La Belle Suisse

By Jack Dey and Dodie La Mirounette

Although the moonless desert night surrounding the dark and quiet homestead had descended into an icy theatre, the small bathroom air grew steadily tense, humid with terror and clammy with the heat of approaching fey. The only protection between hunter and the hunted was the darkened homestead and a locked fifty millimetre solid wooden door, keeping the prey safe for the moment; but like a fox trapped in its den, once the beast knew where to find its quarry, the hunt was over. Mishy’s forehead glistened with sweat, her face tense with fear and her hands locked onto the barrel of Butch’s shotgun. Knowing the options for rescue had been exhausted, the rules were simple: the life of a cold blooded killer or the lives of her children. Michelle Slater supposed the killer would search the house and every room, and once he found the bathroom door locked, that would be an indication something or someone of value was hiding behind its defences.

Mishy’s abrupt whisper panicked her daughters and she had to quickly quieten their whimpers. “Ssshhh! Crawl into the shower recess and huddle against the shower wall.”

“What about you, Mumma?” Danica’s anxious voice whispered.

“I’m going to shelter in the bathtub. I should get a good shot from there and the tub sides will protect me from anything this person can throw at us.”

Watching a shadow flicker under the door backlit by vehicle headlights, Mishy repeated her whispered order. The unmistakable s-q-u-e-a-k from the flyscreen door and then the muted shiver of booted feet on wooden floorboards entering their homestead domain alerted Mishy to the presence of the beast, sending her heart pounding in response and an uncontrolled tremor through her hands. Crawling as quietly and nimbly as she could and careful not to alert the fiend to their presence, Mishy slid over the tall inbuilt bathtub sides and settled into a flat, comfortable position; then with a groping hand, she felt for the shotgun barrel on the floor beside the tub and lifted it carefully and then rested the barrel against the porcelain side. Using the light beam under the door as a guide, she aimed the gun at the centre of the door, knowing she would only get one shot at immobilising the situation and surviving their ordeal.

La Belle Suisse, by co-authors Dodie La Mirounette and Jack Dey, is a fast paced mystery set in Switzerland and outback Australia. Intrigue, fun and romance hide behind every page and its playful character will lead you into familiar places where normality exists... or does it? Don’t let your guard down, for everyone has a price, but where will that purchase lead you? Make no mistake... if you have a price, the devil has a cheque book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Dey
• Release date: Mar 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370353156

Jack Dey

Jack Dey, born to adventure, lives in the beautiful rainforest of tropical North Queensland, Australia. He has three loves in his life: Jesus; the Editor—his wife of 30 something years; and writing adventure novels. He is the author of MAHiNA; Paradise Warrior; Aunt Tabbie's Wings; The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse; The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq; The Valley of Flowers; La Belle Suisse (co-authored with Dodie La Mirounette); Zero; Naive; and Brindabella's Prophet. He is currently researching and writing his latest book, Apostate. Jack writes only to please Papa God and considers his writing a ministry, demanding nothing from the reader for his e-books. If you like Jack Dey’s books and would like to support his ministry, please consider praying for the team at Jack Dey and telling your friends about his other titles. New books are constantly being written with the intention of being a pencil in Jesus’ hand and bringing joy and encouragement to you, the reader.

Book preview

BOOK ONE

Chapter 1

A small, battered brown case, grasped in a weathered hand, protected Philippe de la Calle’s meagre worldly belongings. As he stepped from the crowded train, pondering the rising apartment towers and the lavish streets of his once boyhood home, he considered he hadn’t been back here in almost thirty years. Now the memories sealed in the timeless corridors of his mind collided heavily with the opulence that flaunted itself in the unrecognisable streets where poverty once gripped his hand and kept his family prisoner. Somewhere in his tangled thoughts, wooden shanty housing leaned together in a mass for communal support, and if one stick was removed then the whole town would collapse; so it had been with the simple community structure of poor families living and relying on each other to survive.

A storm of wealthy, influential invaders had seen the potential of the small seaside hamlet as a tax haven and playground for the rich and famous. With the casual stroke of a pen on a blank cheque book stub, life had changed drastically for the poor, stealing the land from under their feet in a desperate greedy grab and displacing families who had depended on it to survive for centuries. Philippe gawked around at the ordered lavish streets bordered by sandstone buildings, groomed with gold leaf architecture and emblazoned with impish statues. Walk paths of rich, intricately cut Italian stone meandered lazily between millionaires' villas, diverting here and there through an ornate and expensively decorated park. Fountains splashed and gurgled on every profligate street corner. Where once there was thirst, now water seemed to bubble up from under every manicured rock.

An incredulous sweeping gaze of the tidy harbour, protected from the Mediterranean’s boisterous moods by heavy rock barriers, abruptly halted Philippe in mid glare. In a time gone by, a great and proud natural granite seawall had protected the village from the ocean's wrath. Now it stood impotent and tamed as a backdrop to a fester of towering apartments. The sea in front of the buildings, reclaimed and pushed back, today accommodated meandering streets and a circus of harbourfront villas.

Beyond the reaching luxury, a fleet of magnificent private floating palaces lay at anchor, neatly moored in million dollar pens. Polished and watched over by zealous crews, the palaces lay idle until their millionaire masters were ready for another lavish fling to impress the latest sports or movie stars, showing off their abundant wealth in another partying sea jaunt going nowhere. Philippe swivelled on his feet and slowly completed a 360 degree scan. All about him, trillions of euro lay buried in a hoard of personal greed while the people he lived and worked among died in droves from lack of a daily meal, clean drinking water or a few euros of antibiotic medicines.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur!" a petite, well-dressed young woman drew Philippe back to earth.

"Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle," he apologised and stepped aside so she could navigate around his disbelieving frame.

When a large group of chattering, awestruck tourists approached from behind with cameras catching images from every direction, Philippe’s train of thought dissolved and he began to follow the young woman along the path lest he be swept up by the wave of envious humanity. It took some time to orient himself in the unfamiliar streets, but as his thin and tall, fifty-year-old frame came to an abrupt stop in front of an opulent structure, the bitter memories came flooding back.

Intending to step from the ordered kerb and cross an immaculate street to face his nemesis, a red and black Bugatti-Veyron sports car blared its horn in warning and then quickly slipped away in an expensive plume of high octane racing fuel. Philippe stared after the vivacious vehicle, realising he’d just avoided being run over by 1.1 million euro. Checking for further fast-moving indulgent drivers, he quickly scampered across the street before a yellow Lamborghini driven by a sports model blonde approached and roared past in a flash of vibrating noise.

