Finding Justine: Libertine

By Andy Lang

An animal rights activist. A sadistic billionaire and his beautiful young victim.

Adam Hurst felt his reason for existence crumble as all hunting with hounds became outlawed. The battle against an ancient barbarity had been won, and he had become redundant. Yet one target remained. The titled owner of vast estates who presumed that he lived above the law. Adam's new crusade; to expose the Earl of Silverleigh for the monster that he knew him to be.

Earl Marcus, bloodsports enthusiast, and devotee of the sixteenth century libertine the Marquis de Sade. A man of unimaginable wealth, and unspeakable depravity, Driven by the writings of his hero, a man determined to translate the sordid fiction of Justine, his favourite book, into terrifying fact.

Theresa. The very essence of virtue. Stolen from her home, her identity erased. A girl desperate for love, but finding submission as her only hope of survival.

Theresa has become Justine, but her nightmare has only just begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PMO Publishing
• Release date: Jun 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310435683

Andy Lang

Andy Lang was born in the north west of England in 1965 and worked in the early years as an engineer in an agricultural manufacturing company. Moving from the United Kingdom in the late 1990's he subsequently spent many years in the entertainment industry in Cataluña, Northern Spain and property sales in Andalucia, Southern Spain. After several years workings as an Independent Financial Advisor in East Africa, he now writes full time. Over the years he has travelled extensively and has lived in Spain, the west of France, Brazil, Kenya and South Africa.He currently lives with his wife and their young sons in Kenya.

Book preview

Finding Justine

Libertine

Andy Lang

Layout Copyright (C) 2015 by PMO Publishing. Published 2015 by PMO Publishing. eBook design by PMO Publishing. Cover art by Andy Lang.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Definition of Libertine.

1: A freethinker especially in religious matters

2: A person who is unrestrained by convention or morality; specifically : one leading a dissolute life

3: A person (especially a man) who leads an immoral life and is mainly interested in sexual pleasure

Source: Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Prologue

Justine stared at droplets of ruby blood, her mind disconnected from fact. It looks quite pretty, she thought as an irrational smile formed on her split and swollen lips, like a cross shape! A Crucifix.

Her mind, as always, sought an avenue of escape as her body screamed for mercy and relief. Her spilled and dripping blood gave her consciousness focus - a point of attention to distract from reality. The immediate reality of pain and abuse, of torture and humiliation; and the long accepted reality of the forced servitude and depravity that had become her life.

The droplets began to blur as she lost focus, a fact that saddened her. Probably a concussion, the analytical portion of her brain kicked in, feeding fact and understanding that she found unnecessary, given her clear understanding that the end had finally arrived.

It would have been nicer to have left with the pretty cross in my mind, she thought, and closed her eyes, anticipating the final blow. Prayer had long since departed from her existence, but the bloody crucifix had given her heavy heart some small comfort. A sinister chuckle broke her silent acceptance, her ultimate serenity shattered.

If he could have just done it without laughing, she thought as she squeezed her eyelids tighter, the image of the fading sacred cross violently replaced by the sadistic smile of her abuser. She didn't need to open her eyes to understand the look upon his face, the twisted and cruel smile, the cold and calculating blue eyes, sometimes soft and warm; now, intense, loaded with hate and finality.

You have had sufficient time to make your peace. his chuckle returned, almost gentle now, yet loaded with menace.

Goodbye, my love. she whispered as a tear broke free to track through heavy mascara. I'm sorry Adam.

Stars burst flaring bright, searing through her closed eyelids. Her clenched jaw strained, her teeth grinding under the force of his blow. Pain upon pain ricocheted through her tortured mind, sickness bloomed. Nausea and despair engulfed. Darkness enveloped her mind as nothingness robbed her thoughts of entity. Her body sagged; and muscle control deserting she slumped forward, face down onto unyielding concrete. Justine forced her eyes to open, the vision of a cross reappeared, but swiftly faded, now darkness reigned, her vision lost to the nihility of death.

Chapter 1 – Adam #1

2001 – Holmes Chapel, Cheshire, United Kingdom.

Adam flicked through a copy of the Horse and Hound, gleaning information and making plans. The season approached and his blood began to boil, just as it had done in previous years, since that fateful day that had marred a largely unexceptional childhood.

