The Divinity Crystal

By Peter Haigh

After a heart-wrenching break-up from his girlfriend, Andy Rawlins’ life is altered in a series of ways. First, he wins the lottery, allowing him the chance to spend his time leisurely at his new home in Lincolnshire. Secondly, he happens to discover a sunken plane at the bottom of the lake on his property. After a successful dive, he collects an unusual console, something unlike anything he’d ever seen before, something extraordinary for a WWII fighter aircraft.

In the bleak danger of the 1940s, several men plot around and against each other. A top-level SS Officer seeks to obtain a strange ‘weapon’ from an enigmatic associate. Unable to remain in their agreement with the Nazis, the unusual men in charge of the otherworldly ammunition attempt to salvage their own mission. Meanwhile, one lone plane with the strange weapon on board is hit and lands in an English countryside lake, hiding a puzzle piece to the power of the Divinity Crystal. Sixty-eight years later, the mystery is opened once again as Rawlins struggles with the weight of what to do with such power

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Apr 24, 2018

Peter Haigh

Born in Birmingham in 1953, Peter Haigh grew up in Hollywood Worcestershire. On failing RAF aircrew selection, he embarked on a long career in civil engineering, predominantly in the railway industry. He has a keen interest in aircraft and sports cars and has travelled widely. Now retired, Peter lives with his wife Angela in Devon.

Book preview

Chapter 1 –

SS HQ Berlin July 1943

Never before in his entire life had he faced such a terrifying audience, and Hauptsturmfuhrer Karl Klaus was not easily terrified. Even the sternest of magistrates dealing with his youthful misdemeanours paled into insignificance compared with the person sat opposite him now.

Klaus watched as the loose end of the film slapped against the metal casing of the projector. The whirring noise from the motor seemed irritatingly louder as the spool spun faster and faster. Dust particles swirled in the powerful light beam, appearing like swarms of midges on a warm summer’s evening. His presentation was complete; the make or break time had arrived.

He rose from his chair, switched off the machine and pulled back the heavy blackout curtains. Each of the three men in the room blinked with the sudden influx of daylight. Before returning to the meeting table, Klaus paused momentarily to gaze out of the window across the rooftops of Berlin; as yet largely un-touched by the ravages of war. The same could not be said of Hamburg. A recent visit to the city had left him feeling horrified by the level of destruction, and this was made even more poignant by the fact that Hamburg was the city in which he grew up. Klaus was briefly reminded of his first shocking view of the devastated city from the lumbering JU52 transport plane in which he was a passenger. The plane’s landing approach had taken them low over the city and Klaus watched spell bound as they passed overhead, his nose pressed against the small square window. In each direction, numerous roofs were conspicuous by their absence; the buildings little more than empty shells. Many more buildings, once fine examples of German architecture, had been reduced to piles of rubble. Klaus had been reminded of a mouth with decayed and crumbling teeth dispersed amongst good, healthy ones. Smoke was still rising from many districts and hung over the city like a ghostly grey shroud.

Following the appointment of Air Marshall Arthur (Bomber) Harris in February 1942, Bomber Command of the British Royal Air Force had been steadily forged into an efficient strategic fighting machine. At the start of Britain’s campaign to hit back at the enemy, bombing raids had been made with obsolete twin-engine aircraft, using the rudimentary navigational technique of dead reckoning. The results were largely inaccurate and therefore ineffective at an appalling cost in aircrew lives.

Fundamental to this awesome new strike force was the arrival of the four engine heavy bombers. First to arrive was the Short Stirling, closely followed by the Handley Page Halifax, and then the legendary Avro Lancaster. The latter two aircraft were capable of carrying an enormous bomb load and were eventually equipped with sophisticated navigation and ground mapping systems with an accuracy previously un-dreamed of.

Although Cologne was the first city to suffer a raid by a thousand bombers in May 1942, Hamburg was one of the first cities to be on the receiving end of the new deadly strike force. The first of four initial raids commenced on 24th July 1943, and for the first time, the night-time missions of the RAF were augmented by daylight attacks carried out by the United States Army Air Force.

Now is as good a time as any to commence operations, Klaus thought as he pondered upon the enemy’s increasingly potent air armada. This destruction has to be stopped before every German city including Berlin, the capital of our glorious Reich, is reduced to rubble.

