Rupert, Carla & the General

By Paul White

Rupert DeVille is happy.

This evening Rupert has planned to surprise his girlfriend, Carla by proposing to her over a romantic meal.

When Rupert is on his way to work that morning he is snatched off the street by two men in a white van.

Live with Rupert during his abduction, learn about his dysfunctional parents, his fears, his dreams for the future and his love for Carla.

Meanwhile, at home, Carla learns that Rupert is missing.

Carla starts a frantic search to find Rupert and enlists the help of Rupert's employer, George, who is just about to retire.

As Carla searches for Rupert we find out about her Fathers sudden death, her Mothers depression and Carla's own wayward past.



Rupert, Carla & the General is a thrilling suspense romance written with a touch of wit and humour that will keep you turning page after page.

Paul White has the rare ability to bring characters to life, making them real people with feelings, worries and inner doubts, just like you and I.

Paul White has masterly crafted Rupert, Carla & the General into a work that leads the reader astray, down the dark alleyways of the past, before bringing them back into the glaring light of the present.

Paul manages to do all this while weaving a mixture of laugh-out-loud humour and offbeat wit into the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Feb 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9783743856578

Book preview

Title Page

Rupert, Carla & the General

A Novel by

Paul White

Copyright © 2013 Paul White

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

(eBook edition 2018)

Originally titled 'The Abduction of Rupert DeVille'

Dedication

DEDICATION

For my wife, Debbie.

Without whose constant encouragement and support I may never have finished this book.

Chapter One - The Plan

Today was to be the most momentous day in the life of Rupert DeVille. It was the day which would forge Rupert’s path to the future or lay waste to the past years of his life.

When Rupert DeVille left his home in the morning, the summer sun was peeking above the red rooftops of the town’s houses. The weak rays of bright yellow sunlight cut through the crisp cold dawn air pleasantly warming the skin on Rupert’s face.

Rupert held only the faintest comprehension of how beautiful this morning was, how those weak sunrays gently warmed his skin or how clear, bright and blue the sky was so early in the day.

His mind was elsewhere, far away from such a mundane thing as the weather. Rupert was dwelling on the meticulous plan he had prepared for this day, this very special day. The day he was to propose to his girlfriend, Carla.

He was painstakingly self-absorbed with the details and carefully reconsidering each step he was about to undertake, so nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to chance.

The plan was beautiful in its simplicity and Rupert needed each stage to go like clockwork.

Stage 1. Catch the 6.50am bus, number 54, from the end of Brook Street. (If the traffic is light this morning breakfast at the Café, if the journey is slow, go straight to work in the bookshop.)

Stage 2. Arrive at bookshop/start work as any other day.

Stage 3. Make a telephone call to check that wages have been safely deposited into bank account and double check the balance.

Stage 4. Go to the Jewellers on the high street at lunchtime & buy the engagement ring. (Ask assistants advice regarding size.)

Stage 5. Leave work one hour early. (This has already been agreed with George.)

Stage 6. Confirm (telephone) reservation at ‘La Bouche’ with Francois. (Ensure that François will not forget the Champagne or the ice bucket.)

Stage 7. Phone Carla, (Carla will not be ready on time), to confirm she will be ready on time.

 Stage 8. Shower & change into best grey flannel suit. Do not forget to put the engagement ring in the right-hand pocket of suit jacket.

Stage 9. Arrive at Carla’s house just before 7.30pm. (Carla will not be ready until 8.00pm at the earliest.)

Stage 10. Walk (stroll) with Carla along the riverbank to ‘La Bouche’ Riverside Restaurant. The reservation is made for 8.45pm, (tell Carla it’s for 8.15pm.)

Stage 11. Propose, after the main course, while waiting for the dessert. Drink champagne with Carla in celebration, (or alone in commiseration.)

Stage 12. The last and final stage will be dependent on the answer to stage 11.

Option A. Walk home (alone) along the riverbank and drink copious amounts of whiskey. Sulk all night long. Fall asleep, (eventually) on the couch. The following day begin life as a hermit on a remote, uninhabited Scottish isle until I am too old and wrinkled to remember anything.