Safely across the roadway of spoilt disdain, Philippe stood silently contemplating the extravagant building threatening to engulf him in a tsunami of past regret and shame that had divided his family and destroyed the people he loved. Philippe’s father, the village leader, had colluded with the wealthy invaders and engaged with them in a despicable bid to defraud his people. Ancestral land and homes had disappeared in a sanctioned and swift, vacuous grab with little recompense. And for his efforts, Philippe’s father was rewarded with a small fortune by poor people’s standards. Seeing the need for a rich man’s playhouse, Philippe’s father had invested all he had in a gambling den for the wealthy and now after thirty years, he was one of the wealthiest men among the wealthy.

As a young man, Philippe had sensed the rising tide of affluent evil gripping at his bones, stifling the overwhelming desire to make a difference in a lopsided world, ignoring the cries of the suffering and filling his mind instead with the rich man’s disease. But no longer able to survive an audience with his conscience, Philippe, along with his mother, had left his father and brother to live their lives of indulgent riches.

Now, as a fifty-year-old missionary and after working in abject poverty in some of the poorest hot spots of the world, it had been nearly three decades since he’d seen his wealthy and elderly father and the place he once called home. Philippe took a last glance at the opulent casino, patted down his ragged clothing and started to climb the hill to his father’s house bulging out onto a nearby hillside. As he approached the sprawling driveway, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter that had started him on his latest pilgrimage and began to read again.

Philippe

Your father is not well and the doctors suggest he has only weeks or possibly months to live. I am not sure why he requested to see you and Mother one last time before he dies, but you owe it to him for giving you life, to at least make some kind of effort and fulfil his dying request. I still can’t forgive you for walking away from the family when Father invested his complete fortune in the casino and it looked like we would be poor again, but as you will see, Father is exuberantly wealthy now and I only hope he has kept his promise to cut you out of his will. Just so you know, it is my intention to contest any favours he has set aside for you in his last testament, and I can afford the best legal team possible. Personally, I couldn’t care if you don’t come, but Father asks every day after you and I urge you, for his sake, to make a concession in your selfish lifestyle and fulfil a dying man's request.

Once again, I remind you I am the firstborn son and I am entitled to every bit of Father’s substantial estate, simply because I stayed and supported him in his decisions and I will see to it you receive nothing from this incredible self-made man.

As agreeable as ever, your older brother Robert.

Philippe folded the tattered letter and placed it reverently back in his threadbare shirt pocket. From the moment he’d received the news of his father, it had taken him nearly a month to travel across some of the most inhospitable territory on Earth, calling on favours with grateful people to help him traverse across continents just so he could reach his ailing father’s side. But now he wasn’t sure his foolhardy journey had all been for naught and whether he was too late to fulfil his father’s dying wish.

After the nerve-racking trek, he stood in the sun, tiredly blinking down a lavish driveway and into the haughty eyes of extreme opulence. He paused for long moments, considering the final few metres of his sojourn and what lay in wait for his arrival. With a quick prayer for strength, he pushed his feet on toward the enormous front doors, staring at a plethora of closed-circuit cameras—watching him, watching them. Philippe lifted his hand to knock but before his knuckles made contact with the expensive paintwork, one half of the massive doors opened and a maid met his eyes with a disdainful frown.

"Eh, vous là-bas, le vagabond, get away from the door before I have security run you off!"

If you please, mademoiselle, I am Philippe de la Calle and I have come to see my father, Henri Rousseau!

The maid’s eyes suddenly clouded with fright. "Excusez-moi, monsieur, I did not know! Your father told us to expect an unusual person in the form of a fils prodigue."

Philippe smiled at the quavering maid. "Oui, mademoiselle, I guess my attire does suggest the presence of a prodigal son."

The front door soon gave way into a mammoth echoing amphitheatre with full-length windows traversing two storeys above to the ground floor below, and giving an unhindered view of the impressive harbour and the millionaire’s paradise perched at the foot of the mountain. Gold staircases led to ornate balconies far above Philippe’s head, while each unintentional sound amplified and distorted in the clinical ambience of splendid white marble floors and ceilings.

A booming voice, originating from one of the opulent staircases, overpowered Philippe’s awestruck gaze and he turned to meet the unmistakable owner. "So, you have disowned my name as well as my family, Philippe de la Calle! Why are you known as Philippe of the Streets?"

Philippe’s shocked countenance stole the ability to respond to the spritely elderly gentleman walking effortlessly down a flight of stairs to greet him. I... It is an identity with the people I live and work among, Father. The poor of the world! Philippe’s voice echoed around the palatial surrounds as his incredulous eyes asked a silent question of the apparently healthy older man.

Arr, the poor of the world, the disgruntled voice resonated, pursuing Philippe’s dialogue in a fading game of chase. People who refuse to take advantage of the wealth the world offers.

No, Father, you have it wrong. These are people who have no opportunity to take advantage of the wealth of the world—when you consider that one percent of the world’s population controls most of its wealth and is looking to increase its share.

Statistics, Philippe, that mean nothing. You grew up with the poverty of this place and look at me now. I have power, recognition and everything I could ever want.

But are you happy, Father?

ARE THE POOR HAPPY, PHILIPPE?! the booming voice reverberated again, bouncing forcefully off the clinical walls and shocking the younger man.

They are among some of the happiest people I have met, especially when they know our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, Philippe’s words were a little more subdued, showing respect to the man he called father and hadn’t seen in years.

You always were a simpleton child, filled with the superstitions of religion. But there is no religion except wealth and fortune. Look what it can do for you! the elder man swept his arm around the opulent surrounds.

And what of your impending death, Father? Philippe whispered with concern.

I will not die, Philippe. You can see how healthy I am and I have many beautiful young women around to keep me young.

Everyone dies, Father, and yet we are eternal beings. Our spirit is alive forever. You may be rich now, but what awaits you without Jesus is eternal agony and poverty.

Huh! More of your confounded brainwashed idealism, Philippe! Robert told me I was wasting my time trying to make you see reason. The only thing that exists is now and today. And today, I am a king!

A ruthless, calculating stare settled in the old man’s eyes as he bored into his wayward son. Here is my challenge to you, Philippe de la Calle. Stay with me and in my home for six months and I will show you the power money wields and the truth of its idealism... instead of your toothless God.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 2

Naples, Italy, 3 July 2014

Angelina Maerorte slipped her hand around the gossamer curtain and drew it aside just enough to view the animated crowd, then changed her undercover position slightly to expose the grinding silhouette of a young, rising rock star tormenting a helpless microphone and backed up by a thunderstorm of rumbling instruments and band members. The music was so loud it hit her in her chest and made her ears crackle with pain, while the gyrating and bumping mass on the dance floor of the club, L’Arenile di Bagnoli, bore testament to the gamble she had just taken.

