The Inheritors

By Trevor Lloyd

Despite a colonel's persistent efforts to uncover the plot, when terrorists acquire plutonium from a Russian reactor, nobody becomes aware of the danger until it is too late. Only two courageous women, Eleanor Morris and Emma Lawson, emerge as the ones willing to confront the drastically transformed world.

Prepare for you worst nightmare to materialise in the wake of these events.

Now, continue reading as this captivating and suspenseful tale unfolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trevor Lloyd
• Release date: Mar 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224637713

Book preview

Chapter 1

"Showers, gusts of wind and turning cold.

That’s the weather for today, now for the road report." Emma Lawson switched off the television and glanced at the wall clock fretfully. She was going to be late. The central-heating in her flat had conked out again, and the landlord had continued to ignore her. Consequently, she had dithered whilst getting dressed, and the clammy feeling from her clothes was the last straw.

She left her flat in a hurry to catch the bus to work. While she waited in the chilling wind, a passing vehicle ran over a puddle and drenched her. The muddy water saturated her coat, forcing her to brush her face and take a step back. Exasperated, she said, Buggeration!

She espied her bus approaching in the distance and it didn’t bode well. The double-decker’s windows were steamed up, signifying a full load. It fairly sailed past, upsetting her even more. Feeling exposed like a school pupil playing hooky, Emma decided to walk. She just about reached a second stop as she ran to flag down the next bus. Mercifully, it stopped. Feeling haunted by her day’s experience’s so far, she peered at the driver and offered her card to the reader. It blinked green and she revelled in the process. Something right was happening for a change. Bedraggled and crestfallen, she panicked as the later bus took her on to her destination. She thought, Is it really worth it?

To cap it all, a watery sun gleamed between the clouds as she alighted the bus. Tendrils of steam rose from the pavement to condense over her court shoes. Shaking her head at the whims of nature, the town clock struck nine as she made her way along the high street, passing shop fronts and window dressings, before entering the confines of the register office.

The white-painted, rendered façade was delineated with dark-painted timbers of oak, denoting the town’s rural history.

There was already a customer supplying details to her co-worker Sarah Akers, but her immediate attention was drawn to the administrative officer, Anne Bartholomew, who pointed to her office door meaningfully.

Her supervisor marched behind her, and as soon as she closed the door, she shouted, When are you going to get it into your thick head that you are on probation, and you’ve already been late twice young lady?

Emma noticed Bartholomew’s top lip quivering in emotion. As she did, she caught a glimpse of the unplucked hair-growth on her upper lip, a condition known as hursutism.

Stifling a nervous giggle, Emma looked down at the floor and replied in a contrite Brummie accent, I’m sorry Miss Bartholomew it won’t happen again.

Well, see that it doesn’t, or I’ll take action.

Emma left the office, relieved that the morning ‘hate session’ was over. She could then carry on with transferring written records into electronic format, which kept her busy and focussed. At twenty three, she found that she had taken to it like a duck to water.

During mid-morning, Sarah offered her a cold cordial drink and enquired hurriedly, Has the Bart been at you again?

Emma’s brown eyes twinkled as she responded, Yep, she was awful to me as usual.

Sarah was a local ginger-haired native, with a rich Warwickshire accent and understood Emma’s plight. Emma’s heredity links were Welsh, but her ancestors hailed from Birmingham. Her great-grandmother had been a stator winder on Tesla poly-phase machines, which relied on nimble fingers. Her great-grandfather had been an automotive worker, in one of the many factories that dotted the Midlands. Emma was proud of her heritage, but even so, her accent was treated with derision by her administrative officer, Anne Bartholomew. Emma spoke grammatically correct and did not use slang, but Bartholomew would constantly correct her pronunciation of the word bus, insisting that she say it as buzz. This irked Emma to no end.

After completing her ‘A’ levels, Emma realised that she knew very little of the world. She joined E Company 8 Rifles, an Army reserve infantry battalion covering parts of North East, South, and West Yorkshire, Birmingham and Shropshire. As Sergeant Emma Lawson, she gained the respect of all and found that merit, not background, was the real measure of a human being. Achieving medals in military manoeuvres, sport and adventure overseas, nurtured her initiative. Her self-reliance allowed her to recognise the lack of on-line records, and she immediately adopted a working methodology to address this problem. No one motivated her, it was Emma’s own doing.

When Emma returned home she was in no mood for small talk. The day had been a test of her resolve and there were still unsolved problems to deal with. So, when she found herself outside of her landlord’s home, she rang the doorbell twice before he appeared. He was an oaf of a man and his unkempt appearance made her wrinkle her nose in disgust.

What is it? he asked, his voice muffled by a mouthful of food.

