To the Ends of the Earth

By Michael Gouda

What do you do when when your lover is out to kill you? 

After university, Johnny dated a mysterious and influential man who never disclosed his profession. Now, following a quarrel, Johnny suffers a series of attacks—attempts on his life that his lover has the power and influence to perpetrate. 

With nowhere else to turn, he must rely on his childhood best friend. But can Johnny trust him? With time running out and the world against him, Johnny must solve the mystery himself if he wants to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644052334

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Table of Contents

Blurb

Chapter 1—Childhood

Chapter 2—Adolescence

Chapter 3—University

Chapter 4—Falling in Love

Chapter 5—Ménage à Deux

Chapter 6—Incendiary

Chapter 7—London

About the Author

By Michael Gouda

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To the Ends of the Earth

By Michael Gouda

What do you do when your lover is out to kill you?

After university, Johnny dated a mysterious and influential man who never disclosed his profession. Now, following a quarrel, Johnny suffers a series of attacks—attempts on his life that his lover has the power and influence to perpetrate.

With nowhere else to turn, he must rely on his childhood best friend. But can Johnny trust him? With time running out and the world against him, Johnny must solve the mystery himself if he wants to survive.

Chapter 1—Childhood

JACOB LEVIN was my best friend. Jacob Levin is my best friend. Jacob Levin will always be my best friend, which is a rather rash statement, but I fully believe it. That is until the eldest sister of the Greek Fates, Atropos, comes along with her shears, snickety-snack, and cuts the lifeline of one or the other of us. You see, I’ve known him for so long, from at least when we both were three years of age when, according to my mother, his surname was Levinsky. Why they changed it, no one seems to know, not even Jacob. It’s a perfectly good Polish name, which comes from the Polish word for lion. Not that Jacob is particularly lionlike. In fact, he’s quite a placid individual, and I’m sure at the age of three was even more so.

We met at kindergarten, the Alexandra Park School for kids from three to seven. Not of course that I remember any of this. My mother told me, and Jacob’s mother confirmed it, that I used to wander around after the headmistress, holding her hand, and Jacob followed, holding mine. The only thing I do remember from back at that time was that she taught me to spell the word Egypt, a piece of knowledge that hasn’t so far been of special use to me, as everyone knows how to spell Egypt, except the Egyptians themselves, who call their country Misr, and why not? Everyone has a right to call their own country what they wish. Why should they and the rest of us slavishly follow those damned ancient Greeks, who called their own country Hellas?

Around the age of seven or eight, and this I do remember with startling clarity, Jacob and I were wandering around the grounds of Alexandra Palace. Yes, a real palace but not a royal one. It was (and still is, as far as I know) called the People’s Palace, and housed things like exhibitions and a roller-skating rink, and was the place from which our BBC television programmes were originally broadcast.

Anyway, the grounds were open to all, and Jacob and I made full use of them, playing what was then the allowed term, Cowboys and Indians. I don’t think we ever played Doctors and Nurses. (Children didn’t develop at such an early age in those far-off times.) To our mothers, outdoors wasn’t the dangerous place it is today. Huh! If she only knew.

We were, I remember, playing tag or some such game, which involved running through and hiding amongst thick clumps of bushes, when we were approached by a man. He might well have been quite young, but to us he was incredibly ancient—you know, about our parents’ age. Yes, we had our full share of parents who stayed together in spite of, or probably because of, the children.

This man, as I was saying, approached and asked Jacob if he’d like to see something really exciting.

Jacob said he would, but I had my doubts. Perhaps I was just that much more street savvy. The man held out his hand to Jacob, who was about to take it when I stepped in. I’ll tell my mummy, I said. Middle-class children called their parents mummy and daddy. Perhaps they still do. I have little knowledge and thankfully no interest in children of seven or eight (breeding grounds of colds and coughs, I always think).

My outburst didn’t seem to deter the man, so I came out with the strongest mantra I knew. Don’t touch him or I’ll tell the police. You remember the police perhaps in those days. They walked the streets, stoically telling enquirers the time and, if we were offending in any way, giving us a clip round the ear, which made our heads ring for minutes afterwards. If we told our parents, they would say we deserved it and, more than likely, give us another.

The man’s expression changed. I think I can almost if not quite see it now. That amiable, I’m-your-friend look altered to one of, what was it, fear? No, not fear, belligerence. He reached out his hand to grab Jacob’s arm, and I remember shouting, Run, Jacob, run, and we both hightailed it out of the bushes and into an open space where there were people around and I felt safe.

Why did we have to run? asked Jacob, and I didn’t know, though I do of course now.

By then we were both going to what is called a prep school, Suffolk House, a bit like the middle schools of today, where we were prepared for secondary education from thirteen to eighteen. There we learned various mnemonics like remembering the Cinque Ports of Sandwich, Dover, Hythe, Romney, Hastings, Winchelsea, and Rye by the sentence, Ships at the Disposal of His Royal Highness (When Required). Yes, I know there are seven ports, and cinq means five, but that’s British history for you.

I remember the headmaster had a system of white (good) and black (bad) marks and a board on which the results were displayed. The winner for the year became head of school. Points were given for both academic and sporting achievements. Jacob was good at cricket. I was good academically. As cricket was only played in the summer term and not in the other two, I always finished top at the end of the year, and Jacob second or sometimes third. I don’t think he ever minded, though. I was, after all, his friend.

This was also the place where I found a