Hoods and Bots: Part Nine by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

     Victor strode toward us, every inch the officer in command. Early forties, ramrod straight, muscled and honed from runs and daily workouts, he might have looked sexy if his eyes hadn't cut like a blade, if his heart wasn't sheer as gun metal.

I climbed in the back of his new solar four-wheel drive all smiles.

“I don't want you on this trip, girl. I made it crystal to leadership, but they'd have none of it. Your choice, but you might as well know you’re not welcome.”

“Well, I'm not missing it, welcome or not, so it’s your problem, Victor.” 

I felt shaken, nonetheless. 

“Fine,” he retorted, and Roland cut in, “Leave her be.” 

The air trembled with obscenities, then Victor muttered, 

“Calls herself Hood? She’s Imiołczyk, hasn’t got the stomach for it.”

   Anger flared on behalf of my father and his predecessors, whose courage was legendary. Paweł was no exception, though Victor was doubtless being  disparaging about the German life he’d saved. I thought about Imiołczyk ladies, too, who’d joined the Polish Auxiliary Service for WW2, or served Intelligence here in WW3. But shame paraded the guard on the embankment before my eyes, and I wondered if Victor was right about me. Perhaps I wasn’t worthy of my name.

 Roland defending me was unexpected. His speech, quiet and halting as ever, somehow conveyed he might just be Victor’s equal. 

“This mission’s about...  negotiation, not battle with... the enemy.”

“She’ll complicate things. Any mission can mean battle with the enemy, you know that.”

“She knows about livestock...  there’s  a role for everyone, get off... her back.”

“Well, if we run into trouble, it’s on the record - I never wanted her here.” 

  He took one hand off the steering  wheel and waved it to end that particular conversation. They began comparing notes on combat techniques and tales of past action. Roland told stories of the non-Bot past Resistance experts had helped him create. It struck me I’d rarely heard a more accomplished liar: if I hadn’t been at Cameron's, I’d have swallowed every word. Perhaps I was surrounded by accomplished liars, and didn’t know it. I remembered Frank’s protestations of fidelity: do lies come as easily to us all? I feared they might. 

   When action tales failed, misogynistic jokes grew like warts, while Roland listened without comment.  Victor knew Imiołczyk tradition despised vulgarity in the presence of ladies, and that misogyny was unacceptable on base, but vomited filthy words which surely included every letter of the alphabet. Perhaps he hoped I’d demand he turn round and take me home. Then came vicious descriptions of pornographic holo-novels. I was surprised: Victor was respected for the way he’d raised the fitness and performance of our military units, on other bases, then on ours. He trained both men and women; I’d never heard women complain about misogyny, let alone violence. But I was well-used to ladies who could rival Victor’s colourful language.  Bhuresi could drink most men under the table, and could probably have taught Victor a few words of her own, though she rarely spoke that way in front of me. She'd honoured my parents’ wishes to avoid lewd language throughout my upbringing, and that had stuck.

   I decided to appear impassive, but made faces at Victor behind his back. Roland caught me through the sun-shield mirror, and something resembling amusement flittered across his face, though I swiftly righted mine. I was determined not to give Victor the power to phase me, or steal my jubilance about the mission I felt I'd been made for.

   We stopped at services on route, where Victor waved away the packed food and bought a large hot lunch for us all, complete with drinks and dessert. If he was addicted to violent porn, a furtive misogynistic git, he was a generous one when it suited him: the cost of food had rocketed as our economy flailed. We were returning  to the vehicle, when Roland surreptitiously pointed out two Greenshirts making right for us. “Get in,” Victor told us, “I’ll deal with this.”

     We watched him stride across and meet them half way. He briefly dipped his head then gave a military salute, and their body language softened. “Good thinking,” Roland said. “Show a bit of deference, and they’re... easier to fool.”

“Did that work for you then?” 

“Sometimes... often. Worked better than murderous looks...  anyway.” 

I smiled at his attempt at good-humoured ragging. It was odd to think Victor’s role was partly to protect me against whatever horror had broken open during Roland’s counselling sessions. Paradoxically, I was beginning to feel a little easier in his company, and perhaps, after hearing about the porn, preferred it to Victor’s, though that wasn’t saying much. I remembered my initial impression Roland was a groper, and wondered if I’d been wrong. By now I'd noticed his preference to keep some space between himself and others, whatever their sex. 