Now in her early thirties, Angelina’s days of groupie hysteria and following rock stars were over; although her journey with these energetic illusions gave her the experience she needed to spot a rising star, make the required connections and maybe a small fortune on the side for herself in the process. The hardest job for her as manager was keeping the young, exuberant rock group focused on their limited popular career, with the ever-present need to keep a pin handy, popping expanding egos and preventing their heads from swelling too far and too fast before the crowds lost interest and moved on to the next upcoming idol.

Niccolo Visintino was a captivating all-Italian, hard-living, twenty-two-year-old male. Specifically chosen from a choir of ragtag and cannoned onto the popular music scene with a little help from some very powerful and impressive people, they wanted immediate results from their investment. Niccolo had transformed from the backstreets of Naples and burst onto the club scene like Mount Vesuvius, erupting with such charismatic passion the young fans followed him in droves and couldn’t get enough of his vibrant energy and heavy rock music. Tonight was no exception. Angelina smiled at the response from the young crowd and could almost smell the euro hitting the walls of her bank account and the accolades coming from the hard to impress and stringent financiers. The decision to take Niccolo and his band, the Sticky Lizards, to Switzerland and the popular Montreux Jazz Festival was hers and now it seemed to be destined for success. But she’d had to do some fast talking to get approval, first.

Niccolo, the efflorescent star, carried his backstreet poverty with him while his growing repertoire of single-phrase songs, enfolded and punctuated by a solid wall of noise, reflected his experiences living and growing up on the streets of Naples. Angelina shook her head in dismay. Niccolo’s talent sounded more like someone vomiting into a microphone and then throwing a piano down a mineshaft.

You’re getting old, girl, she chided. But the young crowd loved it and were lining up for kilometres with euro burning in their hands just to see him in person. It was hard to believe only twenty years ago she was a young adoring fan, too, throwing herself at the feet of people like Niccolo. She had to admit, the young Niccolo with his long, curly black hair and Italian fine looks was a lethal cocktail for any young woman.

Having to move quickly once the band finished their performance, Angelina let the curtain slip from her hand and disappeared quietly and unnoticed into the backstage arena to prepare. Her sudden appearance caught a group of idling roadies by surprise, indulging in an unscheduled break, yet with a crisp, whispered hiss from Angelina they all scampered back to work and found their momentum again. Someone had to keep the loafers on edge and make sure the preparations were on schedule for transporting the group’s essential music equipment to Montreux later in the same day. The club, L’Arenile di Bagnoli, closed at 2 am and everything and everyone associated with the band had to be on a plane by 10 am for Montreux... without fail.

Two burly Italian doorkeepers escorted the partying crowd from the venue just after 2 am and as the club doors closed, Angelina attempted to send the stars to their rented accommodation just above where they were performing. With limited response from the keyed up band, she left strict instructions for the hotelier not to let any of the adoring fans access to the young stars or their rooms. The group needed to rest their voices and regain their energy if they were to wow the crowds attending the Montreux Jazz Festival and generate credence for her decision to take them there.

Niccolo was talking to a group of pretty teenage girls who had escaped the bouncers’ attention when Angelina approached.

Niccolo, you need to get to bed. Today is an important day for all of us.

"You sound like my madre, signora, Niccolo protested. I was just about to pick one of these beauties to be my teddy bear," Niccolo’s hand did an animated sweep over the adoring young fans and an excited squeal rippled through the group of girls in response to his gesture.

"As far as you are concerned, Niccolo, I am your mother. If you mess up in Montreux, that will be it for the rest of your career and my head will be on the chopping block, too!"

Niccolo was about to argue, but Angelina placed her hand on her hip threateningly while her expression openly challenged, ‘Go ahead, punk! Make my day!’

Niccolo swept his fingers across the face of the closest pretty girl and teased, Later, my beauty.

Angelina watched the teenage girl’s euphoric face turn red and contemplated whether she was going to faint. Was I really this stupid? Angelina chided silently, stunned at the immaturity of the infatuated girls.

Unexpectedly, Angelina’s mobile phone vibrated in her skirt pocket and drew her attention to an incoming call. Who would be ringing me at this time of the night...? Yes, Angelina Maerorte.

Angelina, it is Carlos. The airline is refusing to take the band’s equipment or transport your stars.

"What?! Why?!" Angelina huffed with intense frustration and began to pace, unable to believe this sudden new development.

They are agitated about some type of perceived terrorist threat.

What...?! Let me talk to them!

It won’t do any good. The manager is involved now and he has refused point-blank.

Oh, great! Our big debut and some petty manager decides to throw a spanner in the works at 2:30 in the morning on the day of our performance and I don’t even have a chance to rebook the flights! Angelina chafed impatiently and searched for something to divert her frustration.

"Maybe all is not lost, signora. I have a cousin who has an early-model, very fast Learjet and I am sure it would do the job perfectly," Carlos was looking for an opportunity to cash in on Angelina’s situation.

Angelina thought for a moment. She didn’t like the sound of this, but there weren’t too many options open to her at 2:30 in the morning and now it appeared Carlos was her only hope. "O...kay, get your cousin ready to fly by ten o’clock and he had better be there!"

"Grazie, signora. I will get him organised immediately."

Angelina could almost hear Carlos rubbing his hands together in delight as he terminated the call. I hope I’m not going to regret this, Angelina worried.

*~*~*~*

By the time Angelina had Niccolo and the band safely bundled into a limousine and en route to Naples airport, she was shattered. She had only managed to grab an hour’s sleep just before the hotelier rang and announced the arrival of the stretch limousine, leaving pure adrenaline coursing through her exhausted veins. She laid her tired head against the padded car seat and tried to relax, taking advantage of a few minutes with her enervated eyes closed and grabbing a quick nap as the limo battled against Napoli traffic.

An abrupt screech and a catapulting action sent her body slamming into the seatbelt, while the near miss with a truck concluded her attempts at closing her eyes and now she gripped at the seat and hung on, instead. Even though she was used to Napoli traffic—the constant honking of car horns and the ability of Italian drivers to make up the road rules as they went—she still couldn’t relax or dare close her eyes again.

