Eeping Charlie Alive

Authors note: "Horner Springs" is a collective concept as discussed in the Literotica thread "The Birth of Horny Town U.S.A" thread started by 'litfan10' in the 'Authors' Hangout' forum. Authors who add to this should pay at least lip service to the other Author's creations and may share characters.

My contribution is to try and see what happens when an Englishman is suddenly dropped into the USA, with no clues as to how to fit in and stay out of sight of those who wish him serious harm.

I hope I have done justice to the ideas; thanks are due in no small part to several folks, whose guide to punctuation and the story has helped me no end. And yes, it is fiction.

Tell me what you think (politely and constructively for preference).

"Guilty."

There was a low level of murmuring in the public gallery as the jury foreman gave their verdict. Then the noise level rose perceptibly. One or two vociferous voices were heard to say "hang 'im". Several people clapped and there were mutterings of "Here, Here" from some corners.

The judge rapped his gavel as the clerk called for silence. The dusty windows, through which shone a thin and wintry sunlight, looked down on a court full of history as the noise level fell.

"My lord," called Counsel for the Defence. "May we approach?"

He looked towards the Counsel for the Prosecution. The Judge looked at the prosecution who nodded. The Judge indicated that the two approach by a wave of his hand. After a few moments of unheard conversation, they returned to their respective positions and the judge looked up at the court:

"Henry Connaught, you have been found guilty and a custodial sentence is necessary. However, sentence is postponed for reports," he said in a deep voice.

"Take him down."

Two guards flanked the prisoner and led him away. As he vanished down the tunnel to the cells, he yelled: "Pendleton, you're a dead man."

George Pendleton was sitting in a dark spot in the public gallery and, whilst it could not be said that he was happy, he was happier than during the run-up to the trial. He'd been followed, harried, threatened, punched, and generally warned off. He'd been shot at, his car vandalised, and his house raided. The authorities had moved him about and generally protected him because his evidence had broken up a major ring of, as the tabloid press put it, "thieves, terrorists and organised crime." Now that the high profile trial was over, George had fervently hoped that most of the danger would be over. He was warned he was wrong and advised that steps would be taken to protect him.

"Hello, George," said a quiet voice behind him. "We'll get you out of this mess; as promised. Follow me, please." George got up, picked up his briefcase, and followed the man in the grey suit. The press were quietly kept away by use of obscure corridors and a phalanx of policemen.

The newspapers claimed it was an all-too-narrowly-avoided disaster and opinions were offered by any or all who had something to say. Naturally, the Ministry of Defence issued the blandest of statements assuring the public that they were safe from terrorists. Questions in the House were similarly fielded and quietly dropped. The commissioner of police gave a blandly re-assuring interview on TV. The country breathed a collective sigh of relief and the latest soap opera sensation emerged onto the front pages.

The next few months were confusing but reassuringly remunerative for Mr Pendleton. He did a succession of small contract writing jobs which all seemed to go well, although they were mostly with a military connection. When he asked his agent about it, the expression used was "Mostly for your CV or résumé." But the wages were good and kept the wolf from the door in some style. It did not, however, take him long to get thoroughly depressed living out of a suitcase. It could be a lonely, if nomadic, existence.

Strange towns and occasionally stranger fellow workers all had their impact on him. He reported this to his case-worker who said he's see what could be done. A house agent was looking after his old home address. He reported that occasionally a curious photographer would turn up, but that was about it. The Police and his case worker suggested he move house "even if it is only a few miles". All George had to do was find a property and everything was laid on, so he did.

The end result of this rearrangement was a nine-month contract in the midlands which involved going to other sites and lots of meetings. It also found him playing cricket with the section team and generally joining in with after-work activities not experienced for a long time including Amateur Radio. He relaxed and settled down to enjoy himself.

Then came a pleasant phone call.

"Your contract is extended by two months in order that the current work may be satisfactorily completed. Any questions?"

Mortgage, bills, debts and other matters could now wait another couple of months before worry set in. What, he wondered, am I going to do after that? Better have a word with the agent. The agent usually did a good job.