   We watched Victor hand over his phone with forged permission to travel and false identity. The Bots scanned his adapted chip and examined our cover plan, a visit to a lady in Kendal, Carla Braithwaite, who was recovering  from a heart attack. We were posing as Carla’s relatives and her home would be our temporary mission base. She’d been Hood most of her life and gladly volunteered, eager to be of use again following her illness. The Bots handed Victor his phone, and he held them in conversation a few more minutes, finishing with another salute.

“Another good move,” Roland said. “ Never appear in...  a hurry to get away.”

    As we approached Kendal junction, the Howgill Fells, suspended in  melting haze, rose humped and folded, scarred like sleeping dinosaurs. I was spellbound. Gloucestershire was beautiful even in its harried  state, but this spread of hills breathed mystery and majesty that conjured gasps of wonder. Something inside of me powered down as I gazed at the patchwork of colours and shifting cloud. I felt a connection I couldn’t explain, as if the hills were calling me home. 

“Awesome!” I exclaimed, leaning forward to look between Roland and Victor. Roland agreed with a barely perceptible nod; Victor ignored me. Then we took the junction,  and turned away from the Howgills toward Kendal.

Hoods and Bots: Part Ten by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

    Our hostess welcomed us with hot coffee and friendly smiles. She lived in an aged terrace in Ann Street, not far from the reconstructed railway station, and a hill where locals believed Catherine Parr’s castle once stood. By the time we settled, it was early evening.  Victor and Roland decided to check out the town's drinking places, while I poured my life story out to Carla. She was the sort of person who drew it all from you without really trying. Soon I was in tears over Frank, something I’d declared would never happen again. Carla listened, then put a hand over mine.

“I know it feels impossible,” she said, “but believe me, these things have a way of working out. I’ve been through a messy divorce myself, so I know how bad it can feel. You’ll grow through it, and there’ll come a day you’ll see the best of your life is ahead of you, not behind.” 

“That’s almost what my mum told me,” I replied, wiping my eyes.

“You see? Mums know best.” 

    She showed me pictures of her son and daughter, who looked about my age, maybe a little older. Bubonic plague had almost taken her son, but it was losing intensity by the time it reached Cumbria, and vaccines and treatments, first researched after Covid in the 2020s, had become available. Carla lost an elderly Aunt, but her son had survived. Both her children were Hood, her daughter an innovative dog trainer at an underground base near Lancaster.

    It turned out Carla was a mobile hairdresser, and after a couple of glasses of wine, we decided a funky new haircut would be just the thing to combat any divorce-in-progress blues. We giggled our way through every snip, watching swathes of my once long hair drift into piles all around us. “Enough to stuff a cushion to smother Benson Parry with, ” Carla said, and we laughed all the more at such treasonable talk.

“But, being serious, if your mission works out, which I’m sure it will , you’ll be up this way again. Why don’t you re-activate this identity and stay with me? We'd have to run it past leadership, but I reckon they’ll agree if we present it with a bit of cunning.” 

She paused, looked at her handiwork in the mirror, and smiled.  “What do you think?” 

“Of my hair, or the plan?”

“Both!” 

“Love my hair, it’s brilliant! Just what I needed. The plan, well...”

“My doctor’s Hood, she’ll help. Strangely enough, she’s of Polish descent  like you  – Gosia Małych, Gosia Małych Sedgwick now. How about I ask her to record my condition as very delicate - well, that’s no exaggeration, really. Perhaps  she’d mention visits from ‘relatives’ should be allowed for the foreseeable future, just in case – well, you know. You could be my favourite  ‘niece’ -  I could ask her to sign you an open travel pass.” 

“But what about the danger? Keeping this identity could be far more dangerous for you, than if I assume a new one every time.”

“Danger? Sure, but I’ve lived with it for years. Why stop now? I looked it full in the face when my children were born. You don’t have children, do you Mia?” 

I shook my head.

“Well, when you find a partner, you think you know all there is to know about love, yes? But when the children come, you know you know – I mean, you know beyond doubt you’d die for them, without a second thought - yes, even kill for them -  I  tell you, it’s powerful. Back then, I seriously considered forgetting Resistance and towing the line. Wasn’t my duty, first and foremost, to protect my own children?  But conforming is no guarantee of safety, as we see again and again – not with a dictator as paranoid  as Benson Parry. And how could I deny my kids integrity, a sense of right and wrong? How could I look my children in the face, if they watched me walk with evil? Danger is always with us – better to court it with what’s  right, than with what’s wrong.”

