Libran's Loch

By Abbygail Donaldson

Following a bizarre sequence of events and a threat made on her life one New Years Eve, Liz Curran begins a new life under police protection. Following a chance meeting with Iain, a psychology professor and a terrifying abduction attempt at the University charity ball, Liz discovers that she has a valuable gift which must be prevented from falling into the wrong hands.
Fleeing for their lives, Liz, and Iain join forces with D.S. Steve Alexander and Prof. Fraser Hughes to uncover the identity of their relentless enemy and find a way to stop his insidious plan to control time.
Acting as her protectors and guides across time, Iain and Fraser help Liz to discover and come to terms the truth about her gift, Iains real identity and the paradox that threatens to destroy the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467879378

Abbygail Donaldson

Abbygail Donaldson was born in the North East of England in 1966. The daughter of an aspiring historian and skilled ship's cabinet maker, she developed a strong appreciation for classic literature, history and art. Having trained in Ballet for ten years as a child, she went on to study Drama and Theatre Arts at New College Durham, but was forced to abandon her theatrical dream in favour of a career in the Civil Service. Returning to education years later, she studied Social Policy, Politics, and Law at Northumbria University, which was immediately put to use during her decade long battle against crime and anti-social behaviour in her Newcastle neighbourhood. In 2006, in recognition of her valiant efforts and 'outstanding dedication to promoting respect in her community' Abbygail was honoured with a 'Respect Award' by the Prime Minister. In 2007, she appeared on TV and radio, talking about her experiences which provided the basis for her first book 'The ASBO Chronicles'. Inspired by the positive public reaction to her first book, Abbygail began research for her first full length novel, Libran's Loch. Set mainly in the beautiful countryside of Western Scotland and the ancient city of York, Libran's Loch represents the culmination of Abbygail's research into time travel and her own innovative new theory on the subject, delivered within an action packed adventure.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS AUGUST 1746, THIRTY years before the end of the transportation of British convicts to North America and the Pride of Leith, carrying her cargo of convicts and indentured servants, was within a week of her destination in Virginia. Lightening flashed like skeletal white fingers grasping at the eighteenth century ship rising high on the western Atlantic swell as it met the eastern sea board off the coast of America. The thick oily black thunder clouds growled angrily and emitted an ear splitting crack above the aft main mast. Heavy rain from the sudden summer storm lashed the sails and the deck from all directions as the Captain’s command of Stow the sail! barely achieved a whisper through the roaring winds to his crew. The masts bowed and the wooden hull groaned and creaked under the powerful tides, as the ship dipped acutely in its descent once more, sending crew and passengers scurrying and sliding along the water drenched decks. The servants and prisoners beneath the gun deck, crossed themselves and muttered prayers of mercy, as they watched the ceiling timbers above their heads, bend and bow beneath the weight of the cannons that rolled and rocked within their tackle leashed carriages. Like wild animals ready to pounce, the shifting cannons pulled and stretched their thick black chains almost to the point of breaking, before another wave tipped the ship in the opposite direction and they moved back into place again.

Suddenly, the ship pitched to starboard, casting icy cold sea water through the gun ports on to the crew, filling their mouths, noses and eyes with water and the gagging, burning taste of salt. Jacob the young, dark haired cabin boy lost his footing and came crashing down on to the wet deck, as another wave struck the hull and swept him effortlessly towards the far side of the ship. Scrabbling desperately and breathlessly, his delicate young fingers found the strong heavy metal links of the gun carriage chain and he hung on tightly, muttering phrases from the twenty third psalm. With his eyes shut, and coughing from the brine that burned his throat, he felt himself pushed towards the open gun port, expecting nothing but the sudden stomach churning sharp drop into the ocean and the life consuming descent down to the depths of Davey Jones’ Locker. Suddenly, he felt the heavy iron clad grip of the stalwart ship’s cook at the back of his collar and a slightly weightless sensation as he hovered for a moment before he was reeled in to safety.

What’s the Captain doing sending you in here in this storm? You’ll be crushed like a quail’s egg if you’re swept under one of those monsters! he exclaimed as he pointed to the grumbling fluid line of cannons rolling back and forth. Get yourself back to the galley and hold fast til I return!

Yes, Sir! spluttered the drenched and shivering fragile waif, as he slipped and slid past the cook to the steps down to the galley below.

Crawling carefully down the steps, he dodged the heavy swinging galley door and leapt inside, catching the door handle on its return and pulling it closed behind him. Below the galley, Jacob could hear the moans, cries and whimpers of the prisoners and indentured servants stowed in that half of the hold, and covered his ears to muffle their agony. Then as the ship listed again, the cacophony of clanging metal pans and utensils suspended above his head, drowned out their cries completely.