As soon as Klaus returned to his seat, Heinrich Himmler, the ruthless head of the SS, placed his hands flat on a manila folder which bore the Nazi eagle and swastika. He stared at the other two men through thin circular glasses, with evil, piercing, pig-eyes. ‘Incredible; absolutely incredible,’ he exclaimed after what seemed like a lengthy pause. ‘Tell me, Klaus, are we really ready to go ahead with this, are you sure it will actually work? It has been nearly four months since I read your proposal. I had hoped that it would have been up and running before now.’

‘Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer,’ replied Klaus confidently. ‘The crews are in place and the equipment has been thoroughly tested. We experienced a few development and operational problems, but these have been successfully ironed out. All I need now is your approval.’

‘What I’ve seen looks very convincing, but once more, so that I am absolutely sure; you can confirm that you have actually tested the system against an aircraft in flight?’

‘Yes sir, on the first occasion one of our own, an old Heinkel He111. Unfortunately, our agreement prohibited filming of an actual combat; otherwise you would have seen the result for yourself during my film show. We then carried out a couple of trials against lone British bombers during a night raid. Although a small camera was smuggled on board our aircraft, conditions were totally unsuitable for filming with such rudimentary equipment. It was also important not to show our hand and let the RAF see what we were up to at that stage.

‘I take it our pilot was given ample opportunity to escape?’

‘Well, not exactly. We chose someone who we had reason to investigate. We discovered that his racial purity was, shall we say questionable? There will be plenty of Luftwaffe dare-devils anxious to take his place, it’s not a problem.’

‘What of our associates?’ enquired Himmler, giving a wry smile and a nod of approval. ‘Can you trust them? Are you sure you have a guarantee of their cooperation?’

‘Oh yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer, oh yes. Leave that to me, I’ll make sure they stay on board for as long we need them.’ Klaus drew a sharp breath and cast his eyes about the ornately furnished meeting room. A large portrait of Hitler hung above the mantel piece. At each end of the mantel piece stood an intricately decorated Dresden bone china vase. Between the pair of vases a gilt-cased French clock from the seventeenth century sounded the hour, the clear, almost perfect ring of the chime belying the quality of the piece. The Fuhrer’s hypnotic eyes, perfectly captured by the artist, seemed to be boring into Klaus’ soul, questioning his confidence and sincerity. For a brief moment, Klaus questioned his own confidence but just as quickly dismissed the question. He was far too arrogant to even consider the possibility of failure.

‘Very well,’ Himmler concluded. ‘We will commence operations against the RAF "terror flyers" tonight. I will brief the Fuhrer accordingly. HEIL HITLER.’ All three stood and gave the Nazi salute.

With the meeting over, Klaus and his superior officer; Oberst-Gruppenfuhrer Otto Klein passed through the giant heavily polished double doors and out into the corridor. There was an SS corpsman in dress uniform and steel helmet positioned each side of the door, guarding the Reichsfuhrer’s suite of offices. A large gilded eagle and swastika was mounted above the door frame and appeared to stare forebodingly at anyone who dared to enter. The two guards sprang smartly to attention and clicked their heels as the SS officers strode past. The sound of the officer’s jack boots echoed in the vast corridor as they made their way towards the lift at a brisk pace.

On each side of the corridor, doors lead to the various offices of the SS headquarters. From behind these doors, the sound of conversation and clacking type writers could be heard. Uniformed secretaries and clerks bustled urgently between the doors, carrying files and sheets of paper, most of which contained the words of ill intent. In many cases, the fate of several poor souls was sealed with a signature on a sheet of paper.

When he was sure that they were out of earshot, Klein turned towards Klaus: ‘You’d better be right about this, Karl. I’m in the shit if it turns out to be a fuck-up. Needless to say, the shit will then pass down the chain of command.’

‘Don’t worry, sir; I have every confidence, trust me!’ Klaus replied as he straightened his officer’s cap and stepped out of the building heading towards the Berlin Street. Despite his dismal upbringing and the horrors he had experienced on the eastern front, Klaus was feeling on top of the world. The warmth of the summer sunshine on his face contributed to his feeling of well-being. ‘I’ve made it; at last I have made it!’ he said to himself with a smug smile of self-satisfaction.