“When you put it like that  - I mean, you could have chosen  to live as an ordinary citizen and keep your head down -  you’re one brave lady, Carla.”

Laughter danced in her eyes. “Agreed! Having kids is the bravest thing you’ll ever do! You never lose the conviction you’d die for them, but hell, they test you to the limit and back!”

We laughed before I said, “Well, it sounds like they turned out alright!”

“You haven’t met them yet!” 

We laughed again, and I knew Carla was happy with herself, and happy with her children. I found that compelling, with divorce pending, and feeling I wasn’t enough in so very many ways.

“Sometimes, Carla, I wish I was like you, first generation Hood. I’ve this awesome  heritage to live up to, past and present -  even my cousin Sophie has some amazing  undercover role, though I’m not sure what.  I just don’t feel – well, maybe I’m not what I ought to be, not like any of them.”

“I hope you’re not like any of them! I hope you’re like just one -  yourself. I used to be like you, worried I couldn’t please anyone. But then I got older and well – learned to embrace my own special brand of weirdness!  Look at you  –  hand-picked for this mission because, unlike anyone else on your base, you’re the one who’s researched livestock farming.”

“So you think my contribution, courier, general odd-jobber and livestock freak, is ok?”

“Of course it is, and don’t let anyone – especially those men -  tell you otherwise. That Victor’s a bit full of himself, isn’t he?” 

    We spent the rest of the evening sipping hot chocolate. It was laced with the bracing homemade alcohol Carla’s doctor had banned, and we drank a little too much while sharing extracts from comic holo-novels. We laughed ourselves silly.  I’d forgotten how good it felt to laugh until I cried.   We tried not to catch each other’s eye when the men returned stone faced and sober, because the merest look tipped us into laughter all over again.  The connection between us felt all the more delicious, because Victor and Roland sensed we shared a girl thing, in which they had no part.

Hoods and Bots: Part Eleven by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

 We’d pulled over on a snaking Lakeland road where silence was so thick, you felt you could reach out and grasp a big ball of it. Sheer, scree-scarred mountain menaced above, and dropped steeply below us. We stared in disbelief at the messages we'd received a few moments before. In a  different code for each of us, the meaning was clear: ‘No further route information to be transmitted. Mission aborted, return to base.’

 For a moment, none of us spoke. There could only be one explanation: security had been compromised. I knew there’d be another opportunity, but for now, the only sheep I’d see would be from the vehicle. I was about to say I’d appreciate taking a walk on my own, to drink in the scenery and make peace with this unexpected blow, when Roland spoke.

“So that’s it then. We return... to Gloucestershire.”

“Or do we?” Victor jumped out, and by the time he reached the front passenger door, he was pointing a smart weapon at Roland’s head. “Get out. It’s your turn to drive.” 

“Victor, what are you doing?”  I kept my voice steady, but feared I knew: Victor had discovered Roland’s Bot past. Radicals were adamant such backgrounds could not be tolerated, even in defectors.

“Roland’s defected, he’s done missions, he’s with us now, “ I went on. It sounded weak. Against reason, I hoped Victor didn’t know about the locket. Leadership had a plan, I told myself, Bhuresi told me so. We were to play along. Why should Victor be judge and jury? The anger that overwhelmed me at the ancient oak flaunted itself before me. I'd come close to being Radical myself that day, close to becoming the thing I hate.

“Shut the f*** up... this has nothing to do with you.” He bellowed at me, shocking the mute rocks in this vast, unsullied space.  “I told you, girl, you’re not supposed  to be here.” He flung a ‘bug’ – an explosive device operated by the setting on his smart gun – onto the back seat.

“I don’t have time for you or your scruples. Move one f****** muscle, there’ll be Imiołczyk scattered where it belongs - all over the hills you love.” 

“Or over this obsessively-clean vehicle,” I remember thinking. 

“Drive ,” he barked, looking at dashboard map, still keeping his weapon trained on Roland’s skull. 

  It probably didn’t take too long to reach the remote lake, though it seemed the longest journey of my life. I felt a growing tumour of dread deep inside. It  sapped my body strength, but my mind was energised, acrobating, rehearsing  every possible scenario, seeking a way out, as the bug kept clicking a reminder it was live and ready for detonation. 

 The handbrake engaged, and Roland turned to look at Victor.  

“What the hell... do you think.... you’re doing?”

Victor laughed.  “I don’t have to think, Bot.” His voice was quietly sinister  now. 

