Jupiter's Revenge

By Nigel Grundey

Waking up in a hospital bed is bad enough, but realising you have amnesia is worse. Add to that, what this man is told just doesn't ring true.

Later the memories return to shatter a deception; that car crash wasn't an accident. Aha, maybe his chequered past has caught up with him.

Assisted by someone who shows more than a neighbourly interest in his predicament, it provides him with a hideaway and time to gather information. Disturbing revelations accelerate his desire for revenge, so a hunt begins for those who want him dead, and why. Their every move brings not only far-reaching consequences, but unknown enemies with lethal intent. So, will they ever discover the truth, and live, if this is made public....? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Q G S Publishing
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386660453

Nigel Grundey

Nigel Grundey was born in Warwickshire England, but brought up in Kent. He first qualified as a Mechanical Engineer; however at age twenty-one, he joined H.M.Forces, serving in the Far East and West Germany as an Aircraft Engineer. Unsure of what to do next, a stint in college followed, furthering his qualifications.  "You do realise there's a war going on out there." is not the normal opening line of a job inerview,but it led to nearly thirty years service with the same company in the Middle East and the U.K. Always a voracious reader, he didn't consider writing until retirement, and is delghted that many of his stories have now been published. Never fans of cold weather, he and his wife now live in Southern Spain.

Book preview

JUPITER'S REVENGE

by

NIGEL GRUNDEY

Table of Contents

Title Page

Jupiter's Revenge

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO

CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE

CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX

CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE

CHAPTER EIGHTY

CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE

CHAPTER EIGHTY TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE

CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR

CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE

CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX

CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHTY EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHTY NINE

CHAPTER NINETY

CHAPTER NINETY ONE

CHAPTER NINETY TWO

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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JUPITER'S REVENGE

Copyright © 2017 Nigel Grundey

All rights reserved

The right of Nigel Grundey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Published with the assistance of

Q G S Publishing

https://qgspblishing.com

JUPITER'S REVENGE

CHAPTER ONE

Oh, bloody great! Stuck in a hospital bed, can't remember my own name, yet even in my amnesiac state, I know that family who have appeared are definitely not mine. As for my supposed career, oh come on, that just has to be a joke. Okay, cut the crap, will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?

Err, sorry, I am getting ahead of myself; let's go back to where it all began. You know that fuzzy, disoriented feeling you get the morning after the night before, well this was one of those.

Where am I? My blurred vision is not helping matters, but there seems to be something blue close by.

Lie still, please, an unfamiliar female voice says firmly.

Oh, my attempt to sit up has been noticed; reluctantly I lie back, wondering what the hell is going on.

My clearing vision reveals the speaker to be a smiling young nurse, a very pretty one too; obviously I have a thing for ladies in uniform!

Hello there, she says quietly. Right, don’t be alarmed, but you were involved in a traffic accident four days ago, the air ambulance brought you to London for treatment. This is the Queen Anne's Hospital.

The nurse looks at me quizzically, but receives no adverse reaction to this news.

Okay then, she continues. The surgeon had to operate on you the next morning to repair some internal damage, so obviously you will be experiencing some discomfort now. Also be very careful when trying to move, mustn’t undo all that good work. I know you feel battered and bruised all over, but try and relax.

Whilst I digest this information, she fusses around with the bedding, then looks at me and announces she will fetch the surgeon to explain everything.

Alone in the room, a realisation hit’s me, I don’t remember a thing about any accident. Come to that, I can’t remember a single, solitary thing about anything much; this is scary!

Ah, good afternoon Mr Beardsley, the greeting startles me and looking up, I see a stocky, sandy-haired man standing at the end of the bed. Beardsley: so that is my name, thanks for reminding me!

My name is John Allen and this is Nurse Chan, he begins, then stops and studies me. Are you in pain?

A hell of a lot actually, though the loss of memory's more disturbing at this moment, everything is a total blank.

Nothing to worry about, old man, the smooth voice assures me. You received a nasty crack on the head during the accident, so the amnesia was not unexpected.

My hand instinctively goes to my head, where I feel bandaging.

Don’t get in a panic, the doctor says quickly. You are a very lucky man, despite being unconscious for several days, scans confirm the head wound caused no discernible damage to the brain and your skull is intact. However, there is some internal swelling and severe bruising of the skin, so tests will be conducted to ascertain if any other trauma has occurred. As for your memory, it will return soon enough.