Feeling in a mood to celebrate, Klaus made his way towards his quarters to freshen up. There would be time then to grab a bottle of champagne before calling on Greta, the young wife of a naval lieutenant he had met at a lively booze-fuelled party only a week before. While her husband was fighting for Fuhrer and country in a U-boat beneath the freezing waters of the North Atlantic, he was only too pleased to keep her company, and indeed cynically saw it as his patriotic duty to do so!

Chapter 2 –

August 2011 Lincolnshire

He still couldn’t believe it. At times it seemed damned right incredible. Sitting on the bonnet of his Land Rover, feet perched on the front bumper, Andrew Rawlins gazed idly across the flat, peaceful Lincolnshire countryside. If he smoked, this would be an ideal time to light up he thought, recalling the cigarette adverts from his childhood. It always seemed as if the person concerned was deep in peaceful thought as he puffed away; oblivious to the world at large.

Rawlings didn’t smoke and had never even been tempted, but after the events of the last eight weeks it was a miracle he hadn’t started.

It had begun with a phone call: ‘Hi Andy, see you in The Queens after work? I’m just a little bogged down at the moment to say the least. A shed load of investment data has just come in from the States, so I’ll be here ‘til about six-ish.’ Sarah, his girlfriend, worked in the regional office of one of the big banks, a stone’s throw from the civil engineering consultancy for which he worked. They had met in The Queens Arms on Christmas Eve over two years ago; where his exuberant bunch of office colleagues well on the way to inebriation shared a crowded bar with her more reserved group of bankers. Reminiscent of many an old romantic movie, their eyes met across a sea of faces, a meeting that probably wouldn’t have taken place except by pure chance. With beer-fuelled bravado combined with encouragement from his friends, Rawlins summoned up the courage to ask her out. He was flabbergasted when she actually accepted! From that moment on, things had gone from strength to strength.

‘Oh, hi Sunshine, I’ve just about had enough for one day too. This bloody project seems to be dragging on forever! I’ll see you there.’ He finished the call and went back to the calculations he was engrossed in. They were part of a bridge design project for Wiltshire County Council and had caused him a fair amount of grief so far.

Rawlins had worked for the consultancy for almost six years. After getting his civil engineering degree, he worked for a firm of contractors for five years before taking a gap year to go travelling. On his return home, he just happened to be in the right place at the right time to land his current position. Working for contractors was all well and good, but there was always the uncertainty of not knowing whether the firm would win more orders or where the work might indeed be. The consultancy seemed a lot more orderly than life on site, but at least he could use his degree to better effect. At the consultancy, he was also better placed to work towards his charter-ship; which at the age of thirty-three, he had finally achieved.

His work was on the whole, varied and interesting. During his time with the practice, Rawlins had worked on highways, railways, ports and airports as well as a few projects for private clients. He had even been approached about work abroad, but so far nothing had materialised.

Civil engineering was not his first choice of career however. From an early age, Rawlins had developed a passion for aeroplanes and later, cars too. After his third attempt, he finally realised that he was not going to pass the RAF aircrew entrance exams and gain the wings he had coveted since the age of five.

‘Right; that will definitely do,’ he said to himself as he logged out of his computer, tidied some papers on his desk and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. Bidding goodnight to the two other people still working at a quarter to six, he made his way out of the building and onto the street.

There was still a pleasant warmth in the early evening June sunshine. The rush hour traffic was just beginning to subside as he walked towards ‘The Queens’, which was only a couple of streets away from either of their offices.

Rawlings had always regarded The Queens Arms as having a welcoming and restful feeling about the place. Not only that, it was the watering hole of choice for the staff of the consultancy. Unlike a lot of other pubs in Bristol, it had not been transformed in to a trendy ‘in’ place, but had retained a traditional feel, combined with an aura of quality. He passed through the matte-finish hardwood door that graced the Georgian façade into the large, open-plan lounge bar. The carpet had disappeared at the last refit to reveal floorboards which were probably original, the surface treatment beautifully bringing out the grain. Two of the walls were clad in oak panelling, no doubt recovered from a demolition site somewhere and for the remaining walls; the smooth plaster was painted in a matching pale magnolia. Victorian black and white photographs adorned the walls, each depicting a scene from the city’s maritime past. Tall ships featured in many of the photographs, tied up in rows after being relieved of their cargos from the far-flung corners of the Empire. In others, be-capped dock workers loaded horse drawn wagons with chests, sacks & barrels. As if to stamp a mark of authority, there was the occasional photograph of a local dignitary or shipping line owner. Each picture showed a white-haired, bearded gentleman staring hard at the camera with a stern expression and arms folded across his chest. The photographer could not have captured the image of wealth, power and arrogance any better if he tried.