He clicked the gun and the ‘ready’ indicator flashed. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

My eyes instinctively screwed themselves shut, but instead of a shot, I heard Victor say, “I know who you are, Agent Jason Pargeter.”

The name Pargeter rang a bell, but I couldn’t quite place it. What came next beggared belief.  “You’re Benson Parry’s Spymaster Mars, are you not? Would you like to know who I am?”

Roland took a moment, perhaps playing for time, and I had to admire his cold, calm demeanour.

“t seems a good day... for introductions,” he said. 

“Then you’ll be delighted to know, Agent Pargeter, alias Mars, that I am... “ He paused a moment, as if to bring the revelation home. “I am Sully.”

My spine turned to splintering  ice. Sully: the legendary Radical every Bot feared! No one knew Sully’s identity, but Hood and Bot alike knew his reputation. He’d earned almost supernatural status among Bots, thanks to superior Resistance technology. He could appear undetected anywhere,  kill unheard and unseen.  Roland was doomed.

Terror sharpened my instincts, and I sensed it briefly wash over Roland, as he took a second or two to consider his answer. Did he protest he was a true defector, able to supply vital information from inside the Regime? Did he plead disillusion with Benson Parry, pledge loyalty to the Resistance, or beg for a chance to prove himself? Surely, he must!  

No. He said the last thing I expected.

“If I’m Mars and you’re...  Sully, then why the hell are you pointing that thing...  at me, instead of...  her?”

My jaw dropped. Nothing made any sense. If Roland was really Parry’s Spymaster, why would he say such a thing when confronted by the most feared Radical in Resistance history? 

“The same reason you’d be pointing it at me, Agent Pargeter, if you’d known who I was. There are rumours, always rumours: even about you. The barrel of a gun has a way of blasting rumour and getting to the truth.” 

He turned to look at me. “See how easy it is to kill Bots, Little Hood? You should try it sometime. But I only kill selected Bots. This one gave the right answer.”

   He turned back to Roland, leaving me more confused than ever. That Roland was undercover was no surprise, though he hardly fitted my concept of a Spymaster; that Victor was with the Regime seemed impossible.  If he was, why did he kill Bots? How could he serve Benson Parry, then go out murdering his henchmen? 

“I’m not wasting this opportunity, “ Victor went on, to Roland this time. “We’re within spitting distance of Resistance farms and bases. I’m near to completing the map. Let’s check in at some local HQ and see if we can get some intelligence  together.” 

“Agreed,” Roland replied, “but we have.. Hood.”

“Hood after a fashion. Hell, if they’d  just listened!” He turned to me again. “I told you not to come, didn’t I, girl?  Fortunately for you, I’m better than Bot. I don’t kill women for the hell of it.”  

I spat at him and missed, just as he added, 

 “Unless I really have to.”  With that he turned back to Roland. “Do we execute her now, or take her in?”

“No execution... yet. She’s wanted on account of her father, on account of her uncle, the one that tried to...  assassinate the cabinet. You know -  ‘All Imiołczyks to be apprehended as... enemies of the state.’ HQ will want... to question her.”

“What can she tell them we don’t know? She’s a waste of space, not important  enough to know anything.  We’ve lived on the base – bases in my case - long enough to tell them every f****** thing they need to know.”

“Speak for...  yourself.”

“Believe me, Agent Pargeter,  the map’s almost complete. I’ve a pay check coming, Resistance bases are doomed. So is she. Whether you proved loyal to Parry or not, she was always going to be unnecessary complication.”

I was still too confused and angry to speak, even when Victor finally deactivated the bug. As he handcuffed me, I spat in his face, but he simply wiped his cheek. 

 “And don’t even think about trying to run,” he added, “Agent Pargeter inherited all his mother’s skills.” He opened a locker behind the back seat, pulled out a fine automatic rifle, and handed it to Roland. 

   It was then realisation dawned: the sweet, elderly face in Roland’s locket was not his mother, and I realised I’d known all along deep down. But the connection I made with the name Pargeter beggared belief. Ellen Pargeter, who died of ovarian cancer around the time I was born, had fought WW3, long before heat-seeking weapons were standard issue. She was a Resistance heroine, a sniper whose daring choice of targets had shortened the war as she racked up more kills than Lyudmila Pavlichenko. Lyudmila's nickname was Lady Death, but Ellen’s was Death’s Face, a reference to the paleness of her skin, eyes and hair. Roland was certainly about the right age to be her son, and I remembered seeing images of her with a small, insignificant-looking boy. But that made less sense than ever. How might a Resistance heroine produce a Spymaster for Benson Parry? 