If that explanation is meant to reassure me, it doesn’t. Men in white coats don’t fill me with confidence for some reason. Whatever, he prattles on explaining that my left wrist had been broken during the crash, both knees were badly lacerated, along with many minor cuts and bruises. Surprisingly, there were no other serious injuries. However, later on I started exhibiting symptoms of internal bleeding. An emergency operation revealed a ruptured spleen and other damage; now thankfully all repaired, though the area would remain tender for some time to come. With that and the head injury, it was now imperative for me to have a stress free period of complete rest. The bad news is severe headaches should be expected for some time to come.

Well, thank you for that, is my sarcastic comment as I look around the well appointed room. What warrants me being in isolation?

You’re not; this is a private patient’s room, replies my white coated friend. It’s what you paid all those insurance premiums for. Now, your wife and daughter have been here for some time, waiting to see you, so if it is alright I will bring them in. Just for a few minutes mind, can’t have you overdoing things.

This seems to amuse him, for smiling at that thought; he leaves to find them. As they are ushered in I understand, for my wife is a slim, shapely lady with nice legs, the teenage daughter being a mirror image, but with longer legs emphasized by her short skirt. What a lucky man I am!

They embrace me tenderly, their perfumes adding to the pleasant experience, but the garish lipstick and blood red nail polish jars; for that is something I instinctively don’t like.

Having obviously talked to the surgeon, they gently tell me their names, Kirsten and June. With that, they proceed to chatter away about events since the accident. My answers are confined to a series of aahs, ums and nods as I wait for the spark of recognition; but everything remains a blank.

All too soon the dull throb in my head grows to a full-blown migraine, prompting Kirsten to call the nurse, who administers something; the last thing I hear is June’s parting comment.

Take care, you old ruin!

CHAPTER TWO

Noises close by have me awake with a start, to see the nurse placing a carafe of water on the bedside locker.

Hello there, I say brightly. Look, it sounds so formal to keep calling you 'nurse', so what is your name?

Angela, she says without hesitation. Now, are you hungry?

With that affirmed, she leaves the room, returning with what turns out to be lunch.

Cripes, I blurt out. How long has it been since the family left?

Nearly twenty four hours, Angela reveals. No need to worry, rest helps the healing process; this will do you good as well.

She points at the food, willing me to eat it.

Her delicate features are somehow familiar and the accented English fascinates me.

Where do you come from? is my obvious question.

I am Singaporean, she replies proudly.

Ah: to see the sun rise over Lavender Street! Where the hell did that come from?

You have been to Singapore? an intrigued Angela asks. Nee Soon, Changi, or Tengah, perhaps?

I lay there racking my brains for a few minutes, but to no avail, everything remains a blank and this blasted headache is getting worse.

Exasperated, I drift off, only to awake some time later, finding myself alone; so looking around, my attention is drawn to the bedside locker.

Fumbling inside its drawer reveals a wallet: mine presumably, as the driving licence and credit cards are all in the name of Beardsley. Colin Edward Beardsley to be precise, born on the ninth of May, nineteen-thirty-three, whose address is 12, Chiltern Avenue in Hollydene. This all sounds very normal, but the reality escapes me.

There is a membership card for the C.S.M.A., whatever that may be, plus a small black and white photograph of a young family.

Recognising Kirsten and a younger June, means the gentleman with them must be me. How very ordinary I look, the undistinguished pale face, thin lips, bright eyes and mousey hair, tell me little about the person. Also, why isn't there any more than half a smile on my face?

The only other thing of interest is a square of yellow cloth with some kind of animal printed on it; unusual, but I have no idea what it means. More exploration of the drawer produces my passport, complete with the same bland mug shot. This well thumbed item has very few stamps in it, which seems curious to me for some reason.

The wrist-watch is something else: one of those chronograph things with dials and buttons all over it, a green and red shield with the inscription T.A.G. Heuer, on the face.

I lie back thinking about these items, for here we have a good-looking wife and daughter, some expensive toys and private medical insurance. All this would take some salary to maintain..., my position in whatever company employs me, must be executive level at the very least. Intriguing, but what, one wonders?

The next family visit reveals all; apparently the Civil Service is my career and having been elevated to running a department; my salary is in Kirsten’s words, reasonable. When the ladies leave, due consideration is given to this revelation; but it just doesn’t seem right, instinct tells me that paper shuffling is an anathema to me. Lord, I am always being told off by Angela for getting out of this damned bed; a need for action, however small, is driving me insane.

There, now you can see how my doubts were formed, so what can be done about it? Well, for now, very little, so let's see how things pan out.