Captain Magnus McGregor crouched in quiet miserable contemplation, coveting his cramped and sheltered vantage point behind the stairs that led to the upper decks from the hold. Watching the wayward and desperate prisoners as they scrabbled and rolled in the filth and squalor, half starved and diseased by their confinement, Magnus hid in the shadows, masking the smell of the stench beneath his soiled and torn French Cravat. An aging former sea captain, Magnus was himself a prisoner en route for the colonies to begin his life sentence. A worthy vicious vagabond for the hangman’s noose, he had narrowly avoided the gallows by virtue of his well paid and influential counsel in the court. Commuted from execution to transportation for his sins, Magnus thought about the savage new life he was about to face and the memories of his brutalised childhood that his revolting imprisonment had rekindled in his mind. Being the battered illegitimate child of a wife beating drunkard, Magnus was no stranger to the harsher, more brutal and impoverished social life style of Glaswegian unfortunates. Since his humble and dramatic youth, he had strived unmercilessly to reach the giddy political and social heights that he had, until recently enjoyed. Now, as a consequence of the very evil behaviour, which he had witnessed and despised in his youth, Magnus had been forcefully sucked back into the social cauldron he’d tried so hard to escape from.

With his bitter reputation preceding him, Magnus kept his back to the wall, wary of retaliation from those he had cheated and deceived in his recent past, and who now sat in chains only feet away, waiting to strike, waiting for retribution. As he watched their gnarled and fleshy hands stretching and pulling their chains taut with menace, Magnus imagined the links pulled tightly around his own neck but glared back fearlessly and unrepentant of their plight which he had caused. Gazing imperiously at the squalor and pestilence that were now his courtiers, Magnus surveyed his dire realm and the malleable subjects within it. With nothing to do but to sit and rattle the mandatory rusty bling of his convicted status, Magnus began to meticulously plan his revenge against his accuser back home in Libran’s Loch.

The ship suddenly pitched again starboard, as a huge wave rolled up and towered high over them, before crashing down and swamping the heavily listing deck. Sails and rigging ravelled and twisted catapulting blocks and pulleys into the crew, hurling them against masts or overboard into the ferocious waters beyond. Then, a solid beam supporting the gun deck let out an unearthly crack, as the splitting timber gave up its weighty burden and brought the cannon plummeting down on to the prisoners facing Magnus, crushing their bones and flesh as if they were paper.

The devil looks after his own, they say! yelled a wizened beggar skulking to Magnus’ right, drawing his harsh and critical stare. You mark my words! he cackled with eyes twinkling fiery red.

The devil took my soul a long time ago, sniped Magnus and the old beggar grinned before vanishing into the shadows.

Then feeling the chains around his feet slide loosely over the tilting deck, Magnus realised that the falling cannon had crashed through the housing that nested the chains, shattering the links to himself and the other prisoners. Taking full advantage of his new found liberty, Magnus crept stealthily up the wooden steps as more torrents of sea water cascaded through the entrance hatch, forcing him flat against the boards until the ship rose again and he was able to make his escape.

As more lightening lashed the main deck, Magnus peered out from his hiding place near the hatch entrance and marvelled at the luminous cloud barely half a mile away that lay ominously ahead of them at the edge of the storm. Lightening flashed eerily within the cloud, whilst the stormy waters calmed before it, almost fearful to flow within its boundaries.

Captain we’re taking on too much water down below! She’ll capsize for sure if this storm doesn’t stop soon! yelled the First Mate.

Steer ten degrees starboard and head into that cloud, Peterson! ordered the Captain.

Begging your pardon Sir, but we can’t see what’s in there? queried the First Mate. We don’t know how far off course we are since the storm struck and there could be rocks or God knows what manner of things, in there.

Do it, Mr Peterson! commanded the Captain. We stand a far greater risk remaining in this storm than we do heading into the cloud. The waters appear much calmer there and may provide temporary sanctuary whilst we take stock of the damage and make good our repairs!

Aye Aye, Sir!

The First Mate did as he was bid and turned the wheel ten degrees, steering the ship towards the cloud. Once more the lightening lashed out its skeletal fingers, as if clawing at the ship’s rigging to pull it back into the heart of the storm, but the hearty Scottish built ship drove on. As they neared the mysterious cloud, the roar of the winds dropped suddenly, to little more than a hush and the swell of the tide diminished to just a gentle lapping against the ship’s hull. The crew suddenly stopped in their tracks, wary of the deathly luminescent calmness that now engulfed them. Then, a sudden almost expected crackle at the top of the mast turned all eyes upwards to cower in fear at the web of flickering blue light that spread from mast to mast and downwards towards the deck of the ship.

What in God’s good name…? asked the Captain in mystified disbelief.

I think it’s St. Elmo’s Fire, Sir, begging your pardon. Seen it once before when I was on night watch, Sir, replied the First Mate.

Suddenly, a large branch of blinding white light struck the master-at-arms on the main deck, attracted by the weaponry about his person. As the Captain and the rest of the crew stopped and stared, his hair and his beard, curled and twisted upwards, whilst his body juddered as if performing some bizarre navy jig. The crew began to laugh heartily, sickeningly clapping in time with the jolts, naïve of the nerves that were being fried in his body with every second of contact. Only when his eyes rolled backwards into his head, and his teeth clamped hard together in a fixed agonised expression, did the laughing stop. With eyes widened in horror, the crew watched as the lightening, now fully discharged, disappeared and the well rounded meaty master-at-arms crashed down upon the deck, dead. With faint wisps of smoke drifting around him and the vague sweet smell of roasted meat wafting from his body, the crew dropped their weapons in fear and stood in guilt laden silence as the Captain approached. Clearing a way through the circle of men that surrounded the body, Captain Jameson ventured close to the corpse. Wrapping his kerchief around his hand and carefully cupping the handle of his sword, he warily touched the sailor’s left leg with the blade and jumped as the leg suddenly twitched. The crew jumped back a pace and watched as the residue charge, no thicker than a pencil, leapt onto the sword and the Captain felt its pulse, only briefly, before discarding his weapon in haste.