They swopped seats, and Victor took the wheel again, while Roland sat nursing the rifle, looking it up and down, checking out its features.

 “Good to handle...  one of these again,” he said. He glanced at me through the sun-shield mirror from time to time. 

Hoods and Bots: Part Twelve by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

 How do you sleep when pain savages your body, when there’s hunger cramps but no appetite, when your throat burns for want of fluid? When you lie in a stone cell, chilled to your core? How can you rest when you were beaten with clubs and rifle butts, kicked again and again in the ribs, then flung down stairs into the dark like a rag? 

“Make your bed there, Hood,” she’d hissed, “where inmates died of Bubonic Plague, where rats performed just punishments.” 

She’d been willowy, with beautiful doe-like eyes, the sort men might  believe incapable of cruelty. But she’d been acid-tongued as a witch, and strong as any man. 

  Your senses are in overdrive; you can hear distant cries of distress, barely perceptible drips of water, light switches somewhere nearby, muffled footfall as guards patrol the corridors. You know tomorrow is execution day. Your emotions free fall, as overwhelming urges to live vie with everything  you believe. Is there a way out? Could you pay lip service to Benson Parry, and carry on as you were, hidden in the base?  But that option is for citizens, never for Hood. You hear Carla, and this time she seems to rebuke you, “Danger is always with us. Better to court it with what’s right, than with what’s  wrong.” 

Your forebears speak too, from Belsen, from Auschwitz, from the Polish resettlement  camps, an array of men and women with pale faces, shaved heads, imbued with almost indecent resilience and strength.  My uncle, who probably died under torture, shakes his head, bitterly disappointed, and I hear my father, whose shouts were heard as he walked toward the scaffold:

“My death is a seed! Seeds might sleep for years, but then they split hard ground and break boulders! Every Resistance death is seed, and one day forests of freedom will grow! Fight, fight, always fight!” 

Even Paweł, whose compassion had seemed to make him more accessible, now chides me : “Fight as hard as you must.”

 You are Imiołczyk:  you wish you weren’t, but you are. You know you’re not ready, that life should carry on underground, hidden from Regime view. But you see death hurtling toward you, grimly determined on its collision course. 

  You tell yourself those before you endured worse far longer, and fear you may not show the courage they did. You agonise over what you might reveal if they... and you can’t begin to contemplate the worst.  The best you can hope for is swift execution. 

  Then your life parades itself before you. You regret not speaking with your mother often enough since she moved. You regret never telling her how much you appreciate her efforts to give you the best possible start, despite being suddenly and cruelly widowed. You remember how, as a small child, you’d instinctively known she’d have died for you, just as Carla said, and realise she probably still would. Then there’s Bhuresi – dear Bhuresi! She’s life-force personified, and you realise you never saw that she too, made sacrifices you took for granted. It’s crystal: she said she never wanted marriage or children for herself, yet still found buckets of love for a little girl who couldn’t understand where her daddy and favourite uncle had gone. 

 And what rushes you like a burgeoning flood? The need to try, despite the struggle, to forgive your husband.  It’s strange: you know you’ll never tell him now, but despite all you said, and despite all he did, you finally understand Bhuresi was right: you still love him. You hadn’t  admitted it to yourself,  but now you are about to die, there’s no escaping truth. It won’t make the slightest difference to him, because he’ll never know, but it makes a difference to you. You want to rid your whole being of the bitter toxins determined to hinder your recovery from betrayal trauma, determined to poison the rest of your life, however long or short it might be. But it’s complicated. You don’t want forgiveness to suggest what he did was ok.  It still hurts. You still wouldn’t stop the divorce, though he’s been delaying it all he can. To stop it would mean betrayal might happen again, and you can’t  contemplate that, so you go round in circles: forgive or not forgive? And despite the conflict, if you could see just one person before you die, it would be him. 

 You fret about the dogs too. You wonder if they’re looking out his window, anticipating your return, and you weep, but are so very glad they were banned from this mission. Thank God they’re safe! Thank God? Thank who? 

You realise  you never gave God, if He exists, a second thought. You wonder about Him, because many Imiołczyks were motivated by deeply-held beliefs. One devout ancestor, Wilhelm, saved Jews and non-Jews alike by forging identity papers and arranging  safe passage; others suffered for resisting  Stalin’s enforced atheism. There were Protestant and Catholic Imiołczyks, all British citizens, fighting side by side as recently as WW3, but no one paid much heed to God in the 2080s. You wonder if the 2080s have it right or wrong. And was it faith that moulded Paweł's thinking, faith stronger than Resistance philosophy, when he saved that young German’s life, when he refused to become what he hated? For the first time in your life, when there is nothing but hours left, you decide to pray. What is there to lose? 