Option B. Walk along riverbank holding Carla’s hand, to her home and celebrate our engagement by making long, slow, endless, passionate love to fiancé. Until the urge to eat forces us to leave the bed and raid the larder or become cannibalistic and eat each other.

End of plan, (besides living happily ever after.)

That was it.

That was Rupert’s plan. It was plain and simple. Time off work was agreed, the restaurant reservation made. His pay due into his bank account later today. All he needed was buy the ring and summon up the courage to ‘pop-the-question’.

Rupert knew Carla would say yes, wouldn’t she?

So, what could possibly go wrong? Absolutely nothing. He reassured himself absolutely nothing could go awry. Rupert smiled inwardly to himself, he had devised the perfect plan.

Whilst waiting at the bus stop for the 6.50am, no. 54 bus. Rupert was, for the moment musing over a less important decision. He was hungry, his stomach was rumbling loudly, he wanted, he needed something to eat for his breakfast.

Rupert was also wondering if he should remain on the bus until he reached the nearest stop to work, arriving at the shop a little too early for his liking and still be hungry, probably starving by then, or should he alight three stops previous and breakfast in the Café, before walking the short distance along the high street to the bookstore?

His final decision Rupert knew, would depend on the amount of traffic on the roads. He hoped it would not be too busy a rush hour this morning as the thought of a large sandwich, piled high with crispy fried bacon and plastered with hot English mustard was virtually making him drool. He was sure it was simply nervous tension, regarding the forthcoming events, which was giving him the hunger pangs this morning. Pangs that made Rupert’s stomach rumble astoundingly and embarrassingly loudly.

He was so engrossed with his breakfast musings and the constant nagging of his grumbling stomach that the resolution of which city bus stop he was going to alight from was made for him. Suddenly Rupert was jolted from his contemplations as the bus, the 6.50am, number 54, pulled away from the bus stop.

Rupert could do little more than watch as the bus, his bus, the bus he was supposed to have caught, drive away, towards the town. This left him standing at the bus stop a little dazed and confused, if not a little embarrassed by his lack of attentiveness. Even in his stunned state it immediately dawned on him, his plan, his very carefully devised plan, the most important plan of his life had been decimated by the merest thought of a piping hot, crispy bacon sandwich.

Rupert was distraught.

Standing at the bus stop, open-mouthed, eyes fixated on the dwindling sight of the bright red bus, as it disappeared into the traffic further along Brook Street, Rupert found himself rocking from side to side in agitated bewilderment and sheer frustration.

This was, for him, unknown territory. How was he to get to work now? How was he to explain his lateness? What would he do for breakfast? Would he lose pay? Who won the by-election?

A trillion panicky thoughts ran amok through Rupert’s head including his date, his proposal date, with his beloved Carla later this evening, should he ever make it to this evening?

Would he need to work late? Would he be able to meet Carla on time? Was Shergar sold as dog meat? Could he get home and change in time? Would Carla be upset if he arrived in his working suit? Was the first moon landing a fake? Is there wind on the moon? Could he propose to Carla? How would he present the ring? Does it rain in Pakistan? What is the correct style of an engagement ring? Is there a style? Was he going to be fired? Would ‘La Bouche’ hold his table? What if Carla said no? What if George said no? Who was George? His boss at the bookshop, George Stevenson was his boss, wasn’t he? Was he? Who am I?

Panic was an anathema for Rupert. Never had he felt so utterly useless and fickle since the day he was on his way home from school and that big bully, Mike Flaterly mugged him in the snicket near the allotments and destroyed his prize 22-point conker.

Panic.

Cold stomach-churning panic is what Rupert was feeling and then it came to him. His Phone. He would call someone. The FBI, CSI, Special branch. PDSA. Pizza Hut. Anyone. He would call Carla and tell her he would be late, but what if he was not late? He would call George, tell George he would be late, but could he avoid being late? He was late. Phil, he would call Phil. Phil with the house in Spain and the silver Mondeo. Phil drove to Spain for his holidays in the Mondeo, he would call Phil and Phil would collect him and he would get to work on time and his very carefully planned day would get back on track. Yes, what a plan.