As the limousine slowed and then came to an abrupt halt at the front of the airport building, she was a bundle of nerves and just stepping out onto solid ground again was a hazardous proposition. Her black stilettos made contact with the concrete driveway and as she tried to stand, her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor. Even approaching mid-thirties, Angelina’s appearance still turned adoring Italian male heads and many willing hands came from admiring Italian men helping her to her feet again.

From some distance away, Carlos caught sight of the group entering the main building and after a brief chase, he offered an informal panting greeting and escorted the party to a door leading out onto the tarmac. Angelina stopped in mid stride, stunned and her mouth hung open in shock, staring at the apparition Carlos’ cousin intended to fly the group across the mountains to Montreux in.

Something wrong, signora? Carlos followed Angelina’s stupefied gaze.

"I knew this wasn’t going to be a good idea! Angelina retorted. If I had any idea what I was accepting, we would have taken the train!" Holding her hand to her forehead, a pain flashed behind Angelina’s eyes and her head began to ache from lack of sleep.

It does not look pretty, signora, I agree, but I can assure you it is very comfortable and very fast. It normally takes an hour and forty minutes by plane to Montreux, but my cousin says he can do it in just over an hour, a bragging smile creaked across Carlos’ dark, hairy features.

Once the band had tuned in on the focus of Angelina’s staring glare, Niccolo filled the air with an incredulous disdain-filled, squeaky voice, You’re not serious, signora?! Transporting us and our equipment in a flying coffin!

Angelina’s ire was rising and she could feel the lack of sleep mix with a volatile explosive cocktail of betrayal. She had a ruthless older man on one side selling her a seat on a death trap, and a brat on the other, whining about the transport. However, the time to pursue alternative plans had come and gone and they were committed to the current circumstance. Keeping a wary eye on the ancient flying machine, she swallowed heavily and then turned to Niccolo, deeply antagonised, What’s wrong, Niccolo? Are you afraid to die?! Just get on the plane! You don’t succeed unless you take some risks.

Angelina’s horrified stare returned to the geriatric bird sitting exhausted on the warming tarmac, hoping her words wouldn’t come back to haunt her. Niccolo was just about to reload and argue once more when Angelina refocused her piercing scowl onto the performer and as if to back up her growing intolerance, her head tilted to one side and the hand rested threateningly on her hip again. Without another word, Niccolo obeyed and flounced off towards the arthritic grandfather jet.

Angelina waited for the band members to find their seats and made sure they were buckled in before she found a seat for herself down towards the back of the aging aircraft. She wasn’t a person of faith, but today she wished she was. As the group settled into their seats, a small, fat man appeared from the cockpit and pushed a button by the entrance and raised the access door. It groaned under its own weight and took four attempts for it to finally bump the latch mechanism and lock securely, sealing the passengers inside the long, cylindrical tube. With obvious sweat appearing on his brow, he swiped at his forehead using the white sleeve of his uniform shirt and smiled back at his passengers, then disappeared again into the cockpit. A partition between passengers and cockpit slammed shut and rattled the empty, front row seats, and soon an anxious voice stumbled over the internal intercom welcoming them aboard.

"Buongiorno! This is your captain-a speaking and we will be on our way very soon-a. I’m a just having a l-i-t-t-l-e trouble lighting the starboard engine-a, but-a no matter; it has been a very troublesome of late, but usually starts after a while. The short, fat captain forgot he was on intercom and his frustration mounted at the non-starting engine. Come on-a, stupidaggine!"

Suddenly, a vibration rattled through the aircraft as the stubborn engine finally fired. The apprehensive captain excitedly exclaimed, Bellissimo...! Please-a you relax. We-a go now.

As the ancient Learjet began to taxi, the cabin partition rattled open, exposing the busy captain to the passengers and allowing all radio contact with the tower to be clearly heard in the cabin area. Angelina’s breath caught in her throat when she heard the tower respond to an obvious request from the small jet.

"Roger, Tango-Whisky-Romeo-9-9-7-6, as requested, fire services will be standing by at Geneva Airport."

*~*~*~*

Chapter 3

A white-knuckled Angelina Maerorte viciously gripped her torn and faded passenger chair, no longer concerned with Niccolo or the Sticky Lizards. After much mental coaxing to release the seat with her trembling hand, she pulled the fraying seatbelt as tightly as she could against her waist before returning her death grip to the seat. Haunted eyes from shocked band members stared silently into the open cockpit, watching the pilot manipulating switches and levers while the minute antiquated jet vibrated its way along the tarmac until it finally reached the turnaround point at the end of the runway.

Suddenly and without warning, the engines flared violently, causing the pilot to swat at throttle levers and wildly stab them back and forward until the misbehaving jet finally obeyed the pilot’s commands. In his haste to control the aircraft’s movement, the captain accidentally jabbed at the brakes, sending the passengers ricocheting off their seatbelts and bouncing back into their seats with a horrific jolt.

Realising his mistake, the pilot sheepishly turned in his seat to face the stricken passengers. Atsa a l-i-t-t-l-e too hard, Pinocchio!

No one spoke, but all eyes followed the rotund little captain as he swivelled in his seat to face the controls again and complete the jet’s change of direction at the runway’s end. As the geriatric plane turned sharply, the nose wheel squealed and clunked until it straightened, facing the jet directly down the runway. Angelina, concerned for her own life and no longer worried about the band’s Montreux appointment, had almost convinced herself to speak up and abort the ill-fated mission. However, her voice rattled against her dry throat, tangling the words around her tonsils, expressing itself as a terrified squeak. Before she could gain courage, attempting to call out again, an air traffic controller's voice rumbled across the airwaves, cutting her off and sealing their fate aboard the cylindrical coffin.

"Tango-Whisky-Romeo-9-9-7-6, this is Napoli Capodichino Tower, you are cleared for immediate takeoff."

When the small jet’s engines rumbled to full power, the noise made any communication within the cabin area impossible. Before anyone could move, the tiny jet careened down the runway like an overweight albatross flapping its wings wildly, waddling and bumping, trying to jump into the sky. Finally, the bone-jarring rattling stopped as the jet lifted precariously into the air.

As if the aircraft had a mind of its own, the nose abruptly launched for the sun and climbed like a jetfighter instead of a passenger aircraft. Silent mimed hysteria erupted throughout the passenger cabin. Tense hands gripped worn out seats while the nose of the aircraft lingered precariously, directly above the passengers' feet and their heads dangled intensely into weighted oblivion somewhere below them. The fat captain pounded the control stick with a clenched fist and wrestled with the beast, trying to bring the ardent banshee-rocket back under his control. Eventually, the jet conceded an uneasy truce and levelled out while terrified eyes riveted on the captain and watched him swipe at his brow with his shirt sleeve.