Do not touch the body! he commanded. Lest you share his fate!

Aye aye Sir, chorused the crew grimly.

Peterson, have the body covered with sacking until we get out of this storm. Then, hopefully, we can attend to his remains with dignity.

Aye aye Sir, Peterson replied.

Oh and have two of the crew prepare the burial sack….He was quite a rotund chap, so they will require extra sacking to get the job done.

Aye aye Sir, nodded Peterson. Finlay! Barton! Fetch the sacking!

Aye Sir, they chorused.

You’re on funeral duties, ordered Peterson as the Captain bowed his head before returning to the helm.

Meanwhile, as the unarmed crew encircled the corpse, Magnus and the other escaped prisoners crept silently on to the main deck and waited for someone to lead the charge. Looking around the deck, Magnus spied the recently discarded weapons, like manner from heaven and dobbed a mischievous salute of gratitude to his weatherly benefactor and grinned.

Grab the weapons quietly, whispered Magnus to the prisoners behind him. Then when I give the command, we strike and take over the ship!

The prisoners, foul smelling from the weeks of cramped incarceration in the hold, breathed their first breath of fresh air before lowering on to their bellies like serpents and slithering across the wet deck towards their prey. Magnus carefully slid over the rail on to the outside of the ship and beckoned to three others to follow him. Hanging precariously from the wooden rail with their feet sliding carefully along the top edges of the gun doors, Magnus and his followers made their way towards the quarter deck aft of the main mast. Then pulling himself up the rigging and over the rail again, Magnus landed softly on the quarter deck and crept behind the captain. Sliding the short sword from its sheath and observing that the other prisoners were in place around the main deck ready to pounce, Magnus threw his left arm around the captain’s neck and raised his right arm carrying the sword.

Now men!

In an instant, armed with the discarded weapons, the prisoners turned on the crew and held them at gun point awaiting further orders from their newly self-appointed leader.

You’ll all hang for this, mark my words! bellowed the captain.

Only if we reach land! declared Magnus. But in case you haven’t noticed Captain, there’s a particularly nasty storm to our aft, and a heavy fog across our bow. And, if I’m not mistaken, Peterson, I could have sworn that I heard you state so succinctly that we’re lost! Yes?

Peterson stumbled as the prisoner standing behind him, pushed the barrel of the loaded pistol into the centre of his back.

I asked you a question! barked Magnus.

Peterson looked quickly at the captain who nodded carefully, before replying, Aye ,Sir!

Now then, Captain, I would like to propose a bargain!

I don’t bargain and I don’t parley! snapped the captain. .. particularly not with prisoners, pirates and dishonourable former captains!

Aaah, so my fame precedes me! I’m flattered you’ve taken due note of my achievements! sneered Magnus.

I’ve taken no more note than I would any potential threat aboard my ship! replied the captain.

Hmmn, sighed Magnus pensively. Then he turned to a slight, and gaunt looking prisoner to his left. You! What’s your name?

Craven, Sir! he replied.

Right, Craven. Bind the Captain and bring him into the cabin! The rest of you, bind your prisoners and bring them to the quarter deck! The Captain may not want to bargain, but let’s see if his underpaid crew are more prudent!

A chorus of, Aye aye Captain! echoed around the prisoners as Craven lashed the Captain’s wrists and bound them tightly before leading him into the Captain’s cabin behind Magnus.

You’ll never get away with this! snapped Captain Jameson.

Magnus walked around the Captain’s table, and stood with his back silhouetted against the ghoulish green glow beyond the windows, that now shrouded the entire ship.

And why do you think I was discharged from my position Captain? asked Magnus.

The Admiralty felt that you were a significant risk! he responded snootily.

To who? To you? To my crew? No, I was a risk to them! They felt threatened by the volume and severity of their own misdeeds which I was privy to! The more I knew, the bigger the threat I became, yet, they needed me to carry out their dirty work! I played their game, pirating their own ships’ cargo to line their private purse, that is, until they double-crossed me! he bawled slamming his fist down hard on the table.

You lie Sir! You defame their honour! replied the Captain.

I think not Sir! I have guested in many of their powerful households and learned of many other schemes of their malpractice and mis-appropriation of coin to their benefaction! Magnus growled. Then lowering his voice to a gleeful sneer he continued, Their big mistake was to under-estimate my many skills, he continued. As additional insurance, I charmed and bedded many of their valuable virginal daughters too! he gloated. As I recall, their thighs were pale like milk, sweet and yielding to the thrusts of my ambition! One wrong word in the right ear refuting their precious chastity and I’ll bring their lifelong plans for influential marital alliances crashing down around their ears!

Good God, man! Know you no shame, no dishonour so base, to defile the innocent with your diseased intentions and contrived blackmail? remarked the Captain in disgust.

You flatter me Sir, with my accomplishments and I do confess to your piety that I did no such action under sufferance. I did, indeed, indulge my lusts and delighted in the pleasure and gratifications from such sweet torture. Then taking a deep sniff of the air, like a blood hound picking up a scent, his eyes glinted evilly and he sighed, Mmm, I sense the smell of adultery about you, Sir or are you such a dandy to flaunt your perfume so blatantly? I think I shall imminently enjoy the intimate realms of the mistress who was once yours solely to conquer. What say you Jameson?