My central heating boiler is still broken, Emma said. I’ve called you several times, and you haven’t done anything about it. If it’s not fixed by the end of the week, I’m going to seek legal advice and withhold my rent payments.

The landlord’s eyes widened in surprise, You can’t do that! he retorted.

I can and I will, Emma said frankly. I’m tired of your incompetence. Fix the boiler or I’ll take you to court.

Her landlord glared at her for a moment, then turned and walked away. Emma watched him go, feeling a sense of satisfaction, she turned on her heel and left him to his thoughts, determined to put an end to the day’s misfortune.

That night, Emma replayed the day’s events in her mind. She saw all the ways in which she had been wronged, and felt a sense of injustice. It seemed that those who thought themselves entitled had tried to ignore her or belittle her for sport. Emma was determined not to let this day define her. She would not let the actions of others dictate her mood or her self-worth. She would rise above it all, and show them that she was not to be trifled with.

Rising thirty minutes earlier than usual, Emma washed and dressed before applying blusher. She even found time to fill her glass sport bottle, which featured a strap for easy carrying with a neoprene sleeve. She walked easily to the bus stop and caught an earlier bus to work. When she arrived at the office, she was glad to see that she was the only one there. Confident, she sat at her desk with her bag by her side and booted up the computer.

A few minutes later, Sarah and the Bart arrived. Emma watched them as they walked into the office. She could tell that Anne Bartholomew was angry for some reason. She stormed into her office, her jaw set like a wraith looking for a victim. Sarah winked as she walked past and Emma instinctively smiled back. She was ready for her day. Emma started to input the data for posterity and historical research, while Sarah scheduled customers for the senior registrar, Roy Kent.

All went well until the early afternoon, when Anne Bartholomew started to micromanage staff. Emma was working on the side number console when Bartholomew stopped her. Don’t do that! she said. Leave it as it is, or when someone else uses it they won’t know that you’ve changed it.

Emma knew that she had to stand up for herself. Miss Bartholomew, she said, I am quite able to lock up the number console. But aside from that, is there anything wrong with my work?

Bartholomew stared at Emma for a moment, and then took a step back. No, no, she said. It was just an observation. Emma nodded and continued her work, but she couldn’t help but imagine Bartholomew, glaring at her back.

Anne Bartholomew’s micromanaging episodes seemed to happen at the same time each day. Emma found it unsettling to have someone looking over her shoulder, but she eventually realised, that Bartholomew was simply following a pattern.

Bartholomew had been in her role for many years and had little or no responsibility, and her body clock was now set to micromanage at the same time each day. Emma knew that Bartholomew would not find anything wrong with her work, so she simply ignored her and continued to do her job. As she sat engrossed in her work, Emma thought to herself, Gathering intelligence is always worthwhile in the end.

That evening, Emma turned on the central heating in her flat and found it to be working perfectly. She retrieved her spare key from under the welcome mat and congratulated herself on a rather halcyon day.

By the following week, Anne Bartholomew was in a panic. She had to compile a report to the head of services to request funding, but she couldn’t find the receipts for the fiscal year. Utility bills, beverages, reams of A4 paper, pens, and ink, all of these items had to be included as evidence. Emma had already produced her lever-arch file of delivery invoices, and submitted them for her line manager’s consideration, but the administration officer’s calculations failed to match the funding amount; there was a fifteen pound discrepancy. Annoyed, Anne Bartholomew summoned Sarah and Emma into her office and accused them, "Out with it, who stole fifteen pounds?

Emma exchanged glances with Sarah before responding, Why are you accusing us? As far as I know, my receipts are in order. Sarah nodded in agreement, not trusting herself to speak. Emma remained silent from then on and kept a poker face. Anne Bartholomew was the first to crack and said, It’s too small to be anything for the office.

Sarah volunteered, Maybe it’s in the petty cash wallet? She walked over to the filing cabinet and fished out an orange manila folder. Glancing at a fistful of notes she said, Here we are. There’s a list, but very few receipts. Bartholomew ran her finger over them and admitted weakly, I must have lost the receipts. They were grocery receipts for tea, coffee, milk, and biscuits. Those receipts covered eleven pounds worth of purchases, with an omission of four pounds. The A.O. had been remiss in keeping them up to date.

Emma knew that she had made an enemy when, late on Friday afternoon, Anne Bartholomew decided to give her an appraisal. On it was a false and defamatory statement that could have cost Emma her job.

The appraisal stated that Emma had been late to work on two occasions, and she had a negative attitude that was disrupting the work of other employees. Emma knew that these accusations were false, and she refused to sign the appraisal.

This enraged Anne Bartholomew even further, and she began to shout at Emma. She threatened to make Emma’s life difficult if she refused to sign it. Nevertheless, Emma stood her ground and refused to sign.