Unexceptional in so many ways, he laughed quietly at his own honest self assessment, he hadn't needed a string of teachers and frustrated employers to point out his flaws and absence of focus. Those traits were clear in his carefree mind. You lack drive, boy! His old headmasters voice drifted up from deep memory.

You're dead right, Sir. he had replied, the cockiness of youth clear in his tone. Let things work themselves out in their own time, that had been his credo then, and a resolution that he had stuck to religiously. With one exception, and in this case he had proven to be far from unexceptional.

Call me the rural terrorist, he chortled as he stroked a black balaclava mask flat under his hand. The dark mask, the insignia of his true calling. Wearing it he became powerful, invincible, maybe even feared – he hoped. Dark eyes staring from slits in the black wool. Thin lips drawn tight into a daunting line, no hint of a smile, no vestige of mirth.

I will be the scourge of those blood-thirsty bastards for as long as I can draw breath. he whispered with an air of certainty, I won't stop until their barbarity is finally outlawed.

And if it is outlawed; banned... what then? The small voice inside that haunted him spoke softly into his ear; taunting. He wanted the sport banned, but it had been his goal for so long that he understood that it had grown to define his existence. Without fox hunting, would his life lose all definition?

Then I will find another cause. he declared decisively. It's a small world, I will find another crusade... Bull-fighting, he voiced aloud, That can be my next challenge, or whaling, or stopping baby seals from being clubbed to death on the ice. We live in a sick world, there will always be a need for my special skills.

He returned his gaze to the magazine, But until then, I will remain a saboteur.

What had sparked his calling?

That memory still stalked his nightmares.

He remembered a fresh winters morning, frost nipped his young fingers, the tips poking through fingerless gloves, and his breath came like smoke, a chilly dragon, he had laughed while blowing imaginary streams of flame, the white vapour hanging in the still air.

Searching for conkers, that is what had drawn him to the woodlands that bordered his village home - he had a reputation to defend. The schools official conkers champion for three years running. The first frost promised a good haul as he carefully lifted the top strand of a rusting barbed wire fence, the metal fangs edged with a crisp white rime. Slowly and deliberately he eased himself underneath. Of course he had snagged his coat, he always did, never bending quite low enough, so he paused for a moment before deciding to back away and try again.

Strange, he told himself as the sound of dogs broke the silence. To hear one barking in the distance he considered normal, not even registering in his mind, yet to hear so many struck him as decidedly odd. No one has that many around here, he said as he pulled himself free of the wire fence and made his second attempt, successful and snag free this time. Standing on the very edge of the forest he paused and strained his hearing. I'm not so keen on dogs, he declared in a small nervous voice, the first tingling of concern entering his mind. Having been bitten as a small child he had developed a healthy distrust of all things canine. Now, to hear so many, and clearly approaching caused him to glance back toward the boundary fence and the open fields beyond. I came for conkers, he whispered, attempting to bolster flagging courage, And I won't leave here without them.

A horn sounded, shrill and drawn out, yet distant. At least there are people with the dogs, he told himself, feeling a modicum of his confidence return, It's dogs on their own that scare me. His open admission of fear came as a surprise, They do scare me, he stated, and gave himself a small smile, And you know what? I don't care who knows. I'm almost nine now, grown up, and grown-ups don't hide their fears, they don't care what other people think of them.

Admission and determination to face his fears shepherded his deserting courage, and swallowing hard he took a final glance over his shoulder in the direction of home, before taking his first faltering steps into the cover of the trees. The canopy closed above his head, and dead dry leaves fluttered down to land soundlessly onto a soft bed of their fallen kin, the barking and yelping appeared to diminish as the woodland engulfed him, insulating him. Deeper he ventured and again a horn split the growing quiet, The dogs aren't so close now, but the horn blower is, again he paused and heard the sound of horses hooves. In the opposite distance voices sounded, urgent shouting and calling, a barbaric sound loaded with aggression, He heard shouts of Tod and Charlie, distant hooves pounding, the horn blowing again behind him as though the voices and horn spoke to each other across the breadth of the overgrown woods, the crack of a whip preceded a sharp yelp, and more shouting, the sound growing. Come away, a call rang clearly from his edge of the forest, very close now, the horn returned from the same location, and to his horror, the distant barking transformed to howls and excited baying, the frantic din growing in his ears.