As if Nonna was taking the family car on a leisurely drive to the markets, the captain’s voice calmly entered the passenger’s airspace, Apologies for-a the delay. I’m-a gonna put on-a some speed. We be on-a the ground at Genève in a short-a moment. Enjoy you-a flight, Pinocchio.

Climbing over Napoli, skirting the smoking crater of Mount Vesuvius and with Pompeii just to the south, the itinerant aircraft seemed momentarily willing to obey the pilot, surrendering domination and making a controlled bank. Out over the pristine waters of the Bay of Naples, the small, mischievous jet obediently followed the coastline over the boot of Italy and on towards Geneva. As promised, the airspeed suddenly increased and with that, so did the cabin noise accompanying the sprinting grandfather Learjet, making it almost impossible to think, let alone communicate. If any one of the band members were having difficulty with airsickness or panic attacks, they were out of luck as far as comfort from Angelina was concerned. She had frozen into her seat, unable to move. Punctuated with strange noises, bangs and squeaks, the short journey continued on in a terrifying spiral of escalating fear.

Halfway into the flight, a sudden rapid descent caused Angelina to scream and then seize the chair in a death grip. She was sure she heard Niccolo scream in unison with her, while someone else close by made the sign of the cross over their chest and babbled deliriously, We’re all going to die!

Then as if guided by the watchful eye of an external policeman, the tiny jet appeared to settle into a few minutes of distracted uneventful flight and concentrated instead on sprinting faster, rather than taking extreme delight in scaring the passengers out of their wits with its sudden surprises. Lulled into an unguarded frame of mind and in a moment of utter courage, Angelina relaxed her grip on the sagging seat and swivelled her head to face a foggy window by her chair, and glanced down at the majestic Swiss Alps looming just below the speeding plane.

The ice-cream-covered, tall white peaks widened out at their majestic base to brown and green, trying desperately to hide the treachery of razorbacks, seemingly supporting the boundaries of inaccessible, steep-walled valleys and holding the summits from toppling over. Occasionally, a patch of isolated lake water reflected in the morning sun, glistening in a green valley yet trapped on all sides by towering monoliths, unable to escape through the rocky terrain and find an outlet to the sea many kilometres away. Small settlements began to dot among the valleys, outlined by a patchwork of cultivated farmland and giving the impression of an elaborate quilt lying in a giant clothes basket and bordered on all sides by the basket fringe. The sight was breathtaking. For a short time, Angelina forgot the unruly pilot and his flying death trap, awed instead by the mountainous scenery slipping past her window.

Only when a sudden loss of altitude left her stomach in her mouth and then the engines reduced power significantly did Angelina break her gaze from the window and worriedly search around the jet's interior, wondering what new catastrophe was about to attack her sanity. From the rear, a popping noise suddenly announced the aircraft’s decision to misbehave once again and challenge the pilot to a duel for control. The popping descended into a nerve-jangling backfire until the fat captain manipulated the throttle levers again, forcing the jet to gain speed rapidly.

As if the war of wills was to take on an even more surreal approach, the nose once again pitched nearly vertical and the jet climbed for the stars, leaving the passengers' bodies deformed and struggling with the g-forces. Angelina sat paralysed in her seat, her body forced back into the fabric with the weight of gravity encapsulating her like a giant hand and attempting to squash her against the seat back. This time, Niccolo and the band found their scream in the performance of their lives and if they had fans around them to listen, it would be a new hit record.

Suddenly, the engines quit and the jet plummeted like a rock from nose-up to nose-down, reversing the situation in a violent flip-over. The sound of speeding air passing the plane’s fuselage seemed to last forever while the passengers struggled desperately against the lap belts trying to sever their bodies in two. Panic erupted in a noiseless scream, with those trapped in their seats all too aware the nose-down situation wouldn’t last very long if the fat captain couldn’t rectify the power outage... and quickly.

A familiar rumble echoed through the passenger cabin as the jet’s engines finally fired again accompanied by squeaks and bangs while the ancient aircraft decisively levelled out and settled into a subdued drone, as if nothing of consequence had just taken place. Relieved, Angelina’s terrified glance wandered into the cockpit just in time to observe the fat captain swipe at his brow and then casually, his voice entered the cabin airwaves via the intercom.

Approaching-a Genève airport-a; please-a buckle up you seat-a-belt for the landing. I hope-a you enjoyed your-a flight-a, Pinocchio!

By the time the captain had finished the announcement, every one of the band members, including Angelina, was sure they were going to die. Sitting rigid in her seat with fear, yet managing to stiffly glance through her cabin window using her periphery vision, the crescent-moon-shaped Lake Geneva flashed into Angelina’s view. Daring to swivel her head slightly, she tentatively glanced at Geneva’s beautiful bustling city located on the southwestern shore, assured this would be last time she would ever see any city at all.

The little jet abruptly lost altitude and bounced and bumped on the air currents, causing the passengers to grit their teeth and hang on desperately, ready to assist in the right places with an appropriate scream response. To add to their panic, the engine noise suddenly cut right back into an eerie quiet, while the air on the fuselage hissed like an elevator on rocket fuel and the ground came up threateningly at the descending plane.

Unexpectedly, the jet lost altitude even quicker and then a heavy bang ground through the air frame as one wheel collided with the runway and bounced up into the air again. A further two heavy bangs, followed by another skip and then the brakes were applied so heavily the passengers had to push against the seat in front, preventing their seatbelts from becoming a permanent part of their bodies. A sudden spinning motion topped off the terror as the little jet spun off the runway and came to an abrupt and exhausted halt. Complete shocked silence drifted through the passenger cabin and cockpit as if eerie, ghoul-like smoke had encapsulated every breathing human being into a hazy, motionless and staring mania.

Resembling a sleepy town awakening on a Sunday morning, the captain and passengers took stock of their experience, not sure whether they were still alive. Angelina eventually plucked up the courage to unbuckle her lap belt and decided to check on the rest of the band members by struggling around the seat in front of her. One band member was seen making the sign of the cross over his chest and silently praying, when the elated captain's voice abruptly interrupted the delirium with a message seemingly too surreal to be true.

E...! We-a make it! Next-a time I don’t-a push the brake pedal-a too hard, Pinocchio!