At that moment, Roy Kent, the senior registrar, entered the office. He had just come from a civil ceremony, and he was still wearing his ceremonial jacket. I’m in the middle of a civil ceremony, he said to Anne Bartholomew. And I don’t want to hear another word from you.

Then he turned to Emma and asked, What’s this about? Oh, an appraisal, well, let’s get to the bottom of it.

Emma explained that Anne Bartholomew had given her a false and defamatory appraisal.

What is written inside is nonsense to cause constructive dismissal, and I challenge that decision.

Roy Kent picked up the appraisal and read it. When he was finished, he said, I’ve found Emma’s work to be admirable. She is a productive and valuable member of the team. I find nothing to criticise her for. In fact, I want you to send all future appraisals to me. I believe in building people up, not tearing them down.

He turned to Emma and said, You may go home now, Emma, and don’t worry about this anymore.

Emma thanked Roy Kent and left the office. She was relieved to be free from Anne Bartholomew’s harassment. She also knew that she had done the right thing by standing up for herself.

Emma went straight home and relaxed for the weekend. She was looking forward to starting the week with a clean slate. That evening, Emma turned on the television and saw that eco-protestors were blocking major roads again. They were glued to the road surface, demanding that the entire transportation network be shut down. This was happening all over the world.

The protests had gotten worse since the COP protocols had failed to be implemented in time. Now, it seemed like there was a new road blockage every night. Emma sighed and turned off the television, Slow change is better than shock treatment, she said to herself.

For the rest of that weekend, Emma wondered why her supervisor, Anne Bartholomew, was so hostile towards her. She had tried her best to be invisible, only speaking when spoken to. She was at a loss to understand.

On Monday morning, the situation was no better. Emma was summoned directly into Anne Bartholomew’s office again.

Come in, Emma, and close the door, said her line officer.

The administrative officer raised her face to the ceiling and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before focussing on Emma.

How are we today? she asked drily.

Emma looked away, her gaze landing on the nearby wall. I’m fine, she said quietly.

Anne sighed. I think we got off on the wrong foot last week, she said. I was trying to say that your communication skills could use some work. You’re obviously a working class Brummie.

I’m not ashamed of where I’m from, Emma interrupted. I know you’re not, Anne said. But your accent and diction can be a bit jarring to people around here. You’re in the centre of Shakespeare country after all. People come from all over the world to hear actors with clear diction. I’m not saying you have to change who you are, but I think it would be helpful if you worked on your communication skills.

Emma was silent for a moment, considering her words. I’ll try, she said finally.

Thank you, Bartholomew said. I know this is difficult for you, but I think it will be worth it in the long run.

Emma nodded and said anxiously, I’m ready to get started.

Good, her line manager replied. Let’s get to work.

And with that, Emma walked out of her office and headed to the restroom. She needed to wipe away the tears of frustration that were welling up in her eyes. Her brown- eyed stare in the mirror revealed her emotional state. As a brunette she kept her hair short and manageable. Moreover, at 5 foot 3 she still looked trim. There was no need to doubt herself; she just had to get Bartholomew off her back. Being reprimanded like that had been humiliating. What was wrong with her? Emma was at a loss to understand and wondered if she should just quit her job. But she quickly dismissed the idea. Instead, she took a deep breath and opened the door to her office. She sat down at her desk and tried to focus on her work, but it was no use. Her mind was racing with emotions. Time seemed to crawl by, and when she finally checked the clock, she discovered that only twenty minutes had passed.

Later that day, Emma tried to talk to Sarah about what had happened, but they didn’t have time to discuss it. Sarah shared Emma’s grievances. Under Anne Bartholomew’s seventeen-year reign, precisely nothing had been achieved. Records and certificates were still being recorded in the time-honoured fashion, with handwritten script that varied from office to office. No back-ups were ever made, and the only pauses were morning and afternoon tea breaks, which were never ignored. Cakes and biscuits were to be devoured at every opportunity, and as far as Anne Bartholomew was concerned, one was to keep one’s head down and not make waves until welcome retirement beckoned.

Indeed, under Anne’s indolent management, nothing much had improved. Sometimes, Emma was glad of the respite, but there were moments when she missed the excitement of her previous job in the military.

The tri-partite duties of births, deaths, and marriages were intended to be carried out with equal aplomb, but the atmosphere was always happier when the superintendent registrar arrived; especially when he went about his business of ‘tying the knot.’