I'm not that brave, Adam squealed, and turned to run, his mind filled with the safety of home, his imagination beginning to crowd with images of wolves, ravenous packs, following his trail, hunting him down.

So close now, he gasped. He had wandered further than he remembered, his mind had been filled with adult bravery and images of shiny chestnut conkers gleaming from within their splitting spiky protective cases. The sound of heavy animals crashing through the undergrowth urged greater speed from his young legs, but he couldn't win the race. Baying filled his senses and he felt tears threatening. There's the fence, he cried in relief as the strands of thin wire came into view, somehow the open fields that stretched out to the horizon promised safety. Another horn blast cut through the frenzied barking, sound assaulted his immature senses feeding panic and confusion. A small creature, obviously as scared as himself scurried by, also heading for the safety of the open grasslands. In that instant Adam felt an affinity with the terrified animal, so sleek and beautiful, glowing red fur, almost orange-russet, and such a magnificent bushy tail tipped in white trailing behind. A fox, he gasped, the fence approaching quickly, And he will be half way home before I get out of here.

Suddenly shouting erupted as the lithe creature shot under the lowest strand of wire, it paused; uncertain yet alert. Horses hooves pounded the ground, a whip cracked, the voices multiplied, louder now, more urgent. Adam froze as horses came into view, red clad riders atop, white ties and black bowler hats, black boots topped with chestnut leather. The terrified fox turned and bolted back under the fence only to skid to a halt as it spied Adam. For a moment he looked deep into its eyes, and wondered if the fear that he saw mirrored his own. That moment of hesitation proved fatal for the fox, and served as a moment of guilt that Adam would carry through life; his own culpability, an unintended yet decisive moment that had sealed the fate of another living, breathing creature.

His eyes wide, and mouth open in a silent scream he witnessed the baying hounds tear the animal that he had considered to be so beautiful, to pieces, its terrified squealing, cut short almost instantly. Yet almost twenty years later he still heard the agony in his frequent nightmares, a sound that fed his hatred, a sound that had proved to be a pivotal moment in his life. That sound drove him to don his black woollen balaclava, and along with a small group of hardcore activists... he waged a secret war.

***

Did you have a good weekend?

Adam turned toward the source of such banal enquiry and smiled. If only you knew, he thought, but replied with a small shrug. Same as always, quiet, did some washing, went out for a pint on Saturday night, slept late on Sunday.

What an exciting life you lead, his friend Duncan replied, Don't you ever do anything different?

Adam shrugged again, Sure I do, in summer. But now winters back, so I prefer to stay at home. No point in going out just to freeze my nuts off.

What about the footie, are you up to watching a match sometime?

Adam smiled again but shook his head, Not really my thing mate, cricket in the summer maybe, if the offer still stands!

Duncan shuddered at the thought, Doubtful, he chuckled, I can sit at home and watch paint dry, I like my sport with a little more action.

What about bloodsports? Adam asked, his interest quickening, a question that he had never posed his friend before.

What? Like hare coursing or shooting?

Yeah, something like that, or maybe fox hunting? responded Adam casually.

Never really thought about it, his friend replied, I guess it's not really my thing, but I don't have anything against anyone who enjoys it. Why? Is that what you're into?

Adam shook his head and forced a smile. Your answer is only half way there mate. Nah, not my cup of tea either. he grinned. We may be friends, and although you are not particularly in favour, apathy and acceptance make you also guilty to a point, you will never know what really makes me tick, my friend, he decided, pity though, it would have been nice to have an ally at work.

He returned his attention to the computer screen, and endless columns of numbers. His job in accounts numbed his mind from nine until five, but it paid the bills, and didn't tax his brain over-duly. Who cares what the figures are, he told himself as he attempted to apply a little focus, all that matters is that they balance at the end. But the regional sales reports blurred as his concentration waned, the dull reports replaced by satisfying memories of a very successful weekend.

His Saturday had begun long before dawn, huddled within the smoky confines of his battered and rusting Land-Rover as a shared joint passed from hand to hand. Steam rose in the dim glow of the interior light as a flask of coffee opened and plastic cups gathered in silence. So we're all clear on the plan today? he whispered as he poured wake up caffeine into the waiting cups.

