure she would never do anything to seriously upset their relationship; they were like family. He also knew, however, that Sarah had a mischievous streak. Since her parents’ death the most noticeable change in her character had been her newfound preoccupation with her own sexuality. Sarah had taken to dressing very provocatively, in his opinion, and had had a series of relationships with a variety of men as well as women, often simultaneously. Not that there was anything wrong with this. Youthful experimentation was fine; Sarah was no victim where any of this was concerned. The fundamental issue as David saw it was that her relationships were thrust, for want of a better term, in his face. The small child he had helped foster and who had grown into a gracious young woman was now recounting stories of her sexual exploits to him over dinner. Power games, David, that’s all it was, he had said to himself. The little cow just enjoys winding you up.

Sarah emerged from the control tent followed by the gaze of the host of bearded event organisers within. Watching her walk fluidly towards him, David could just imagine the two armies charging forth only for them to trip over their own feet and equipment as they stared back at Sarah giving them directions into battle. Best leave her in the control tent with those too infirm or too medicated to be distracted.

Morning Sarah. David smiled.

I’ve come to pick your brains.

Do tell, Uncle David.

Urrgh, he hated being called uncle, the phrase ‘dodgy old…’ seemed to leap into his mind every time he heard it.

Ah, Sarah, I’ve just been up at the dig and the studio execs are getting a little concerned that the geophysics images are misleading. The recorded history we’ve come up with just doesn’t correlate. We’re missing an entire outhouse building and we’ve found two extra wells. We have to wrap up shooting by tomorrow and they’re worried that even with the most creative editing in the world it’ll still look like we’ve dug up half a field and found a twenty-year-old toilet block.

Did they extend the geophys results to all the boundaries or were they just looking at the dig site itself?

I’m not really sure. Look, are you able to come over and give us a hand?

Yeah, I’ll just let the bearded wonders know I’m off for the day. I swear if I handed out pictures of my bum the deaf buggers wouldn’t be able to tell that I was missing.

David snickered and went to wait for Sarah in the car. He had parked the Porsche carefully on the roadside but didn’t want to leave it unattended for too long. The loose gravel on the country track and the plethora of Chelsea tractors, large SUVs for those that never ventured off road, made the risk of accidental damage high enough to warrant an early return.

Sarah had obviously done a good job at this year’s recreation meeting. It was the twenty-fifth anniversary and everyone was keen for it to go off without a hitch. David had been an advisor for at least the last six years but he just didn’t have the time to help out at the moment. One of the biggest jobs was the allocation of battle tags. Individuals drew lots in advance as to who was to die, when, and how horribly. These were opened only on the morning of the actual battle to make the suspense a little more real. The practice session was really a dress rehearsal and appeared to have gone well, with the exception of a few stray horses and the odd mobile phone ring.

Sarah emerged from the now densely packed car park and joined David, slipping into the passenger seat beside him. After closing the door she pulled the seatbelt across her chest and looked at the floor. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, she began, whilst moving her hand across her chest in the shape of a cross. She turned her head, still bent forward, allowing her formerly blonde now bright pink fringe to drift across her blue eyes. She smiled brightly at him.

Very funny, I’m not that bad.

Vroom.

The 911’s engine burst into life and the car jerked from the edge of the lane before accelerating smoothly back down the road.

The rest of the day had been a bit of a blur. While Sarah enjoyed her time on the set immensely, the nonstop nature of the show could be relentless. David had disappeared with some of the production crew to shoot the introductory sequences of the latest episode while she teamed up with the research assistants to nut out what had gone wrong. A missing outhouse and some extra walls, it didn’t seem such a big deal academically, there was always some uncertainty, but from the point of view of the television studio it would mean recutting a lot of the research footage. It had to be fixed – their words, not hers.

The advent of geophysics had revolutionised the archaeological world by allowing the dig team to identify key structures prior to breaking ground. This increased the chances of success and reduced the number of upturned flower beds. The main technique the team used was ground-penetrating radar, although electromagnetic profiling and fluxgate magnetic gradiometry had been used on occasion.

On reviewing the images, she spotted the problem relatively easily. While GPR was the main tool in the team’s detection arsenal it wasn’t always accurate enough by itself. The high conductivity of some of the finer grain sediments could cause loss of signal strength, while heterogeneous sediments, particularly those with rocks, tended to scatter the signal. The ground images showed a lot of interference patterns and complex organic clutter. It was only when you combined the EMG profiling with the radar images that the walls of the outhouse became visible. These were only meters away from the edge of the current trench and the row of frustrated archaeologists who were sitting exhausted at its side.

Sarah’s explanation was met with a mixed reaction. Being very close wasn’t bad, but the hours of further backbreaking digging ahead dampened enthusiasm.

David’s shoot hadn’t taken long and he soon rejoined Sarah beside the new trench, still sporting the makeup he had reluctantly allowed the production crew to apply. Ratings were king and the people at home wanted the archaeology to look ancient, not the presenter, or so the bubbly makeup girl was fond of reminding him.

I’m back off to Oxford this afternoon; they think they have all the shots they need for the moment. Do you need a lift?