Rawlins made for the bar and ordered a pint of San Miguel, exchanging pleasantries with the pleasantly plumpish young barmaid as the golden liquid flowed into the glass. ‘Finished for the day, Andy?’ she asked in her slight Yorkshire accent. She was a student at the University, studying Biology. A few shifts a week at the pub helped to pay her way through her studies and she enjoyed chatting to the customers, well most of them anyway, but especially the lads from the civil engineering consultancy.

Rawlins took a sip from his pint and made for one of the curved, dark-red velour covered ‘captain’ style chairs. He chose a table with a view of the door so that on her arrival, Sarah would not have to search the whole bar for him. There were about a dozen other people in the bar. Two middle-aged men in business suits were intensely engaged in conversation. They passed papers from a thin file between them and gesticulated as they spoke, obviously in the closing stages of clinching a deal. Two tables away, a small group of ladies; probably in their early forties were unwinding after a hectic day’s shopping. Between sips of red wine or gin and tonic, each of them would occasionally pull a garment from a large paper bag propped up against a table leg. The lady in question would be hoping for re-assuring approval from the others, but more realistically expecting a diplomatic answer, or even something mildly catty!

Near to the bar stood six or seven youngsters, the first of the evening’s revellers dressed for a long night of drinking and clubbing. Their conversation was frequently punctuated with laughter as they down their drinks enthusiastically.

Out from the kitchen area, there wafted the smell of cooking; chips predominantly or was that wishful thinking? Rawlins was reminded that he had only eaten a ham sandwich for lunch.

The front door of the pub opened. Sarah entered and started to walk towards him. Straight away, Rawlins could tell something was not quite right. Instead of her usual bouncy self-confident gait, there seemed to be hesitancy in her step, almost a shuffle. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was not as neat as she usually wore it as if she had been twisting the strands, deep in thought or worry even. There was an anxious expression on her face.

‘Andy, Andy, I, I’m not stopping.’ She blurted out. ‘Thing is, I can’t see you anymore.’

‘What, what?’ he replied. ‘You’re joking, why on earth... have you met someone else?’ he replied, shocked.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, sorry, I have. I didn’t want... I couldn’t tell you over the phone. This is really awful, I shouldn’t have come here. I’m so, so sorry.’

With that, Sarah spun on her heels and made a hasty retreat towards the door. There were tears in her eyes and the ends of her raincoat belt trailed behind her as she walked swiftly away.

Rawlins sat there dumbfounded. He went over the conversation time and time again in his mind, but the fact was not sinking in. It all seemed to have happened so quickly. As soon as Sarah turned to leave, Rawlins made to rise from his chair and go after her, but she was gone before he had time to react. There was so much he wanted to say and there were questions to ask, but she seemed so determined. She obviously intended to end their relationship face to face, instead of not answering or returning his calls, but when the crucial moment came, she could not go through with it.

He hadn’t guessed a thing from their telephone conversation. It was usual for one or the other of them to make an impromptu phone call, usually when work was getting a bit much. They would meet in The Queens, have a few drinks and then go off for an Indian or Italian meal. Quite often, the evening would end at either his flat or her house, making love long into the night, or simply falling asleep before a late night movie.

What appeared even more difficult to understand was that their last two months together had seemed terrific, to him at least, and he had felt closer to her than ever before. Only a week or so before, they had travelled down to Devon in his old Land Rover for a long weekend break. They drove a few green lanes through the spectacular and desolate Exmoor scenery, bumping and banging over the rutted tracks. They even managed an extremely short swim in the cold, early summer sea. The evenings in the quaint, rustic village inn had seemed particularly special, the sumptuous home cooking and fine selection of wines and beers adding to the feeling of ambiance. During their last evening meal, they had even discussed the possibility of moving in together.

They didn’t exactly live in each other’s pockets. Both had their own circle of friends and he could only assume that on a ‘girlie’ night out, she has met this other guy. Or was he a fellow bank employee, perhaps new to the regional office or a customer even? Depressingly, Rawlins thought that there might not have been another guy after all. Perhaps that was a lie and she just wanted to finish with him!