*~*~*~*

Chapter 4

A circus of emergency services surrounded the ancient aircraft stranded on the grassed outfield of runway number five. Angelina and the band, trembling from their ordeal, were whisked away from the crippled jet via an airport bus and deposited into the security area of Geneva terminal. By the time Angelina had nervously satisfied the airport police that she and the band had a legitimate reason to be in Switzerland, and acknowledging their means of transport was... unfortunate and not a terrorist plot, the authorities released them into the mainstream of the airport terminal to go about their business.

The tentacles of fatigue locked Angelina’s mind into a vicelike squeeze while her body desperately craved sleep, forcing her thinking into a haggard metronomic swing and finding it increasingly difficult to function. However, the action wasn’t over yet. Angelina’s next dilemma was to get the band’s equipment off the crippled jet and on to Montreux before their evening's performance. Just as she stepped away from the group and was about to engage with another airport official, a crowd of media encircled the band and excitedly fired questions at its members concerning their in-flight ordeal. With the cameras rolling and before she could gain control of the situation, Niccolo’s squeaky voice took centre stage.

It was quite simple really. The pilot panicked and I struggled up out of my seat and coolly talked him through his attack and calmed him enough for him to land the plane. If I hadn’t, we probably wouldn’t be talking to you now.

A stunned murmur rattled through the jabbering paparazzi while Niccolo glanced around at the dumfounded band members, threatening them with his eyes to collude with his ridiculous story. Angelina pushed her way through the adoring crowd swallowing Niccolo’s nonsense in spoonfuls. She had only an instant to turn the fiasco into a plausible and believable scenario prior to the press shooting a hole in the Sticky Lizards' bucket and turning their career to mud before it ever started. Angelina searched the smitten faces and in a split-second decision, she decided to play along with Niccolo’s preposterous fantasy.

"That’s right, people. If it wasn’t for our lead singer, Niccolo, we probably wouldn’t have a band to play at the Montreux Jazz Festival tonight at 7 pm... I have free tickets for all members of the press," she smiled a warm, innocent and inviting smile that proclaimed you can trust me. As the tickets vanished from Angelina’s hand and a suitably impressed paparazzi disappeared back to their studios to prepare the heroic story, she glanced sideways at Niccolo. "You calmed the pilot?! As I remember, you were screaming alongside the rest of us, terrified and buckled firmly into your seat!"

Niccolo’s complexion flashed red with embarrassment. No harm done, signora. It was just a little white lie to make me look good. When I look good, everyone looks good. Yes?!

Just you do the singing, Niccolo, and leave the looking good to me.

Angelina’s attention suddenly turned to the glass windows overlooking runway five. In the distance, she could see the flashing amber lights of a large crane drawing alongside the ancient Learjet and wondered where the authorities were taking the injured aircraft and her music equipment. A quick glance up at a wall clock told her it was fast approaching midday and they still had a one-hour limousine ride to Montreux from Geneva if the traffic was unkind. Anxious for the band to be insulated from any further stress, Angelina needed to do some fast organising before the whole gig derailed and with a few quick phone calls, a limousine would soon be waiting outside to take the band to Montreux while she dealt with the band's missing equipment. Searching an airport app, Angelina connected with a suitable contender and instructed the limousine company to take the entertainers to the Hôtel Fairmont Le Montreux Palace near the jazz festival to recover. She hoped Niccolo hadn’t used up all his shriek and energy on the petrifying plane journey and still had some scream left to entertain his new fans.

Observing a Mercedes stretch limousine arrive outside the terminal window, she turned to Niccolo and pointed to the door. "Niccolo, there is a limousine waiting to take you and the band to Montreux. When you get there, register with the hotel then go to your rooms and rest. I will follow with the equipment as soon as I can," Angelina inculcated.

Are you not coming with us, signora?

"I’m sure you can handle registering into a hotel on your own, Niccolo. They are expecting you."

A vulnerable grimace crossed Niccolo’s lips, abruptly affirming how much the band were relying on her guidance, but she was in no mood to play mummy to five immature young men. Angelina had a lot of work to accomplish before the evening performance and her mind wasn’t functioning well. Niccolo was about to attack from another angle when Angelina’s hand went onto the hip and her head tilted slightly.

"Okay! We’re going, signora, but you will be there tonight?!"

"I will be there, Niccolo. Trust me, and stay away from any nosey paparazzi!" Angelina waved the band off as they exited the terminal and watched the five males climb into the limousine and then slowly drive away.

Now she could clear her mind and concentrate on finding the missing equipment.

*~*~*~*

The pain behind Angelina’s tired eyes had increased and pressure waves rippling across her brain were building to a crescendo of hammerblows, threatening to turn her aching sleep debt into the desperate poverty of a severe migraine. It was now close to 1 pm and there were still no signs of the band's equipment and no one in the airport seemed to know what the immediate future held for the crippled jet or her coveted equipment. Angelina’s request for an audience with the airport manager was met with incredulous jest from an airport official until Angelina exploded into a tirade of angry Italian interspersed with a few French subtleties and rounded out with a good measure of bold English to get her point across.

The airport official melted under her tirade, but before Angelina knew what was happening, two large men in suits took her by her arms and began to lead her toward the terminal exit.

Hey...! What are you doing?! Angelina protested. Let go of me! her exasperated words echoed around the terminal and caught the attention of gawking airport patrons passing by without concern, yet the men kept forcing her towards the exit.

As soon as the struggling trio breeched the terminal’s automatic perimeter doors, Angelina stared at a dark blue coloured Mercedes taxi standing alone with its back door open to the kerb. Realising this wasn’t an authorised eviction and wherever they were taking her she probably didn’t want to go, Angelina began to fight and struggle against her captors, firing a well aimed stiletto at her attackers' shins and screaming for help. But before she knew what had happened, the lights went out on her world and she slumped into unguarded oblivion.

When Angelina’s eyes finally flickered open, her head was supported by two luxuriously soft and elegant pillows while a comfortable double bed supported the full length of her aching body. She glanced around, confused at her surrounds, and noticed the drapes and wallpaper of the lavish room matched the bedspread. An opulent chandelier above her head and two identical bedside lamps added to the well appointed ambience, with bright daylight streaming into her lavish prison cell through a large window overlooking Lake Geneva and the Jet d’Eau. The comfort and elegance of the room drew her tired mind like water to a thirsty sponge, yet she had to fight the sleep her body desperately needed and find a way out of her captivity.

Just as she was pushing herself into a sitting position, a loud knock at the door startled her and a maid entered, carrying a pitcher of cold water and some migraine tablets.