The evenings had warmed up and the cricket matches were there to be played and enjoyed. The public was distracted by an international football tournament at which, somewhat unusually, England actually stood a chance.

The project went well and at the end of his two months, it was complete and signed off by a happy client. He was given a bonus and a letter of recommendation.

The sun shone bright as he found his car to leave the site at the end of the day. It was parked nose-up against the low wall and he opened the rear door to put in his briefcase. As he ducked down to find his sunglasses and reached inside, there was a buzz like an angry hornet and a splatter of concrete behind him. A second or so later he heard the bang, by which time he was lying almost under his car. He didn't have time to wonder about why someone was chucking a high-velocity rifle bullet in his direction; it was enough that they were and being absent, or at least protected, from the scene became more important to him. He reckoned that the shooter must be somewhere round the old water tower which implied a good view. There were few other places to choose from. Getting into his car safely seemed more important and he lay there wondering what to do next.

A quick look-round showed that he hadn't mis-heard an engine backfire and several workers were just as puzzled as he. He was still wondering when Ken, the guy on the next desk in the office, came out to his own car a few moments later and said "You OK, mate?"

"Erm, yes thanks, Ken," he said. "Just dropped something and it went under the car." He straightened up, got into the driving seat, and started the engine. "Have a good evening. Bye."

He swiftly drove off the car park into the stream of traffic for the site exit whilst part of his mind wondered about the shooter. Whoever was shooting obviously did not want to draw too much attention to him or herself; in these days of political correctness, logic sometimes went askew. This was something to report to his case worker. He pulled off the road into a smaller car park to make the call. He explained the incident and the circumstances.

"We'll sort that out for you; don't worry" came the breezy reply.

He pulled back into the traffic and drove slowly down to the main gate, stopped and handed in his Pass, nodded to the guard and walked back to his car. He was about to get in, when a big man in a sober suit approached the driver's door and said: "Excuse me. Mr. Pendleton, Mr. George Pendleton?"

"That's me," said George, "what can I do for you?"

"My name is Oakshot. I wonder if you'd care to attend an Interview at the Holiday Inn, the one on the park, about 11am tomorrow?" said the man. "You come highly recommended."

George looked suspicious.

There was a pause before Mr Oakshot went on: "Your agent told me where to find you."

George took his Organiser from his top pocket, made a few notes and said, "OK; who's it for?"

"Well," said the big man, "Uncle Sam, eventually. Ask for me at the hotel reception desk: My card." He passed George a card upon which was printed "Lance Oakshott"

"Right Oh," he said, "I'll see you tomorrow about 11am." And with that, George drove away, leaving Mr Oakshott looking at the rear bumper. He had the nagging feeling that Mr Oakshott wasn't quite the real deal. Why would an American have such a quintessentially English name; why such a direct approach rather than through his agent which was the usual method.

When he got home, he looked at the card as he drank his coffee. It was a plain pasteboard with a name and telephone number in no notably special fount. No firm, no address, just a large area of white. It was the sort of anonymous business card that you can pick up at many Motorway service stations for a small sum.

Some of the mystery was sorted by a message from his agent on his answering machine advising him that a Mr Oakshott would be at the Holiday Inn and would like to see George for a possible job. He added:

"This one's rather different and the pay's much better. And it's a long and rolling job, too; with the chance of foreign travel. You still twiddle with radio stuff, don't you?"

Charlie smiled to himself. The chance of getting back into the æther was very tempting.

A 'rolling job' implied a long-term contract, usually for six months and then renewed. The Tax authorities weren't over-keen because some greedy senior doctors, in an attempt to increase their earnings, had managed to work a fast one with it, but until tested in the Court, the scheme stood, albeit with a few caveats.

The Saturday traffic was, for once, cooperative and Charlie arrived quite early so he had a cup of coffee at a little place overlooking the river. Again, he looked at the card, but no new thoughts entered his head.

Looking at his watch, he rose, paid the bill and walked to the Hotel. Dressed in a jacket and slacks and radiating a wide smile, Mr Oakshott was in the lounge with an assortment of drinks jugs at his disposal. "Tea, coffee, orange juice or mineral water?" he enquired.