Usual routine. replied the girl with too many piercings.

She must drive the metal detectors crazy when she goes to the airport, Adam laughed inside, nose, ears, lips, eyebrows... this chick is a walking pin cushion. He looked closer, and another thought entered his mind, I wonder where else she's pierced? Shaking his head he dispelled the forming image and drew his gaze away from the shapeless and baggy jumper that she always wore, probably an attempt to hide any pretence of femininity, he decided, and wondered if her carnal preferences truly lay where the rumours pointed.

The public team will be here by mid morning, she added, Vocal but peaceful protest, try to disrupt the meet, confuse the hounds with horns, let these toffs understand that we won't go away.

Toffs... Adam debated their different motives. Anna, right? he whispered, drawing her attention away from the tongue bar that she constantly rolled disconcertingly around her mouth.

You know that this really isn't a class thing!

Speak for yourself, she replied, a shortness in her tone.

Adam shook his head sadly, left wing extremists, he had met so many. He fought for animal rights, they struggled against those that they collectively determined to be the privileged, the upper classes... the posh people!

Just because they can afford to buy and keep a horse doesn't make them toffs, he rebutted, I know lots of them are working class just like us. Or maybe not like all of us, he wondered. Maybe the piercings and socialist posturing stemmed from rebellion. The daughter of wealthy parents, slumming for a while, and sticking an index finger up to daddy. She fits the description, he decided, but swiftly returned his focus back to the job in hand.

Anyway, that's not our concern. he said cutting her objection, and probably another dose from the manifesto, I'm the local here, and I've learned their habits over the last few years. This current Master lacks any imagination, always insisting that they draw the same coverts, so ladies and gentlemen, our job this morning should be relatively simple. I will drop you all off at the most likely places... from there, he laughed softly, Spray that aniseed around like it's going out of fashion, let those bloody hell hounds sniff their way through that.

Under cover of darkness they had a daunting task ahead, yet despite their divergent motives, he knew that every member would play their part. Armed with cannisters of aniseed spray, and dragging scent soaked sacks they would criss-cross the land, covering as much terrain as possible, laying down a heavy odour that would defy the nasal prowess of even the sharpest of the trained hounds. To catch the fox under such conditions would mean that it had to be within line of sight. I'm sorry old Charlie Fox, he thought with a wry smile on his lips, but if you are stupid enough to show yourself... well, there is bugger all that I can do to save you.

***

The morning had grown old as Adam finally stripped away his balaclava and climbed into the Land-Rover. Turning the ignition key he stared down at the grass below his vehicle through a hole in the rotting floor-pan. I guess one day I should get it patched, he thought absent-mindedly as the engine roared instantly to life. His old credo pushed aside the thought, she still starts well, who cares if I get a breeze up my trouser legs. The old car never let him down, old faithful, even if a little shabby and world weary in the chassis. Deftly he snicked the lever into gear and pulled out onto a narrow country lane, the big diesel engine burbling. Through the open window he heard the unmistakable sound of steel horseshoes on asphalt and pulled back onto the verge, seconds later the Land-Rover became an island amidst a sea of black, white and tan hounds, floppy ears and lolling tongues, silent now and formed into a tight pack, shepherded efficiently by hunt servants, the whipper in's to either side, keeping the pack organised with the occasional well aimed flick of a long leather whip, and the huntsman following close behind, chastising stragglers with a sharp word, the hounds attention fixed on his voice, obvious love in their soft eyes. Adam smiled as they passed, the huntsman nodding his thanks. Adam now played the role of supporter and countryman, and leaning out of the window called up to the pale faced rider, Any luck this morning boss?

The huntsman shook his head and spat, Not a bloody thing, he lamented, We drew a complete blank in Corbett’s Covert, now the Master has decided to try over on Ted Johnsons land.

Oh well, Adam replied supportively, how very predictable. You can't win every time, I hope your luck changes.

The huntsman nodded before rebuking an errant hound that had obviously scented a rabbit and decided to start its own hunt.