No not a plan. Phil was in Spain. The Mondeo was in Spain. Rupert knew he was going to be late, he had to phone someone. Rupert was looking at his phone trying to decide what to do. The other people at the bus stop were staring directly at him as he unconsciously rocked his body from side to side muttering unintelligibly to himself.

The man in the white van was also staring at him. 

The backlight on Rupert’s phone went out.  Although he kept gazing at it with some sort of vague, forlorn expectation. Hoping somehow his phone would extradite him from his current crisis. Rupert could see his face reflecting back from the shiny blank black screen.

He looked up, away from the phone’s screen, the people at the bus stop were still looking at him. The man in the van was still staring at him but now he was not in the van anymore, he was standing very close to Rupert, staring directly into his eyes.

This was the point, the defined instant; the precise juncture in time which was to commence the most bizarre experience of Rupert’s entire 43 years of life.

Chapter Two - The Van

The side door of the white van slid open with the seemingly obligatory high-pitched squeal of un-oiled rust against metal. Rupert’s head involuntary turned towards the noise. The first thing he noticed was a face peering out from the gloomy recess of the vans interior.

Why was this man looking at him with such an insane grin stretched across his face? Rupert glanced around. The people at the bus stop continued to stare in wonderment at him and his rocking antics. The man in the back of the van was grinning insanely in his direction. The man from the van was still looking at right in Rupert’s eyes. In his bemused state, it all seemed so surreal.

Why are they all staring at me? Rupert asked himself.

Before he could even begin to formulate an answer in his befuddled head, the man from the van grabbed his right arm and roughly jerked him towards the grinning man in the back of the van.

Rupert was so shocked by the force and suddenness of being thrust forward by this strange man he did not have the time or inclination to resist, apart from a feeble flapping of his arms.

As he was forced nearer the white van, the man with the insanely wide grin reached out and took hold of his loose, feebly flapping left arm. Before Rupert could react, before he had the opportunity to do anything to prevent these mindless thugs from pulling him about, the pair managed to toss Rupert onto the floor of the white van, where he lay prostrate and spread-eagled amongst a disgusting pile of tatty old, oily rags and degrading newspapers.

Glancing upwards, the only thing Rupert could see was a set of overly large sparkling white teeth set, he was certain, with a permanent grin, or was it a grimace? For some strange reason, in this stunned state, Rupert began to wonder if these teeth were dentures or maybe they were crowns. He fleetingly wondered if he should ask who this man's dentist was.

The sound of steel and rust, as the door was closed, finally jolted Rupert out of his numbed state. The slamming shut of the white van’s door plunged the rear of the van into an almost total darkness, a darkness which seemed, for an instant, to sweep a quite calmness over the chaotic seconds that had proceeded.

Rupert blinked and blinked again, trying to focus his vision, to get his eyes to work in the dimness of the interior of the van. Slowly, the darkness seemed to fade to a murky blackness, before small pinpricks of light began prizing their way through tiny gaps and rusting holes of the vans bodywork.

Rupert sensed a movement to his right. He turned his head to look but could see very little. All he could see was teeth. Those teeth, large white teeth. Grinning teeth, shining.

Rupert struggled amid the oily rags, wriggling himself into a sitting position so he could rest his back on the side wall of the van.

The teeth moved, almost biting the air as they spoke, Keep still, quiet, they said.

The teeth spoke with an accent, an accent Rupert thought he should recognise. Quite why he thought that he was unsure. Perhaps if the teeth said more he would be able to distinguish the language. It might even give him a clue as to why he was sitting the back of a white van, with a man who was clearly insane, being driven to god knows where, when he missed his bus, was late for work, had a date, a very important date with Carla this evening and all this on a Friday, an end-of-the-month Friday, a payday Friday, the very carefully planned Friday, the engagement ring buying Friday, the day-he-was-to-propose-to-Carla Friday for God’s sake. What the devil was going on? Rupert had had enough.

I’ve had enough of this, Rupert said, in the most officious tone he could muster and started to get to his feet.