"Tea, please," said George. He felt no need for further caffeine. He looked out of the huge windows at a very peaceful park.

"Someone take a pot shot at you recently?" He said

George nearly choked on a mouthful of very good tea. How the 'ell did he know about that? "I think so, yes. How did you know," he said.

Mr Oakshott smiled and slowly shook his head. "Mr Pendleton, you are high on someone's shit list. The further away from the UK you are for a while the better. Fortunately, there is a vacancy at a new little place in the west. You will be really working for a US Government contractor, you'll have all the right documents and you will be looked after, especially in the event of a problem."

Mr Oakshott went on: "There are two advantages in this new job. One is that in the unlikely event of someone else taking a pot shot at you, you may be able to shoot back.

The other is that a lot of it is all new so the neighbours will not get too nosy. You will be hidden in plain sight. You'll need a new identity and that can, or rather will, be arranged."

George looked at him; "I don't think I have a choice," he said. "Can you persuade my agent to do all the necessary things with my house; perhaps let it out or something?"

He drew a breath as ideas whizzed round in his head.

"Any chance of a new Amateur Radio Licence, please, to say nothing of driving licence and all the usual things that make for a pleasant life these days?"

"We'll sort that out for you, and yes, we will talk to your agent. It will take a few days or so to get the paperwork done and the arrangements made, but think in terms of flying out next week or soon afterwards. Only your agent will know the name of the firm you are going to, and for all intents and purposes, you'll have just gone off for another trip of unspecified length. Your usual bills will be settled promptly via your bank. Anything else will go through your Solicitor. If any of our lads need to contact you, they will say they've spoken to "Charlie Muffin" or the message is from that name. Arrangements for money, banking and so on, will be made and you'll have a lot of reading to do in the next week or so."

Charlie was impressed. The use of that fictional character seemed appropriate, somehow. According to his new documents, his name was soon to be 'Charles Augustus White.' "I wonder," he thought, "which comedian thought of Augustus?"

Rather to his surprise, Belinda, his friend and occasional lover, was at home when he called. She usually spent a lot of her time whizzing about the UK in a nice car, staying at decent hotels and generally enjoying life as a specialist rep for a cosmetics firm.

"Where have you been?" she said as she recognised his voice. "It's been ages since we went out."

In her case that meant she was starved of a man. Bearing in mind she was very pretty, Charlie wondered why.

"What's up Bel," he laughed, "no available men on your horizon?"

There was a pause. "Well, not that many and nowhere near as funny as you."

Another pause.

"Well aren't you going to offer me dinner, at least?"

"When?" he said

"I think it might be better when I get back from Scotland. Say, in about ten days?" she replied.

A little alarm bell rang in Charlie's head.

"Well, I'll have to check my diary. I have a job on for some London firm and I have an interview to attend. But if you are anywhere near now, I'll take you to dinner tonight."

His voice dropped half an octave and, sounding like an old Lord of the manor, he said: "Madam, may I offer you dinner this evening?"

She joined in the fun: "Ooh, Sir, you take a girl's breath away, you're so bold." She giggled.

"I'll pick you up at seven; no make that eight," he said. "Meet me in the Metropole Hotel lounge bar?"

"Fine," she said, and abruptly hung up.

He remembered that trip with fond feelings. They had both been sat at the bar, both single and both bored with off-duty life. One drink led to another and eventually a hot night of passionate lovemaking. They'd fucked each other stupid. That had been before the trial. This time, was slightly different. He was, as it were, on the run. It therefore behoved him to tread with great care until he could get away. He called the contact number he'd been given after the trial and explained his position.

"You go ahead, mate," he was told. "We'll be around to help at need. And thanks for telling us." The anonymous voice was clipped; almost military and whoever it was hung up swiftly.

Dressed in a decent suit with shiny shoes, he sat on a chair in the bar with a mineral water and the evening paper.

Through the window, he could see all the people traffic on the pavement outside and he caught sight of Bel. She was not alone, but in conversation with a tall, slim earnest-looking chap with a loose jacket which hung strangely.