Adam buried his feelings of smug satisfaction as the hunt followers came into view, the field of riders held back at a respectable distance by the Master. I have to agree with Miss Anna Pin Cushion when it comes to this arrogant bastard, he thought as he tugged his forelock, the universal acknowledgement that one had met their better, and received no more greeting than a look of distaste and disdain from the mounted leader. Now there is a fine example of everything that is wrong with a feudal system, that prick still hasn't realised that Master of Foxhounds means sod all in the twenty first century. Staring into the rear view mirror he allowed his smile to surface. No luck for you on Ted's land, he laughed, I screwed that up for you well before dawn. and shifting back into gear he set off to collect his troops.

The rural terrorist strikes again, he almost sung the words. And if trespass makes me a criminal, well, I can live with that. The main reasoning behind the balaclava. He had been close to capture once or twice before. Terrier men had spotted him on one occasion, they had been out early blocking fox holes, an effort to deny the quarry any escape. Adam had been out undoing their industry. He had grown complacent and stumbled upon them before they had completed their task. He could look back and laugh at the event, but at the time he couldn't be sure who had been the more surprised. He had found two weathered old countrymen stuffing a hole with chicken wire. They had turned to face what must have looked like a hardened bank robber or fanatical suicide bomber. A second of stunned silence descended before a shotgun began to level unsteadily in his general direction. We don't want no trouble here. an elderly voice quavered. Adam hadn't needed a second warning, and with an uncomfortable loosening sensation spreading to his bowels he had turned and fled. But the mask had protected his identity, not that prosecution for trespass worried him, but to be revealed as a saboteur, that would seriously curtail his activities. Hunters maintained a close knit and insular world, news of his unmasking would be disastrous, relegating him to passive protest. He prided himself on action, to rob him of that would be the end of his world.

And he felt his world beginning to crumble as the Labour government pushed through a blanket Hunting Ban four years later.

Adam had won.

Yet he knew inside that he had actually lost everything.

Chapter 2 – A New Calling

2006 – Wilmslow, Cheshire, United Kingdom.

I still don't trust them. Adam cleared a patch in the fog that had formed inside the windscreen. His new partner Jessie nodded, a clear improvement on pierced Anna, and considerably more feminine, he laughed quietly as he cast his mind back to the early hours, and the back seat of his even more battered Land-Rover.

Drag hounds my hairy arse, he sank to the level of profanity, Since when did a pack of drag hounds need terrier men, a bloody scent trail can't go to ground, you don't need to dig it out. These bastards are still hunting, despite the ban. It wouldn't be the first time that a pack had been caught out. Many still practised their barbaric sport, hidden behind a public façade that claimed that they followed a pre laid trail, Huntsmen and hounds are the same breed, it's in their blood, it would be like telling a lion to stop killing and eating zebra. his frustration grew, and Jessie placed a comforting hand on his own as his knuckles whitened on the gear lever knob.

He didn't need her comfort, he didn't even like her that much. The fact that she threw herself at him every time that they tracked the local packs served as incentive enough for him to satisfy her craving. He didn't particularly approve of his uncaring and cavalier attitude, but it kills a bit of time, the thought slipped into his mind and he failed to catch his grin as he mentally rebuked his insensitivity.

I've made no promises to her, he reassured himself, and we are both consenting adults... no real harm done. Yet Adam harboured a deeper feeling of emptiness, a void that he understood Jessie could never fill. He had stood in his bathroom and gazed into the mirror. The rampant beard and moustache of former years had gone, disappearing swiftly with the first sprinkling of grey. He had to agree with the comments from work, he did look younger clean shaven, almost babyish, he grinned, the action forming creases around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. I'm kidding myself. I'm getting old. And I'm alone!

Promotion had come at work. Not particularly deserved, he admitted, still maintaining a performance that even if not spectacular showed a dogged persistence and to a great degree, a total lack of imagination or flair. The perfect accountant, he grinned at his reflection, and exactly what the company wants... boring! But only on the surface, because a secret super hero lurks beneath. With a sigh he admitted that since the ban, he had spent more time hoping than sabotaging. Not much of a hero these days, he conceded sadly.

But now hope flickered in the ashes of the total ban. The estate of Marcus, Earl of Silverleigh promised respite from boredom. His rolling acres and dense woodlands hid a secret, of that Adam felt assured. Again he questioned silently, why would he need terrier men, if he didn't intend to hunt and kill foxes?