Captain Jameson stood to attention as tiny panic and guilt loaded beads of perspiration appeared on his brow.

I am an honourable gentleman and loyal husband! How dare you slur me with allegations that could only exist in your depraved soul! You scoundrel Sir! I demand satisfaction! yelled Captain Jameson.

Oh you shall have it! But first I shall take mine! commanded Magnus. Craven! he yelled.

Aye Sir?

Open yonder chest, and tell me what you find there!

Aye Sir!

Craven could see the long, deep, hand carved, dark oak chest that stood at the far side of the cabin and trotted over to it. Holding his acquired sword to the Captain’s throat, Magnus grinned, his eyes filled with sadistic delight, as Craven lifted the heavy chest lid. The bright blue/green eyes sparkled with tears of fear out of the darkness, her heart pounding as she sensed her imminent fate. Reaching down into the chest, Craven suddenly yelled and jumped backwards, cradling his bloody wrist.

She bit me Sir! The viper bit me!

Magnus lowered his sword and strode across to the chest intrigued. He loved women who were filled with anger and fire, their boiling temperament heightened his passions. The more they resisted him, the more he craved them.

Approaching the chest, Magnus offered his hand in an almost gentlemanly fashion to the frightened young gypsy hidden in its depths.

Fear not, he whispered seductively, his voice dark and sweet like Jamaican Rum. I will set you free, he smiled. I wish only to feast my eyes on your beauty, and to provide you with more befitting accommodation.

Slowly from the depths of the darkness, a swarthy slender hand emerged and reached up to his, and he saw her bewitching blue/green eyes for the first time. As she ascended gracefully to her feet, Magnus took in the beauty of her glossy and wavy raven black hair and her flame red softly parted lips. Helping her out of the chest, Magnus watched as she shook her tousled curls and smouldered in the luminescent half light of the cabin. Shaking the dust covered layers of her voluminous skirts and taming the frills that framed her pounding chest and bare shoulders, the gypsy shot an angry glance at her rope bound master. As she turned her face, Magnus saw the red, purple and green bruising on her upper cheek and instantly his anger flared. Recalling the battering of his fragile mother, he took the gypsy’s face in his hand and examined the bruising as she fidgeted uneasily.

Did your master do this? Magnus fumed.

The gypsy stared into his dark soulless eyes and saw her reflections floating out of the blackness to greet her. Gesturing to Magnus that she was unable to speak, she then jabbed her accusatory finger in the Captain’s direction. Magnus glared angrily at her pompous uniformed master.

Craven? he bellowed.

Yes Sir?

Leave us. The Captain and I have business to attend to! commanded Magnus as he leered at Jameson.

Aye, Sir! What will I tell the others?

Tell them to ready the launch! Those crew that do not switch their allegiance will be set adrift and left to the mercy of the storm!

Understood, Sir! replied Craven as he retreated through the cabin door, leaving behind the bound Captain, his mute gypsy mistress and Magnus.

Once the cabin door was closed, Magnus approached the Captain and grabbing him by the shoulders, flung him face down on the end of the table. Then unbinding his hands and rebinding each one to either leg of the table he left the Captain bound and prostrate as he approached the injured gypsy.

Grateful of her apparent rescue from her abusive master she threw herself down at Magnus’ feet. Stooping and taking her hand, he led her to the table to face the purveyor of her misery.

You’re free, he said. Free to do what you will, he said as she stroked his aging face and stubbled chin. What would you have me do with him? Magnus asked gesturing towards the captain.

Grabbing hold of Magnus’ hand and pressing it to her stomach, he felt the movement and distortion of her swollen belly and let out a raucous laugh.

Well, well Captain! So much for the honourable loyal husband that you swore to a moment ago! Your falsehood is confirmed and your guilt is manifest! Your mistress, Sir, is carrying your bastard!

The Captain pulled and twisted on his ropes, trying to free himself.

What would you have me do? asked Magnus smiling gleefully at the gypsy, waiting for her direction.

The gypsy beckoned to Magnus to hand over his sword, and surprisingly he did so, mesmerised by the fire of vengeance in her eyes. Then, taking the sword and wandering round to the Captain’s end of the table, Magnus stood silently, waiting for the inevitable.

What’s she going to do? yelled Captain Jameson. Stop her!

I am not feminine and understand not the ways of a woman scorned and defiled so intimately! grinned Magnus. She alone knows the price of her present ruination!

The pain was swift and searing, and the Captain let out an agonising scream of terror as the point of the blade pierced his body below his spine and thrust further and further inside, until the hilt prevented the blade from travelling any further. As she twisted the blade inside the Captain, Magnus could see the wildness in her eyes and the satisfaction of her revenge glowing beneath her facial bruises. Magnus felt excited by her fire and her power as she wielded the sword like a baton of justice. Strange gagging sounds came from the captain’s mouth as he coughed a pool of blood on to the table.

Carefully approaching the gypsy from behind, he softly lay his older rougher hands on her bare shoulders and breathed in the exotic scented oils from her hair, before slowly gliding his hands down each of her arms. The gypsy shivered as if a cold serpent had crawled over her body and tensed nervously as Magnus’ hands came to rest over hers on the hilt of the sword.