Good afternoon, Madame. Your husband left instructions to wake you and give you some migraine tablets. I’m so sorry your first visit to Geneva has been fraught with such a debilitating headache, the French maid offered in well rehearsed and compassionate English.

My husband? Angelina mumbled and stared blankly back at the maid.

Yes, Madame. He said you often woke up confused in your dreadful condition and left this recording for you to listen to. He said not to worry, the band's equipment has already arrived in Montreux and Niccolo’s education was well under control, the maid appeared unsure of the cryptic message but figured the woman would understand its full meaning. She placed the water and tablets on the bedside table and then handed Angelina the iPod.

Where am I, mademoiselle, and what time is it? Angelina asked with a raspy voice as she took the iPod from the maid’s hand and tried to make sense of the new information.

The maid paused at the door and turned to face Angelina with her head tilted in confusion, but then remembered the husband's speech. "Why of course, Madame, you are in Genève’s Hôtel d’Angleterre on the banks of Lake Geneva and it is a little after 4 pm."

As the room door closed with a gentle thunk, Angelina stared, confused, down at the iPod and tried to come to terms with the maid’s strange message. She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and struggled to think. Her first priority had to be Montreux and find out what was happening with Niccolo. But the curious device she held in her hand demanded her attention and before she went any further, she swiped at the iPod start icon with a inquisitive tremble and wondered what strange new game she was about to be thrust into.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 5

Lac Léman Foreshore, Montreux, 3 July 2014

The summer heat spawned by another perfect Montreux day seeped through the high ceilings of the chalet-like Covered Markets. Built in 1892 and tailored on the same grand concept as the Victor Baltard Halles in Paris, the unassembled Covered Markets arrived from France across the mountains and was given birth on the picturesque shores of Montreux’s Lac Léman. There were no walls to the impressive Covered Markets, instead stone pillars and steel arches supported the massive crown. The interior of the roof was raked with ornate metal trusses and covered with fine timber, while large cathedral-like windows applied sunlight to every square millimetre of the expansive floor space easily accommodating several thousand people.

The ostentatious structure—bordered by the Place du Marché, the Quai de la Rouvenaz and the Grand’ Rue—shared the same prestigious address and view as the animated time-frozen pose of the Freddy Mercury monument. Together, they kept watch over the enduring changing moods of the stately lake and the distant shores of Switzerland’s nearby neighbour, France. The calm, emerald green waters of Lac Léman lapped lazily against the jagged stone barriers separating land from water, keeping the petrified image of Freddie Mercury from getting his polished bronze shoes wet. With the backdrop of the majestic Alps in the distance, the mirrorlike Lac Léman idled in the rising morning heat and reflected the sun’s rays in an eye-dazzling, glittering shimmer.

Compagnie Générale de Navigation’s impressive old lady, La Suisse, a magnificent century-old paddle steamer, serenaded a multitude of visitors ambling along the Quai de la Rouvenaz with the steamy, lonesome drawl of the paddler’s whistle reverberating off Montreux’s ancient belle époque architecture. The swish of the vessel's tireless steam-driven paddle wheels dipping into the ancient lake water added another sleepy melodic note to the warming day. In a postcard image, the antique vessel cut an effortless wake through the glassy lake surface and mesmerised the ambling throng loitering among the festival preparations while they impatiently passed time until the celebrated Montreux Jazz Festival began.

Although the jazz festival in the summer heat of July attracts a partying crowd, Christmas time in Montreux would not be the same without snow hanging lazily over the massive Covered Markets' structure. Stretching endlessly, glistening fairy tale lights and decorations set the night alight in a frigid romantic hue, creating the colourful and flamboyant atmosphere of a snowy Christmas carnival. With children and adults alike dressed in warm fur hoods and fuzzy muffs, the happy throng meander among the glitzy canvas stalls stretching along the Quai de la Rouvenaz and huddling together in the frozen Christmas atmosphere. Tucked away and in the Christmas Markets' shadow, the Place du Marché vibrates with the noise and intensity of a sideshow, where a Ferris wheel spins in a fruitless never-ending circle and excited children’s voices drift cheerily over the dark, frostbitten waters of Lac Léman. The festive ambience glows like the log fires burning furiously in and around the stalls, chasing away the chill but warming the hearts of the patrons lost in a wonderland of snow and cold while offering every good gift for sale that a Christmas shopper could possibly hope to find.

Yet far from Christmas and the freezing chill, the July jazz festival venue attracted popular music stars, and the Covered Markets were usually employed to host a series of concerts and accommodate a rhythmic, bumping crowd. Today, however, it would take a break from musical intrigue and play host instead to a prestigious high school graduation ceremony, one that has been in the making for nearly a decade and a half.

*~*~*~*

Eighteen year old Ryan Tauxe stood gazing over the hazy morning scene. It was as if Lac Léman had read the confusion in his heart and reflected his mood perfectly in its dour disposition. Mindlessly searching across the water from the Quai de la Rouvenaz and the bridge over the Baye de Montreux, he raised his shiny black shoe to rest his foot on the intricate ironwork fence. Then leaning his elbows on the top rail, he rested his full body weight on the other leg and tried to figure out the strong emotions plaguing his thoughts. What was his meaning and purpose in life? Get an education, find a job, marry and raise a family and then die, worn out from overwork and worry? Ryan sighed in deep frustration, knowing he would be expected to follow the age old traditions and a tedious, monotonous life already mapped out for him in a never-ending blur.

Water rushing down the Baye de Montreux, eager to end its journey from the mountains behind Montreux and empty into the sprawling Lac Léman, bubbled and gurgled enthusiastically, washing away a small part of Ryan’s tension and bringing a sense of peace to his disturbed musings with its watery language. The heat of the sun even at this time in the morning was beginning to make him feel dolorous, but it was too early to expect a lake breeze to ease his discomfort.

The suit he was wearing just added another degree to his anguish and it was almost time to join the other teens and the crowd gathering at the Covered Markets. He pushed a finger between his throat, the collar of his white shirt and the tie he was wearing, hoping to ease the stranglehold the cloth had on his oesophagus then gently eased his shiny black shoe back to the pavement. With a final glance at the mountains bordering Lac Léman, he drew in a nervous breath and gradually turned to face down the Quai de la Rouvenaz and the short walk towards the Covered Markets, leaving the restaurant, Le Palais Oriental, standing guard over the position he had just deserted.

Entering the bustling Place du Marché, Ryan stopped short of the noisy crowd waiting for the proceedings to begin, and for a moment his gaze diverted to the Freddie Mercury monument imbedded on the foreshore’s pavement. The gregarious statue arrested his attention and fleetingly, he wondered whether it would be possible to make a living from the one thing he loved above all else... music. Freddie Mercury’s story was to some degree an inspiration to Ryan, and if he could make it from rags to riches, then surely Ryan could, too.