Adam knew very little about the Earl. Old money, some said. New money from the city said others. Without exception they all agreed that dirty money would spice up the local gossip for a while. And with ignorance assisted by malicious hope, rumour gestated and grew into a healthy and active member of society. The man is certainly a conundrum, Jessie agreed. Adam glanced at her only then realising that he must have been thinking aloud. But there is no denying that he is loaded, and I mean stinking rich.

Adam nodded, he had seen the helicopter descending behind high sandstone walls, even if that's a rental, he thought, Jessie is correct, only the mega wealthy could ever afford to buy such a massive lump of Cheshire. Within literally a stones throw the houses without extensive grounds topped multi million price tags, so how much for thousands of acres of parkland, lakes and rivers, entire forests... and to top it all, ultra hi-tech security fencing surrounding the entire estate as an addition to the ancient stone walls.

He certainly seems very keen to keep the riff-raff out. Jessie sighed.

Adam glanced sideways and saw the distance in her eyes. She would probably jump on the Earl a damn sight quicker than me, given the chance. It looks more like a prison camp, he snorted in reply, Maybe he's keeping someone in, not out. Realisation dawned suddenly as for the first time he really studied the coiled razor wire. The top of the fence angles in, not out! He leaned forward and cleared the misted windscreen again, sure enough he confirmed his observation. Security fences angle out, to defeat intruders... so why set it that way, surely not a mistake! I think that it's time to get the mask out of mothballs. He felt a the spark of genuine enthusiasm relight, and his anticipation mounted. Your security can't deter the rural terrorist, I just love a challenge. And there and then he began to plan.

***

Let's look at the facts, he defended his position as his close knit group of retired commandos stared uncomfortably into their beers and slimline tonics, We all know that he's up to something in there. He thinks he's above the law, his own little empire inside those walls. He's playing lord of the manor.

Hardly playing, sniggered Harry in disbelief, I mean the guy is an Earl.

You know exactly what I mean, said Adam, feeling a little deflated by the lack of enthusiasm being displayed. We owe it to ourselves to uncover whatever this man is really doing.

Harry shook his head slowly, and then Adam understood that he had been appointed as spokesman, We've moved on Adam. Can't you see it yet... we won. They banned hunting, not just foxes, every animal traditionally hunted with hounds. Face the facts my friend. It's over for us.

But it's still happening, snapped Adam, indignant.

Isolated cases, accidents and mistakes. Just a handful of events each year. No law is perfect, there will always be a few that slip through the net... but Adam, seriously, put it to bed mate, before you drive yourself crazy... We Won. End of story.

Adam looked his former comrades in the eye, each in turn, and saw the same expression in all. Defeated, he decided with a growing sadness, and felt a distance developing, a gulf forming between them. I understand, he nodded, "You've all got different lives now, it has been over a year. I guess it's just me and Jessie from here on!"

Adam, we need to talk.

He saw in her expression the truth, and shook his head, Et Tu Brute, he whispered, and with a heavy heart he finished the dregs of his beer. It has been a pleasure and honour to work with you all, he nodded, his mind set, But now we must walk different paths. No further words passed between them as their group fell apart, and bonds that he felt would last a lifetime dissolved.

I'm truly alone. The thought entered his mind, and the reality hit him hard.

***

Time passed, and with a miserable Christmas and New Year behind him, Adam dragged himself from his warm bed and stared into the bathroom mirror. A new year, and another fresh start, he told his reflection. Neglect and depression had signalled a prolonged period of inactivity for his razor. Untidy beard covered his chin and cheeks, dark rings highlighted his sunken eyes, his skin looked grey and sallow. What a bloody mess, he sighed to the tramp that stared back at him, and began to run hot water into the basin. A shave, a haircut, and a decent meal, he decided, A proper meal rather than endless bags of chips and sandwiches. Something hot.

Hours later he sat in his local pub, a pint of best bitter in his hand, and a plate crowded with a variety of treats from the carvery on the table before him. His world looked brighter as roast potatoes accompanied tender slices of gravy-dripping silverside beef to silence the angry bulldog that had taken up residence in his stomach. I've been far from carefree and happy go lucky just recently, he thought