I believe he is dying. Your job is done, he whispered seductively in her ear as he carefully removed the sword from the Captain’s body.

As her anger tempered, she realised the true extent of her actions. The Captain would be dead soon and that would make her a murderess, destined to hang when they eventually made port. Magnus’ strategy hadn’t freed her at all. He had instead, turned her instantly into his very malleable slave. Not only was her soul damned to hell, but her body was forever damned to serve this devil’s whims and desires. Trembling with shock and fear, she backed away breathlessly and sought refuge in the darkness. With the Captain’s blood still on his hands, Magnus stepped into the shadows stalking the gypsy as she backed up against the wall of the cabin. Having no place left to run, she pressed her back against the wall as the malevolent, victorious former captain advanced towards her. Her blue/green eyes flashed in the darkness and she held her breath uncertain of his intent. Slowly, he raised the bloody blade to her lips, painting them gently with Jameson’s blood. As the luminescent green light from the windows cast an eerie green glow across her blood stained face, there was a sudden cutting of fabric as Magnus brought the sharp blade edge down through the bodice of her dress, like a hot knife through butter. The fabric fell away on either side of the blade and Magnus grinned lecherously as her abundant breasts burst free from their restraints and hung provocatively beneath the now loose folds of material.

Outside the cabin door, Craven heard the sound of clattering metal as the sword fell to floor and he listened intently to his master’s moans of sadistic, satisfaction whilst the gypsy shed silent tears and prayed for merciful release.

As blood poured from the Captain’s mortally wounded body on to the floor at his feet and the pain of his wounds gave way to the welcome numbness and tranquillity of death, Magnus gasped with pleasure and groaned huskily, I will set you free.

Smothering her blood covered mouth with his, Magnus caressed her supple soft neck with his rough bare hands before suddenly clamping them tightly around her throat. Clawing wildly and ineffectively at his vice like grip, the gypsy struggled to breathe. Then, as he removed his mouth from her lips and took one last look at her tantalising eyes, he gave her neck one firm last hard sudden twist, and heard the stomach turning snap of the vertebrae and she was free, unto death.

Suddenly, Magnus heard the hammering on the cabin door.

What is it? he yelled.

The launch is ready Sir! shouted Craven.

Stepping away from the gypsy, Magnus watched contented as her now lifeless pregnant body slid to the floor and whispered, Pity, she showed potential. Then turning his back on both corpses and straightening his attire, unremorseful, he strode across to the door, opened it and stepped out on to the quarter deck.

The launch is ready Sir, repeated Craven.

Good! he replied. Then walking up and down in front of the bound crew he made his announcement.

Captain Jameson is dead!

The crew looked at each other, horrified but unsurprised.

Be assured, he did not die at my hands but his manner of dispatch from this world was well suited to his misdeeds! Those who wish to join him should step forward now!

The crew stared at each other and stood fast, whilst Magnus nodded in acknowledgement.

Take them down to the launch! ordered Magnus.

But we have chosen to serve you! protested the confused first mate.

Magnus stopped and turned back towards his objector.

Only a fool would trust a crew so easily turned and our supplies will last far longer with fewer mouths onboard! he retorted as a single shot was heard and the first mate dropped to his knees, the victim of Magnus’ decisive smoking pistol.

Are there any more objections? asked Magnus.

There was no response.

Keep the first six crew men and place the rest onboard the launch with some water and supplies! Their fate now lies in the hands of the storm!

Aye aye Sir! chorused the new substitute crew.

Those six will train the rest!

As the prisoners loaded the former crew into the launch, a web of white lightening reached out and engulfed the ship as the green mist glowed eerily all about them. Striking at the rope and pulleys that kept the launch in place, the bolt of lightening severed the rope, causing the wooden boat to drop suddenly and decisively, discarding all onboard into the strangely still waters below. More flashes struck the weapons held by the prisoners, causing them to fall again on to the deck at their feet as they cowered in fear at the mist’s electrifying wrath. Suddenly the entire ship’s hull began to creak and squeal as if the very life of the ship was being torn away. Fascinated, Magnus stood his ground as his prisoner crew ran here and there in a terrified frenzy, fearful of where the lightening would strike next. Looking forward towards the bowsprit, Magnus thought he saw the ship begin to ripple before his eyes as an invisible wave of energy struck the ship. As the energy advanced slowly but smoothly towards him, Magnus gazed transfixed as the ship, the rigging and everyone onboard began to disappear in its wake. Knowing that he could not escape it and unsure of its purpose, he closed his eyes and willed himself to survive this strange phenomenon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, Magnus stood alone, engulfed in silence until he suddenly felt the wetness of heavy rain hit his skin. Opening his eyes cautiously but curiously, he realised he was still onboard the ship. Gradually, those members of his crew whom he had observed towards the centre of the main deck, re-materialised along with the rest of the ship. The lightening and the green mist had vanished and was now replaced by a heavy warm rain, uncharacteristic of the western Atlantic. Then, gazing far out to sea ahead of the ship, Magnus squinted bewildered at the bizarre landscape that lay on the horizon.

Fetch me the Captain’s spyglass! Ordered Magnus as he observed Craven stumbling nearby.