Euphoria swept over the teenager, pondering the dream job he had organised for himself at the jazz festival in a few days. It was only cleaning the venue, but at least the position allowed him free entry to all the performances. As a younger teen, his parents had forbidden him from attending the festivals of the past but now he was eighteen, they hadn’t challenged his decision. Yet before he could entertain the dream of a music career, he had to get through the morning's ceremony, after which the real excitement of the jazz festival could begin.

Glancing around the excited crowd gathered in family groups and nervously preening their exquisitely dressed teenage progeny, Ryan noticed the class of 2014 hadn’t yet assembled in their tuition groups and he still had some time left before he was required to join his peers. Squirming from the heat and feeling thirsty, his eyes settled on the golden arches of McDonalds, and with a determined gait, he made a beeline into the Place du Marché and the fast-food outlet.

Swallowing the last dregs of a fizzy boisson, he pushed open the door from the air conditioned store and caught a glimpse of his parents and grandparents eagerly searching the crowd for their son. He had to hurry. The class groups were being called to assemble and he knew his parents would want to have a few moments with him before the ceremony began.

Uncomfortable wooden benches adorned the Covered Market’s ornate interior floor space in regimented rows, while nervous graduates bustled to find their seats among classmates and in the correct tuition groups. Interspersed among the young scholars were proud parents and relatives keeping track of their progeny and ready to lavish unrestrained applause upon their young at the appropriate time as they accepted their celebrated high school diplomas. Ryan found a seat on a crowded bench with other graduating students towards the back of the gathering, halfheartedly listening to the hubbub of names and distinctions being broadcast across the waiting school leavers from the official podium situated at the front of the audience.

His mind drifted back to the statue of Freddie Mercury, and it seemed the audacious deceased entertainer was inviting the young boy to think beyond himself and aim for the impossible. He scanned the crowd until his eyes settled on the familiar face of his father watching the podium at the head of the proceedings. Not-so-subtle hints over the past few months had alerted Ryan to his father’s expectation. It seemed he was being groomed to take over the leadership of the family farm, or distinguish himself further by attending Switzerland’s prestigious École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne (EPFL) in life sciences... more study! Ryan’s fractured thoughts began to crowd out reason and his shoulders bent forward under the weight of family expectation. In an attempt to shrug off the oppression, Ryan momentarily turned in his seat away from the podium and glanced towards the back of the mammoth structure with his eyes riveted on the rear view of the frozen pose of Freddie Mercury.

3M12!

The announcement for his class boomed across the sea of faces from the official podium, forcing Ryan to refocus, then in a pack movement, the teens sharing his wooden bench began to stand and move forward towards the administrator, taking possession of an empty bench facing the official party.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 6

A murmur erupted over the vast audience, taking the opportunity to exercise restrained vocal cords with a close by neighbour, while a new class group found their seats in front of the official podium. Ryan, intent on taking the remaining aisle seat, patiently waited for his classmates to shimmy along a long, wooden bench and make room for those left standing. Finally, the vacant bench space beckoned the young man to sit, but before he took his position, he glanced over the heads of the considerable crowd to the waterfront and Freddie Mercury’s animated image one last time, as if he had come to a crossroad in his life and was being forced down a path he was more than sure he didn’t want to tread.

Lost in a fleeting moment and gazing nostalgically at Mercury’s pose, he hadn’t noticed the silence engulf the Covered Markets until he sensed the eyes of thousands boring into his solitary standing figure, waiting for him to take his seat. Feeling the weight of embarrassment, he quickly settled on the end of the bench, awkwardly staring at the floor and tussling with a growing sense of derision and the future direction that apparently was being chosen for him.

Ryan was an intelligent, high-achieving student, but lately and coincident with the new rock group he was listening to, restlessness had entered his heart. He’d become increasingly jaded with endless study and wanted instead to invest his mind in a culture of adoring crowds; lots of quick, easy money; and the exciting, heavy beat of popular rock music. The more he gave homage to the heavy beat, the more enslaved he became, resonating and stirring his unpredictable teenage emotions into a frenzy of discontent.

With the spectators' attention refocused on the administrative party and no longer on the wayward teenager, the official proceedings recommenced, allowing Ryan to feel safe enough to avert his eyes from the floor and once again look up. It was extremely hot in the large structure with so many people crammed tightly around the official arena. Fidgeting as he waited for his name to be called, Ryan nervously ran his hands through his jet black hair, hoping to catch any cooling breeze wafting past. Sweat had begun to form on his brow, compounded by the heavy material of his black suit jacket and long trousers and intensified by the anxious tension.

A lone, official voice boomed and reverberated across the multitude, droning on relentlessly and calling nonstop names that seemed to blur in Ryan’s hearing. The never-ending ceremony echoed around in his disinterested imagination and disrupted his thoughts. Then with the thunderous applause shivering in his distracted mind, he felt an abrupt nudge in his ribs from his neighbour alerting him to the fact he was being called.

Ryan Tauxe! the voice detonated again, sending a flush of embarrassment across Ryan’s face.

Ryan nervously stood to his feet amid thousands of eyes following his every move and walked tensely to the podium. Approaching the school officials, in turn, he shook the hand of his director and then his headmaster. Clutching a large white envelope, he returned to his seat carrying his high school diploma and stared blankly at the distinguished document, totally oblivious to the thundering applause. So this is it, he thought, turning over the diploma in his hands. Years of hard work culminating in a piece of paper and a couple of handshakes. Somehow he felt deflated and disconnected with his achievement, but in the flurry of nervousness he’d also forgotten about the beckoning image of Freddie Mercury. Even so, the harrowing emptiness and uncertainty gnawed relentlessly at his protesting stomach and kept him company throughout the remainder of the official ceremony.

*~*~*~*

Across from the Covered Market, a recalcitrant manager watched the crowded structure empty of its population, escaping and oozing from every open exit as well-dressed teens made a beeline for the fast-food outlet. A homemade sign taped to the fast-food outlet’s glass entry door gave credence to the calculating mind waiting to relieve the teens of at least the price of a fizzy boisson in exchange for the use of the well preserved and extremely clean restrooms. The sign simply read: No purchase; no use of our restrooms. By the time a multitude of teens had exchanged their finery for more relaxed and casual attire, the manager had made a quick and easy profit with very little outlay.

Outside the