Sure, I’d better get back. Big date.

Really? I don’t want to know.

It’s Jeff.

I don’t want to know, repeated David, mentally sticking fingers in his ears.

While Sarah had had a number of relationships, none had been serious. Things with Jeff seemed a little different to David, even if Sarah herself didn’t seem to realise it. Sarah was still her usual self with Jeff, leading him on, flirting outrageously and then not calling him for weeks at a time but Jeff’s response set him apart from her usual love interests. Maybe it was his American charm, genuine good nature or his moneyed upbringing. Jeff was always enthusiastically warm towards her; he never became frustrated and was more than happy to give Sarah the space she seemed to need.

David had first met Jeff about two years previously when the then-nineteen-year-old post grad had transferred from Yale at the request of the faculty there. He excelled in a variety of fields and had a CV that read like an advertisement for the Ivy League. Jeff had interests across a variety of academic pursuits and also excelled in the sporting arena. David had seen him play American Football once and been impressed at how Jeff’s clearly intelligent mind could be subjugated long enough to allow him to run headlong into unmoving human walls.

The circumstances leading up to Jeff’s move to study history at Oxford were a little unclear but this wasn’t uncommon and it was usual to rely on the recommendations and requests of academic peers. Anyway, David’s old Yale friends were right; Jeff’s intelligence was towering, no matter where he applied it. He certainly had enthusiasm for the subject…well, certain parts anyway. Chiefly those taught by his twenty-three-year-old pink-haired tutor.

The Porsche’s throaty gurgle resonated as David flicked through the gears, guiding the black blur back down the same route he had taken earlier that day. It’s funny, he thought, how the mind remembers the way, predicting corners and small potholes subconsciously, freeing itself to wander, and how the road appears different driving in the opposite direction.

Travelling back to Oxford usually took around an hour and a quarter but the A40 was a fun drive and the country lanes David crisscrossed before joining it were even better. At least when they were clear. Tucked behind the next bend David caught sight of a slow moving white transit van which appeared to be braking, maybe getting ready to turn. Sarah was already beginning to press an imaginary brake pedal with her foot but David knew the 911’s stopping distance exactly and that gave him time to think. While narrow, the lane ahead widened to allow farm traffic to turn when exiting a nearby driveway. This would be enough for the 911 to pass easily. Much to Sarah’s surprise, instead of rapid deceleration she felt the Porsche suddenly hunch down before five hundred and thirty BHP was released, sending the car accelerating at alarming speed around the side of the van. Sarah felt her grip on the dashboard release and she glanced back at the van as it turned across the lane, blocking where they had been only a second before. It was possible, she thought, that given their speed the van driver may not have even seen them pass at all.

A sudden lurch forward drew her attention back to the windscreen. David had jammed on the brakes and the car’s electronic stability control and ABS were struggling to dampen the immense speed gained from moments before. Ahead, a second obstacle loomed large in the windscreen. A silver Range Rover, a common vehicle for well-to-do farmers in this part of the country, meandered around the next corner obscuring any view of the oncoming lane. David’s driving was occasionally alarming but he always seemed to be in control and any chances he took were calculated. The Porsche slowed as rapidly as it had accelerated, its nose drifting aggressively in behind the Range Rover. After rounding the next bend, a short stretch of empty road spanning a slight gully allowed the Porsche to cruise past. Sarah caught a glimpse of a clean-shaven, short-back-and-sides type glaring at them from the driver’s seat. Not your typical farmer, she thought.

The Porsche settled into a pattern of glides as it moved from bend to bend on the ancient roadway. The verdant canopy of birches and oaks lining the lane filtered the warm sun, and the afternoon breeze that usually whipped up around this time of day created rippling waves of sunlight through which the car sailed. Both Sarah and David enjoyed this drive, a protected escape from their busy schedules, just the two of them.

Flashing lights in the rear view mirror suddenly woke David from his daydream. The silver Range Rover they had passed only minutes earlier now loomed large behind them and appeared to want to slip by. The tight and windy section ahead through a small but dense copse meant that overtaking was not an option, despite the driver’s obvious hurry. David urged the Porsche forward, increasing the gap between the vehicles. No sooner had he settled at the higher speed than the large 4WD closed again, its broad nose coming within metres of the 911’s spoiler. David increased his speed again hoping to settle the driver.

He’s in quite a rush, said Sarah with a slightly worried air, you must have annoyed him when you passed.

Hmmm, maybe, said David, concentrating on the upcoming bend. The Range Rover closed again, this time coming almost level with the Porsche’s rear end but making no attempt to pull out and pass.

This is insane, said Sarah, what’s he trying to do?

David felt her discomfort and was trying to work out a safe way to get out of the situation. Outrunning the 4WD was proving a bit challenging and the tight roads clearly did not faze whoever was at the wheel. The safest thing would just be to take his foot off the accelerator and slow gently, maybe put the hazard lights on.

The car began to slow as friction and the radial force of the tight bend drained its momentum. As the road straightened and emerged from the darkness of the copse into the bright summer sun, David struggled to make out the road ahead. At that instant the 911 lurched forward, accelerating as