Aye aye Sir!

Within a minute, Craven returned and handed the spyglass to Magnus who extended it to its optimum length. Then peering through the eyepiece at the horizon, he adjusted the lens.

Begging your pardon Sir, but where are we?

Silently, Magnus scanned the metal cargo ships and luxury yachts in the distant harbour, and the hundreds of odd looking buildings along the bay. Rubbing his tired eyes he squinted again through the eyepiece of the spyglass as several fin shaped small orange sails appeared, and Magnus vaguely recalled where he had seen these small, dark wooden junk boats before.

The place is unfamiliar to me, Magnus replied. But I’ve seen these boats before.

Have we reached Virginia Sir? asked Craven.

I don’t believe so.

Suddenly, there was an almighty rumble and roar in the sky high above their heads and as they looked up, and saw the underbelly and descending undercarriage of the passenger plane, on its approach to Hong Kong airport. Terrified by the massive metal dragon in the sky, everyone except Magnus, dived face down on to the deck.

What is it Sir?

Magnus stood in awe at the wonders of modern technology that lay ahead of them. On the deck of the nearest junk ship, he could see the oriental crew staring as curiously at their ship, as Magnus stared at them.

Jameson took us further off course than he thought! concluded Magnus.

Do you know where we are, Sir? Are we in hell? asked Craven.

Behind them came the sudden blast of a ship’s horn and the garbled bellow of mandarin commands as the ferry passed close by them, sending out a large wake that rocked their ship from side to side. As the crew of the Pride of Leith rose again to their feet, they stood and blinked at the crowd of ferry passengers who rushed towards the rail to take photographs of their ship. Looking at each other speechless, Magnus finished his sentence.

No, we’re not in hell! I’m sure that these were once the Hong Kong Islands, though they appear to have changed considerably since my last visit.

As Craven stood bewildered by the modern ships and buildings on the island, a couple of American tourists pushed their way to the front of the crowd peering over the ferry rail. Frank, a stocky businessman from Manhattan pulled his delicate wife beside him and pointed his digital cine camera at Magnus. Then as the Pride of Leith neared the ferry, Frank yelled across at the bemused 18th century crew.

Hi there! Can you smile for the kids back home!

Magnus and Craven exchanged puzzled expressions, unfamiliar with the strange dialect of the oddly dressed couple bearing the flashing silver box. Believing the box to be some odd kind of weapon, Magnus pulled out his pistol and fired his shot. For a second, the crowd cheered with delight, thinking the ship, the crew and the gunfire were part of some incredible and elaborate, maritime display. Then the camera flew out of Frank’s hands and shattered into pieces on the deck, the still hot shot rolling amongst its debris.

Picking up the lead shot between his fingers, Frank’s face turned red.

Gee honey, mind your blood pressure! You know what the doctor said! remarked his wife.

Shut up, Ellen, he snapped before turning on Magnus. You asshole! That camera cost be $900! I hope you have insurance and legal cover, cos you’re gonna need it!

Magnus raised an eyebrow and turned to look at Craven, puzzled.

What’s the matter hot shot? Cat got your tongue? Or are you just as much an asshole as you look in that outfit! added Frank bitterly.

As Magnus scowled and scratched his head in puzzlement, Craven turned to him bewildered by this bizarre turn of events, and said,

Begging your pardon Sir, I think we are in hell!

CHAPTER 2

LIZ, WAS A YOUNG, TWENTY-SOMETHING single woman, living alone in a small village in the North East of England. She wasn’t, what she would describe as, a ‘supermodel’ with her size 12 clothes and moderate height, and she certainly didn’t have any strong desires for designer clothes and handbags. Her paltry salary from the call centre wouldn’t have stood for it. Nevertheless, by anyone else’s standards, she was a true, natural beauty, with her long natural wavy blond hair, silky cream complexion and stunning crystal blue eyes.

Life, until this point, had in Liz’s mind, been a quarter century filled with nothing but monotonous, predictability and disappointing non-events, and showed little sign of changing. From Monday to Friday she pounded the commuter treadmill to her job in the city call centre several miles away, ticking off the days, hours and minutes until the weekend came around again. Every day at the call centre seemed like any other, with the same faces routinely arriving at their desks, trading information on the latest soap opera episodes or the latest celebrity magazine gossip, or whether or not the latest football transferee was worth their extortionate fees. Liz would arrive every morning at about 8:00 am and grab a quick cup of hot black coffee before sitting at her customer interchange portal, and plugging herself into the telephony system. Under starter’s orders, she’d wait and watch for the red light to flash on her console to tell her that her first caller was on the line. Then, she’d press her receiver button and greet the caller with her overly lengthy cheery salutation before hearing what they had to say. But as the day wore on and her nerves became more and more frazzled from hours of auditory torment, her former cheery salutation invariably deteriorated into something more reminiscent of a sombre valediction, with some callers hanging up long before the, ‘How can I help you?’ finale.