Rawlins walked deliberately and steadily back to his chair, clutching his fifth pint of San Miguel. The ranks of clientele had swelled enormously, so he had to steer carefully through groups of drinkers. The previous four pints, consumed on an empty stomach, were certainly having an effect. It almost seemed like he was hearing the noise of conversation through a tube and watching the proceedings through an old, slightly out of focus television.

As well as finding Sarah immensely attractive and thinking the world of her, he often felt a sense of pride when introducing her as his girlfriend. She was well-liked by his parents and friends. Rawlins never thought of himself as being particularly good-looking but had prided himself on his level of fitness, even if it did fall well short of being athletic. No doubt his fondness for beer and food was seeing to that! He enjoyed a good circle of friends, had a wicked sense of humour and was reasonably adventurous. Sadly, this was not enough!

The bus came to a halt with a squeal of brakes shortly followed by a hiss, as the pneumatically powered doors opened. Rawlins thanked the driver and stepped carefully onto to the wet pavement below, conscious of his state of inebriation. The evening sunshine had turned to rain as dark clouds had blown in from the southwest. Very appropriate, he thought. He had contemplated another pint, but the alcohol was making him feel irritable and seemed to compound his sense of loss.

A few doors from his flat, Rawlins entered the corner shop. A faint smell of spices hung in the air. Moving through the aisles, he soon found the ready meals and with little thought, chose a shepherd’s pie. Nothing too spicy after five pints of strong lager, he thought! At the counter, the greying middle-aged Indian lady eyed him sadly. Why do young people need to drink so much, she thought, forgetting for a moment the shelves stacked with liquor behind her? While fishing out his wallet to pay for his dinner, Rawlins spied the lottery machine with its ‘crossed fingers’ logo beckoning. He hardly ever gambled, but impetuously decided to have ten pounds’ worth.

The call of a peewit snapped him back to the present. Rawlins jumped down from the bonnet of his Land Rover and allowed his eyes to rove over the land he had purchased, 325 acres in all. The land included a lake, almost a quarter of a mile long and a run-down farm house with even more dilapidated out buildings. The Land Rover Defender was also brand new, resplendent in its bright silver livery and smart alloy wheels. Smiling to himself, he recalled his friend John’s words: You have more chance of being killed by your cooker than winning the lottery. John worked in insurance and was pretty knowledgeable on the mathematics of chance and probability, but the sight of Rawlins’ household appliances had no doubt added weight to his remark!

Suddenly finding that you are £8,375,256 better off would no doubt be a hell of a shock, and its effect on Rawlins was no different to that which most people would experience.

He had often fantasized about winning the lottery, usually when exasperated by the bureaucracy and regulations associated with his job but, had never actually purchased a ticket. When there had been a large roll over, he had always bought into the office syndicate, but the best they had ever achieved was a good night out. Somehow the thought of actually winning a large amount was rather frightening. Rawlins enjoyed a challenge. Whether that involved solving a complicated engineering problem, achieving his charter-ship, or more simply changing the clutch in his old Land Rover, he was, to put it in the modern idiom, ‘up for it’. Being able to cruise around the Cote de Azure in a new Aston Martin, or watching the Monaco Grand Prix from a luxury yacht seemed like bliss, but what would happen to the challenges in life if he could just wave a wad of cash at everything?

The next morning Rawlins hardly remembered buying the tickets and in any case he regarded them as an irrelevance a waste of money even. He awoke with a thumping headache; and for the first time in over a year phoned in sick, blaming a stomach upset. After eating his ready meal, he had knocked back several whiskies which, combined with the pints of lager he had downed in the pub, resulted in the mother of all hangovers.

Feeling a little better around mid-day, Rawlins gingerly climbed onto his mountain bike and set off along the Kennet and Avon Canal tow path towards Bath. After a while he began to peddle faster and faster, streaking past the rows of elaborately decorated narrow boats, taking his anger out on the machine. Several walkers cursed as he shot past them, almost oblivious to their presence.

He stopped briefly at a canal-side pub. As he sat on the boundary wall and drank a large glass of cola, he watched couples seated at wooden tables enjoying their lunches as they chatted away happily. This only served to compound his sense of gloom, so after finishing his drink, Rawlins turned around and headed for home.