Chapter 2

Fortunately, the following week, Emma received her long-awaited letter confirming that her trial period was over. She eagerly read the acceptance notice, which ratified her rank and identity: Ms. Emma Lawson, Administrative Assistant. She was now a full member of staff and had every right to be there. As if to reinforce that fact, Emma was invited to put her name forward for evening questionnaire duty. The whole effort was intended to highlight the new visa service, which was being added to the registry office’s existing services for births, deaths and marriages. It would require two evenings of work between six and seven pm; and each volunteer would be given a day off in lieu in return.

As the evening wore on, Sarah and Emma stood outside the precinct, which was now less crowded. Holding their clipboards to their chests during a lull, Emma asked, Why is the Bart such a pain?

Sarah remained silent for a moment before replying confidentially, Well, you never heard it from me, but she lived with a man from Birmingham for a total of five years before he dumped her.

Why was that?

I heard he was a scaffolder, with an eye for the ladies.

Emma smiled as she chimed in, Well I never.

Emma had had experience of this type of thing in her reserve battalion. Individuals who didn’t get their kit ready for inspection tended to feign compliance, giving backhanded compliments while all the while playing the victim.

Displaying anger that stemmed from a background of sadness and insecurity, many of their emotions were an attempt to gain control of a relationship or situation. It matched Anne Bartholomew’s nature flawlessly. And was a classic sign of passive-aggressive behaviour, which brooked no views, save her own.

The following Sunday, for some unknown reason, Emma needed a physical outlet and decided to walk to the park.

It was an inclined field, and she welcomed the peace.

Once she arrived at the top, she sat alone on a wooden bench and viewed the horizon. The young woman noticed three exits; one led to a road junction, another led to a bicycle path, and her trackway led to a walking path beyond. Those three exits reminded her that she had choices; weak bullies needed to be stood up to. She had an asset in Roy Kent, and if necessary she could contact human resources or file a grievance through litigation as a last resort. Moreover, depending on the scenario, she could convince Bartholomew that she was serious.

Furthermore, Emma had the distinct impression that over her trial period, the administrative officer had tried her best to get rid of her. In which case, she felt no remorse in fighting her own corner.

The following week, Anne Bartholomew tried to heckle Emma once again by enquiring casually, if she had found alternative employment.

Emma looked her straight in the eye and replied forcefully, This is the third time that you’ve tried to harangue me, notwithstanding your petty cash debacle and our last meeting, which bordered on racial discrimination.

Anne Bartholomew bit back exaggeratedly, My patience is at an end, and let me remind you that as your line manager you’ll get short shrift from me. You’re forgetting that the recruitment mechanism will contact me for a reference, and I’m not in a position to recommend you.

Emma retorted, Like the corrupt appraisal that has been taken out of your hands? I’m giving you fair warning that unless you don’t stop harassing me, I’ll be taking action. Emma knew that she had gotten under her line manager’s skin when she raised her voice to reply acidly, Your speech impediment will cause mistakes to be made, and let’s face it, we raised the bar to keep your kind out. Emma brushed it off to reply, That’s nonsense.

Bartholomew continued, This is an unsullied part of the world that has no need of you Ms. Lawson. You are a liability and you should return to the slime-ridden neighbourhood that you were raised in.

At last, Emma saw the reason for her boss’s displaced anger, I’ll bet there’s a certain man at the bottom of this, am I right, Anne?

Anne Bartholomew was instantly deflated by Emma’s question and uttered, Wha...what do you know about that?

Emma crossed her arms and said with more experience, I’ve come across my share of lovelorn squaddies in my time. It’s more common than you think.

Anne Bartholomew sized Emma up warily and admitted, You know, there’s more to you than I gave you credit for. I just hate to be reminded, you see.

Emma replied, I propose that his accent no longer intimidates you with its illusory power. Because that is power you don’t have to give him. Beyond that, no one is here to betray you.

Anne Bartholomew pursed her lips, embarrassed for the moment, before owning up, Yes, I’m sorry.

Silently, Emma left the office with a greater sense of understanding.

Chapter 3

Emma was surprised to receive a letter from a firm of solicitors, Gliding, Blair & Flinders. The letter said that the firm had been hired to track her down, and that they had some urgent business to discuss with her. Emma called the firm a few days later, and a man named Simon Blair answered the phone. Miss Lawson, he said, how nice to hear from you. I know this is unexpected, but we have some urgent business to discuss with you. Can you come to our office at your earliest convenience?"

Emma agreed to meet with Mr. Blair, the following day. When she arrived at the firm’s office, she was greeted by Mr. Blair himself, a tall thin man with a receding hairline and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

Please have a seat, he said. I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve asked to see you."

Mr. Blair explained that the firm had been hired by a distant relative of Emma’s, a woman by the name of Evadne Pevney.  Evadne had passed away and she had left her entire estate to Emma.

I believe you are Emma Lawson, formerly of 76 Bamville Crescent, Birmingham? he asked.

Emma nodded,