The teeth suddenly appeared inches before Rupert’s face, they seemed to have a luminescence quality of their own. Keep still, quiet, they barked loudly in their weird accent.

Then, out of the darkness, emerged a rough calloused hand, it smelt of old tobacco and stale urine. The hand smothered Rupert’s mouth stifling any further words he might have spoken. Rupert was as shocked by the appearance of the rough hand, as he was by the sudden sight of those teeth materialising out of the darkness a few inches from his own nose.

In his astonishment, Rupert stumbled on the pile of oily rags and papers under his feet, causing him to topple backwards. The back of his scalp cracked violently against the side of the van making his head to buzz. He felt a dizziness overwhelm him before little flickering dots of light bounced around inside his eyeballs, followed by a deepening buzzing from inside his brain.

As Rupert slid into unconsciousness he could not help wondering if all this was just a dream. If he would wake-up as the sunrise shone through his bedroom window. If he would catch his bus from the Brook Street stop, and if Carla would say Yes.

It was an instinctive reaction, or rather an instinctive non-action, which was Rupert’s first recollection of returning to consciousness. The non-action was exactly that. He dare not move a single muscle, dare not make even the minutest sound in case he alerted his captor.

After a few moments Rupert plucked up enough courage to very cautiously raise his right eyelid a fraction of a millimetre; he dared not move his head. peering about by revolving his eyeball in its socket to the limits of his peripheral vision. Rupert could see nothing of any consequence from his position on the floor. Apart that is, from a small portion of the pile of greasy rag and a torn page of an old newspaper, which was wedged into a corner, filling a gap in the rusting bodywork of the van. Rupert could, in the silent milliseconds between the almost constant rattling of the dilapidated van, hear muffled breathing from somewhere near his feet.

This breathing sound he assumed was where the teeth, that man with the insane smile, was sitting. Rupert knew his very survival probably depended on his abductors not knowing he was conscious. This was not something Rupert gleaned from watching the Hollywood blockbusters he so enjoyed, but a latent instinct, base nature, a deep primaeval understanding for survival that is infused into the very fabric of every human being.

As he lay motionless, Rupert felt the movements of the van as it travelled, swaying slightly, bumping, accelerating and decelerating, negotiating its way along the roads on its route. Believing he was, for the present at least, relatively safe he stayed still, stayed huddled on the rough floor and started to try and fathom out exactly what the hell was happening.

Why had he been abducted? Who were these men and what did they want? What could they want from him? Rupert knew he could not give them anything. He had nothing of value to give. He thought of what he did have. A house, a small two-bedroom terrace, along with a large mortgage. Almost no savings and what savings he did have were being rapidly devoured by his credit card fees. So, they, whoever they were, had picked on the wrong person if they wanted money.

His work? Rupert worked in the second-hand bookstore for almost 15 years. The store did not stock books of any value, no antiquities and no first editions, no signed copies; just run of the mill used books, mostly paperback fiction, pulp fiction, sale or part exchange. These books were the ideal cheap read for students, pensioners and the local community. The bookshop did not stock old comics either, which Rupert knew could hold some value for collectors. No, he could not see how his current predicament could be connected to the bookshop.

Rupert thought of his parents. It was not something he did too often. Not something he liked to do at all if the truth is known. For Rupert to believe or even consider his parents had anything to do with his current quandary was totally absurd.

He had not seen or even spoken to his parents since they left all those years ago. He did not know where his parents were living or even where they might be at this moment in time. Thinking about it, he realised he did not even know if his parents were still alive and should the truth out, he did not actually give a dam.

Rupert’s father, Peter, left home when Rupert was ten years old. It was neighbourhood gossip he eloped with a young Filipino girl who was the cleaner at the local morgue. Peter, a Vending Machine engineer, first met the Filipino girl after a cup of oxtail soup became jammed in a dispensing funnel in one of the hot drinks vending machines which Peter serviced.

The girl, it has been alleged, held a penchant for dressing for work in nothing more than a mini skirt fashioned from a single layer of Clingfilm and a pair of nipple tassels made from the tail of a squirrel she