Charlie made up his mind and walked out into the foyer to meet her. He was just about to put his arm round her when she stumbled. He reached out for her and then he heard the 'plop' of a suppressed pistol. An angry fly brushed past his head and he started to run out of the building, leaving Bel sitting on the step, nursing her ankle amid a few bystanders.

A taxi pulled up at the kerb and he leapt into it with some speed. He dropped down low in the back and said "Please – just go." The driver nodded, put the vehicle in gear and took off in haste.

As the taxi went through the traffic lights and round the corner, Charlie sat up.

"Sorry about that; arguments with ex-girlfriend's family."

"Yes, OK, Charlie" said the driver. "I'll take you home. Grab some gear and I'll take you somewhere a bit safer. You really were rather lucky there."

Realisation stuck Charlie like a hammer. "You're from Charlie Muffin?"

"Yes. You'll rest tonight and in the morning you are off to sunnier climes."

Charlie packed a back at his house, switched off the mains to the TV and disconnected the aerial, as he did for a longish trip away, collected his gear and got back in the taxi.

The house he was taken to was neat and well-appointed with a large garden, but it looked as if it was maintained by a firm with tools rather than a person with a love of it. He had breakfast cooked by a nice lady wearing what looked like a lab coat, but it was tasty and big enough. The car was outside and he got in for his trip to the airport.

"A wet day at an airport is a very good reason to fly out of it," said the co-pilot, as they walked together to the plane later.

Charlie could only agree. It was grey and very, very wet. Apart from the various coloured lamps spaced here and there for the benefit of aircrew, the whole airfield was devoid of colour, unless you counted various shades of grey or, maybe, black.

"Yes," said Charlie. He was dressed in airport coveralls about to board a huge cargo plane. He was cold. "Makes you feel wet just looking at it."

The co-pilot smiled in agreement and went up into the plane. As Charlie was about to follow, he was joined by a man in overalls.

"Here is some information, ID, passes and permits," he said. "Please take everything except money from your pockets and put it in this envelope when you leave the aircraft. If there is a change in the plan, you will be met and given a new envelope with the necessary papers, including currency and so on; exchange this for the new one. Have a good flight." He added.

With that, he wandered away under a wing. Charlie boarded the 'plane and found the seat. There being nothing better to do than worry, Charlie found a comfortable seat and worried himself to sleep.

He was woken by the co-pilot with a cup of coffee. "I'm afraid we have been diverted to Gander; I'm told you will be given further instructions and transport from there. The message came from 'Charlie Muffin'?"

He looked slightly puzzled, but Charlie supposed this sort of thing is only found in fiction, so he had a right to look puzzled.

"Practical joke," said Charlie.

The flying was becoming busier, with adjustments to position in space, turns and an ever-reducing altitude until eventually, they landed. Among those meeting passengers was a small crowd, many of whom had name signs in clear view. One said "Charlie White" so Charlie went to it. The young lady holding it gave a little squeal of delight, threw down the sign and embraced him with a passion. Charlie dropped his briefcase and accepted it gratefully. She whispered into his neck:

"This is just for the benefit of the cameras. Please come with me. My name is Jacquie."

He reluctantly released her and she took him up for a coffee.

"Right; first things first. I'm to tell you that Charlie Muffin sent me." She said. "Does that make any sense to you?" Her accent was more English than Canadian, he noticed and her hair was the colour of ripe corn.

"Yes, he replied, "but I'm getting tired of it already."

"OK: Another plane has been organised and you'll be flying on from here. Here is some money and a few details you might find it useful to know. The feds know you are coming but have no details," she added as she slid a bulky business envelope to him.

"I believe you have an envelope for me?"

He took the envelope from his case and exchanged it for the new one. She thought he looked a bit lost, as well as tired.

"And before you ask," she added, "I do not know where you're going. I presume that the details are known to someone, somewhere."

She smiled as the public address fired up: "Would Mr White please go to the Allied desk. Mr Charles White, please."

"Time for me to go," said Jacquie. "Good Luck, Charlie"

She stood gave him a hug, kissed him, smiled and disappeared, with a little wave of her hand, into the crowd. Charlie went to the Allied Check-in desk.