Saturday had arrived. Rawlins spent the day pottering about his flat, not able to concentrate on anything in particular. After dinner, he settled down to watch television without showing any interest in what was on. That was until the lottery results show commenced when he suddenly remembered his tickets, screwed up on a bedside cabinet. Sitting in front of his television, watching the numbers come up one by one was an experience he will never forget. Waiting for that last number and wondering whether it would be the right one was nail biting to say the least. To think, he had nearly thrown away his tickets!

Rawlins quit his job almost instantly and retreated to the island of St Lucia for a fortnight to contemplate his future. The breakup had left him barely able to concentrate on his work; and with such a large sum of money in the bank, what use did he have for the job anyway? Metaphorically, he was no longer hungry.

He had hoped that he would return from his holiday with a clear-cut vision of his intended future, but in that respect the holiday was somewhat of a disappointment. Rawlins even felt quite guilty at the amount of time he had spent lounging around in contemplation, drinking and eating too much and partying until the early hours on most nights. On the bright side however, the last few days spent with Dianne, an American lady five years his senior had helped enormously. She too had suffered a recent breakup and also needed to talk. Their long walks together on islands beautiful beaches had been a real tonic for Rawlins, and their last evening together had predictably but not inevitably ended in bed. During the long flight home, a plan eventually started to form in his mind, a plan which was quite uncharacteristic.

As the airliner ploughed on through the night sky he even for a moment considered ringing Sarah as soon as he arrived back at Gatwick, the temptation almost too much to resist. She had not contacted him since their brief and dramatic meeting in the pub, and he was struggling to summon up the courage to make the first move. Painfully and reluctantly, he thought, no, move on.

Rawlins had only ever been to Lincolnshire once before. He was eleven at the time and on a family stay with an old army friend of his father’s. Ever since then his imagination had been fired by the exploits of the RAF’s wartime Bomber Command. Airfields with names like Scampton, Waddington and Wickenby, from which the mighty Stirling, Lancaster and Halifax bombers flew to take part in night raids on Nazi Germany were well etched in his mind from the time he was able to read about such matters.

He had contemplated a number of other sites within the United Kingdom, Mid Wales and Devon being particularly favourable, and he had even considered moving abroad, but his heart always came back to Lincolnshire. Although he liked the city, Rawlins had no particular affinity for Bristol and after his recent experience, the thought of moving away seemed even more appealing.

He could not believe his luck therefore when he found Oak Tree Farm during an Internet search of estate agents. What made it even more appealing; it was only thirteen miles from the sea.

Externally, the house was of an attractive appearance with weathered brick walls and a tiled roof speckled with moss growth. A small porch surrounded the front door, which opened onto a walled garden with an overgrown lawn and flower beds that hadn’t been tended for years. Every window frame was almost completely devoid of paint. There was decay present in most of them and cracks in several glass panes. Numerous tiles were missing from the roof and the chimney looked ready to collapse at any moment. The rear kitchen door opened onto the farm yard, with the farm buildings opposite shaped like a letter ‘L’ in plan. These buildings had seen years of neglect, evident by sagging roofs with missing tiles and woodwork beyond repair. At the entrance to the cobbled yard stood two brick pillars. Each pillar was topped with a spherical stone capping. A wooden sign with peeling paint confirmed the property as being Oak Tree Farm.

Inside, the house was no better. There was an absence of central heating and each of the four bedrooms has an unmistakably musty odour. All were cold and slightly damp. The bathroom gave the appearance of dating back to the 1950s, compounded by the toilet’s overhead cistern with a chain, and a bath that stood on cast iron feet. Trendy now, but that bath was definitely a relic from the past! The downstairs rooms were much the same, but slightly more habitable. In the lounge, a large stone fireplace was the focal point of the room and possibly worthy of saving. A smaller fireplace in the dining room, finished in tiles that were very 1940s was definitely not! The kitchen units more than likely would have done the owners proud when they were installed in the 1960s, but now looked dingy, dated and worn. There was also a large cooking range, finished in cream stove enamel, the chips and scrapes giving testament to its years of heavy use. Throughout the house; faded wallpaper had yellowed with age and threadbare pattern carpets abounded. Needless to say, Rawlins acquired the property for a very reasonable price. A cash purchase instantly clinched the deal.

Rawlins considered the idea of retreating from the real world for a while to be a good one at the time