She’d only taken the job initially as a temporary measure until something better came along, but eight years down the line, there she was, still at the same desk feeling less like a unique individual and more like a faceless cog in a massive human engine. Sometimes when the lines were quiet, Liz would sit and stare out of the second floor window and daydream of adventures that would take her far away from her mandatory monotony. Sometimes, she’d imagine her fantasy hero flying through the windows at the end of a helicopter rope ladder, pleading with her to leave the tedium of her present life and fly away with him into the sunset. At, home, she would spend night after night dreaming of her favourite actor, imagining him turning up at her front door one day, asking for help and role playing how she would react. Would she: faint with shock; invite him in for a cuppa or allow him to seduce her in the most tasteful and romantic way? Often the latter was her personal preference, and she’d imagine how it would feel to be in his arms.

Hey Liz! whispered her friend Karen from across the desk. Get a life, girl!

What? Liz replied.

You’re daydreaming again, said Karen.

Liz sighed, and adjusted her headset.

Can you blame me? she asked. The only excitement I get in life these days, is when there’s a power cut at home and I have to dig out the candles, she sighed.

I know what you mean, nodded her friend. Have you got anything nice planned for the weekend?

Well, I have a difficult decision to make.

And what’s that?

Whether to watch TV or read my book, Liz replied.

Wow! That’s a tough one! teased her friend.

How about you?

Oh, you know, sighed Karen feigning disinterest. Same old…

Yeh. Me too!

Although she appreciated the reliable income and security that came with the job, she never quite saw herself as someone who could truly fit in there. Frequently she had days where she felt more like a square peg in a round hole, than a team player, craving the courage to take a risk, to leave the comfort of her sedentary life and make a new career for herself, somewhere out there, beyond the clocking in machine. A job that would stretch and stimulate her mind, excite her imagination as well as fulfil her life long dream to travel the world and experience the cultures she’d only ever read about or watched on TV. But, another Monday morning would arrive, the alarm clock would buzz and the cycle of routine and mindless monotony would begin again. Weekends and holidays became her only precious opportunities for escape and a chance to save her individuality and her sanity. But even then, she lacked the courage to try the untried, to sample anything new, in case her expectations were dashed or she was left, humiliated. As the years went by, the fear of disappointment, rejection and broken dreams, compounded. She began to resent the routine and security that made her mundane life possible, but which she lacked the courage to change. Frustrated and annoyed by her own cowardly resignation, she turned to the escapism of her private night time world of dreams, to fulfil the latent desires that seemed so far beyond her reach in the real world.

The week dragged by, as it usually did, with its predictable routine of commuting delays and dismal weather, until finally, Friday evening arrived.

Settling down in her armchair, and wrapped in her thick, fleecy dressing gown, she clutched a steaming cup of hot chocolate, she pointed the silver remote at the screen and watched expectantly as the movie title flashed up on the screen. Blissfully unaware of the events already unfolding, in which she would play an important and intrinsic role, she pressed the ‘play’ button to begin her journey of indulgent escapism.

More than an hour passed, and as the action packed film accelerated towards its inevitable climax, she watched her favourite actor, fly suddenly backwards across the room as a zap of electricity sent him crashing into the opposite wall before falling to the floor. Liz huffed, imagining herself in the actor’s shoes.

Yeh, I know how that feels, she muttered, as she compared the action on the TV screen with the memory it triggered in her head. ‘Been there, done it, got the T-shirt’, she thought to herself remembering the accident from her distant childhood. Sighing at the recollection and allowing the resurgent resentment at what had happened to take over, she drifted into the detailed events of that disastrous school day.

The image of the school laboratory began to form in her mind. She could see the many tall and heavy mahogany laboratory tables lined up in neat regimental rows in front of the rolling blackboard on the far wall. She could see too, the many grey plasticised gas taps and white power sockets that broke the straight line visual symmetry of the table rows, like the vertical blips on a hospital heart monitor. Around her she could see the diagrammatic and colourful representations of the periodic table of elements, engine combustion and clinical human anatomy, pinned up at intervals around the laboratory walls. She remembered too the prickliness of the red wool cardigan beneath her school blazer, which often rubbed against the back of her neck, as she bent over her exercise book and meticulously transcribed the notes from the blackboard.

Electrical energy is never lost………..we just haven’t been able to develop devices which are 100% energy efficient. In reality, when you plug something in and switch it on, you’re probably losing about 5% electricity which is converted to the heat you can feel from the wires or plug, if they’ve been left on for some time, If you are using batteries, the same thing happens. The batteries get warm and eventually, the power in the cell diminishes to such a low level, that it is no longer of practical use even though there is energy still present."

Liz was there in her mind. She could quite plainly see the middle aged physics teacher as he stood in his Harris Tweed jacket, behind his desk and faced the class of silent, compliant and, for the most part, attentive young teenage pupils.

Today, we’re going to carry out an experiment to demonstrate how we can conduct electricity through us. I want you all to form a circle and hold hands with the person on either side of you.

Oh yeh, sneered Gordon, the class exhibitionist. I’ve done this before at my other school………Pathetic!…….Pins and needles. I get more of a kick from the static shocks in our local supermarket…

Look, Gordon. If you don’t want to take part, you can go and stand outside in the corridor or do detention……..it’s your choice! But I’m not going to take any of your nonsense today……do you understand?

Gordon glared at the teacher.

I said, Do you understand?

Yes.

Yes what?

Yes Sir!

Okay class. Now I need two volunteers….one to hold the positive crocodile clamp coming out of the power-pack…….and one to hold the negative clamp…..Any volunteers?