CHAPTER THREE

At last, after six of the longest weeks in my life, I am off home. Yippee, back to a normal existence and some good fresh air, leaving all those men in white coats and bossy nurses to their antiseptic cathedral. Allowed to escape after some lengthy examinations, which included being poked and prodded by the learned gentlemen, who I had assumed, would be glad to be rid of me.

Alas it is not to be, for they announce there will be regular return visits, sampling the delights of physiotherapy.

Driven home by Kirsten, we head south east along a dual carriageway, passing through scruffy suburbia and out into manicured countryside. Twenty minutes later, we turn off down a minor road, the signpost informing me that Hollydene, Kent, lies four miles distant. Throughout this journey, all sorts of daft questions have come to mind, like what do I call her? Dear, darling or by name?

Hang on, forget that, we have just entered a small town and turned off towards a group of houses.

Here we are, darling, Kirsten announces, swinging the car onto the drive way, beside a substantial looking detached house with well kept gardens. This is home.

Ah, very nice indeed, I obviously chose well!

Who looks after all this, I comment, waving my hands around. Forgive me, but you and June don't look the type who would be out gardening in all weathers?

She takes my arm, looks up at me and laughs.

We have a gardener, silly, she explains, looking at me perplexed. You know if I touch any plant, it promptly dies! However, June chose all the flowers, and surprise, she looks after them! Kirsten seems very proud of this for some reason.

Anyway, come on in, she insists, heading for the front door. Fancy a coffee?

Provided with the promised drink and left to my own devices, I wander off around the house; finding all the rooms are tastefully, but simply furnished and carpeted. One major problem; absolutely nothing seems familiar to me, which is more than annoying.

Don’t go in there! shrieks Kirsten in warning. That is June’s little empire, and strictly off limits. My only attempt to clear up that room, ended with one almighty argument!

This came as I am examining the upstairs and about to enter a room, the small nameplate on the door saying it was 'The Den'.

Moving on, to a larger and very pink bedroom, I spot a large framed painting hung behind the bed, showing a younger Kirsten dressed only in a bikini bottom. With some strange markings on her smiling face and the garland of flowers in her hair; my God, she looks good enough to eat!

Kirsten puts her arms around me and looks wistfully at her image.

Those were the days, she whispers dreamily. Back in my wild child days, all summer of love and Isle of Wight rock festival. You arrived on the scene after that, remember?

No, I don’t, and that is frustrating the hell out of me; bringing on yet another accursed headache. With apologies to Kirsten, the pills are taken and I retire to a bedroom, sorry, our bedroom, to lie down in darkened seclusion.

Awakening with a start to find Kirsten leaning over me, the heady mixture of perfume and her closeness prove irresistible, so I reach up and kiss her. She smiles then we embrace with more passion, my hands being guided over her naked body to her breasts, where a gentle massage causes the nipples to blossom, exciting her all the more. When she is unable to wait any longer, Kirsten moves over to straddle me and the love-making begins. The neighbours are entertained with the moans and barely concealed screams issuing from the open bedroom window, as this very inventive lady continues until my flesh wilts, after the third session. Glowing with satisfaction, she slides off and snuggles up to me.

Welcome home darling! she breathes.

Now that was very pleasurable, surely anyone would remember a lady as loving as this, but no; that blank wall is still there.

More serious, is the dull ache from the bottom of my stomach: oh Lord, all that action hasn’t messed up whatever was ruptured inside, has it? Tenderly massaging the area produces no more pain, so I relax; only to have my hand gently moved aside, by someone who has other things in mind.

Again darling? murmurs Kirsten.

Again!

CHAPTER FOUR

The following morning and long after Kirsten has departed to work, I lay there thinking about everything. Here I am, supposedly a man with a secure, well- paid job, a loving wife, a very pretty daughter, with a nice home in a good area. This is what most people dream of, right? So why does it feel totally alien to me? There seems no explanation and this amnesia just makes things worse. Oh shut up, or the damned headache will start again and ruin the day.

I spend a long time going through every nook and cranny in the house, attempting to find anything familiar; though all the paintings and ornaments mean nothing to me.

Somewhat dismayed, I idly pull open a drawer. Hello, what do we have here, photographs, and lots of them. Most are of Kirsten and June looking decorative, plus some family snaps with various cars in picturesque locations. Then there are these three old black and white ones.

Ancient history, for one shows the much younger me, a slim, unsmiling youth of average height, standing alongside an ancient Ariel machine. The piercing dark eyes remain, as does the dark hair, but I am uglier and heavier now. The photograph of me sitting astride a Norton motorcycle is odd, for I am wearing lightweight clothing with only a helmet for protection, hardly correct