The physics teacher, who was grey haired and perhaps not far off retirement, reminded Liz of the typical university boffins she saw regularly on TV… Apart from his jacket patched with corduroy at the elbows, he wore faded dark green corduroy trousers and a well worn and slightly dull white shirt adorned with a typically wide, loud coloured nylon kipper tie. Typical that is, for the 1970’s. He scanned the class for a gullible victim, but no one raised their hand.

No volunteers??

I’ll hold one end, if you like, Sir, said Liz. If somebody else holds the other end, she added. I’m not chicken…….Why don’t one of you lads hold the other one? She asked, scanning the boys’ faces, but there was a stony silence. No? I thought so. Gutless! Totally gutless! she sniped.

She does have a point, agreed the physics teacher. I can assure you, there’s nothing to be afraid of, he insisted and paused, hoping that one of the boys would step up to the challenge. Right, well, if there’s no volunteers amongst you lads, then, I’ll decide. Stephen, come to the front.

Stephen was a short, quiet boy with lank, greasy hair, who fairly recently had begun to exhibit the early signs of his adolescence, with an unfortunate array of small but inflamed red spots all over his pale white face. He had a distinctly pungent odour about him too, and Liz couldn’t help but think that, if there was ever a worthy candidate to thoroughly test the effectiveness of an anti body odour remedy or acne cream, he was it. Liz cringed as he came towards her…..her nose flinched and her lips pursed as she came within ground zero of his acrid aroma. Then, handing Liz and Stephen the appropriate crocodile clamps as the rest of the group reluctantly held each other’s hands, the teacher switched on the power pack.

Almost as soon as the power was switched on, several hands released their grip and the human chain was broken.

You need to keep hold of each other’s hands or you’ll break the circuit, reminded their teacher. You’ll just feel a slight tingle…..nothing painful, he added reassuringly. So, hold hands again and I’ll switch on the power for a count of ten, then you can let go….Alright?

Tentatively, the class reformed the circle and the teacher flicked the switch again. Again, several hands released their grip and the circuit was broken.

In frustration by her classmate’s cowardice to perform the simple experiment, and naively, eagerly curious to know what it would feel like to experience the electricity surging through her body, Liz had an idea.

Sir? If everyone is so scared of the clamps, why don’t I hold both of them and then they can hold on to my arms?

The teacher nodded unthinking of the consequences that her suggested action would have. In her ignorance of how electrical circuits worked, Liz had failed to consider that the electrical current would take the shortest path through her body to the other crocodile clamp. Holding both the positive and negative clamps in her hands, Liz was about to complete her own human circuit.

The class reformed the circle for a third time with Liz holding on to both clamps whilst Stephen on her left side and her best friend Julie on her right side, held on to her wrists. Still oblivious to the apparent consequences of Liz’s actions, the physics teacher flicked the switch on the power pack one last time.

The response was so instantaneous that nobody had time to react evasively. There was no pain, no tingle, in fact they all felt nothing, except for Liz. As the jolt of the electrical volts surged through her body, an incredible invisible force like a sudden strong gust of wind, instantly lifted her off the ground and repelled her backwards twelve feet or so across the laboratory, clearing two stools that lay in her path. As the force of the electrical blast, raised her heart and adrenaline rate, time and events suddenly slowed down, almost to a halt. In that moment, that extended the passage of time between one second and another, a vision appeared in her mind. It was a face of quite a handsome young man, she thought, but nobody that she knew. He had dark hair and rich brown and gold enigmatic eyes tinged with sadness. He was talking to her. Distracted by everything that was happening to her, Liz struggled to hear his words. Then, before any of the conversation had a chance to register in her mind, the vision ended and the stranger’s face disappeared. Who was he, she asked herself, before the memory of his face slipped away from her into the distant dark vaults of her subconscious.

She didn’t feel as if she was being thrown across the room, it felt more like she was floating gently backwards through the air. She felt no pain, no force as she observed the frozen expressions of horror on the faces of her classmates, before descending to the ground with the silence and grace of an angel, but as she made contact with the floor, time clicked on. The invisible force that had moved her so delicately through the air, now exerted its electrical wrath on her, ripping her apart from her head down to her feet. Tears of laughter and extreme sadness ran simultaneously down her cheeks as her classmates stood transfixed by her bizarre visual display of split emotional extremes outwardly expressing the polarised inner turmoil occurring throughout her entire body. All eyes watched Liz as she sat on the floor laughing and crying simultaneously, amazed that she was still alive!

Still unaware of her resultant cellular transformation, Liz recalled the curious reactions of her classmates and how they had never spoken about what happened from that day onwards. Was it their guilt at their act of cowardice that bound their silence, she wondered. Or was it perhaps their fear of the draconian physics teacher’s wrath, if they breathed a word of the incident that gagged their normally conspiritous and vicious tongues? No one ever told her, but their subsequent reticence towards her, and their wariness of close proximity spoke volumes of the fear and suspicion she instilled them. She, the victim of their past taunts, who had shamed them with her boldness and courage, had faced death and defied it. She was no longer someone to be slighted, she was someone to be kept at a distance until her normality could be safely determined.

Recalling her isolation and loneliness following the event, and the occasional whispered jibes of, Let’s see you fly then, or Can you climb walls yet? Liz frowned. She remembered how cruel they’d been and how