 You don’t  have the nerve to ask for deliverance; there’s an instinct, as death draws near, you don’t deserve answers  - even for modest prayers - but you hope God  will understand and somehow make a way for you, that perhaps He’s better than you ever thought He was. You give Him permission, if He’s there, to help you find real forgiveness inside yourself for your husband, and add you hope He might find the same for you. You admit you enjoyed being spiteful to Frank, and shamed him in front of others; that you don’t  understand what the implications of forgiveness would be if you somehow escaped execution and got home. You say it’s so hard, because though you won’t take Frank back, you long for that relationship to be how it used to be. You wish you could be who you used to be, but you will always be someone different now, because you can’t come out of betrayal trauma the person you once were. 

Then you go off at a tangent, bellow and rage at God, roar your frustration, because life is disappointing, cruel, such unmitigated shit. There! You use a word should never pass an Imiołczyk lady’s lips! Once God has borne the full brunt of your rage and more, you are empty, worn out, and sleep fitfully, drifting in and out of time. It’s still dark when you wake again, and realise you understand something  for the very first time: forgiveness and trust are two very different things. Forgiving Frank would not mean I’d have to trust him again, because trust would have to be repaired bit by bit, by his words and actions, over time. You feel enlightened, so you  whisper “OK, God, if that’s You, I’m in.” And while your body shakes and aches and your throat still burns, you feel spite and bitterness begin to leech away, and something sweet, strong and warm washing over you. You bask in that for a while, even fall asleep in its embrace, until you wake once more with your real enemies on your mind.

“No,” you say to God, “that’s different. I can’t begin to think about forgiving Victor and Roland, and the Bots who killed my father, or made my uncle disappear. That’s a much taller order.”

  You realise you only saw the tip of ancestral anger, that fateful day at the ancient oak, that you ‘ve never truly faced its depth, let alone processed  it. You realise doing so might take more time than you've  got. You hope that God, if He’s still listening, might be ok with that, because to say you’d work it out  ‘one day at a time’ would be stupid. Maybe a moment at a time is enough. It will have to be, it’s all you’ve got.

Hoods and Bots: Part Fourteen by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

 I remember collapsing on the back seat of the vehicle, then memories are fragments: darkness, intermittent whispers, arms propping me up as I half walked, half stumbled through relentless pain; engines, snatches of conversation; reviving hot liquid in a paper cup.  But all that seemed a world away when my eyes fully opened. I began to register a sling on my arm, bandages around my ribs, the duvet that covered me where I lay on a couch. The lamps were dim; I could just make out pale stars through a gap between curtains. Where had the day gone? Victor’s staring eyes kept accusing me through the gloom, and I tried to dismiss them, focusing on the low voices nearby: Carla, Roland, and a voice I didn’t recognise. But tides of relief were washing my entire being. I was alive, and in much less pain. I risked Victor’s eyes when I closed mine again: he was dead, and hadn’t he told me not to come? But I dismissed him again, aware I was befuddled, unsure of anything except, at least for now, I felt safe. I wasn’t ready to speak, to let them know I was awake. Being cocooned in duvet felt so delicious.

“I don’t want her travelling to Gloucestershire yet,” the unknown voice was saying. “Her body needs time to heal, not to mention her emotions and mind.”

“Gosia’s right,” Carla answered, “and Mia’s her patient now.”

“But we can’t... stay here,” Roland put in. “Even if the Bots aren't on to us, we’d put Carla...  in danger. Injuries like those... draw attention.”

I heard Doctor Gosia ask, “Carla? Any suggestions?”

“My cousin Lin and her partner have that safe-house – High Tarn Farm, the other side of Sedbergh. It’s one of the best safe houses we’ve got, up a steep track on the fell - the Bots never venture that far.  We could send them there for a while.” 

“Sounds good,” Roland said.  “But there’s another problem... the vehicle. It’s  registered to Victor. If it’s seen with us, and they’re... looking for him, following his check out from...  Enemy HQ,  we’re  dead.” 

“Leave it to us”, the doctor said. “We’ll get it moved to some obscure  location to deepen the mystery of his disappearance. Carla, can you arrange  transport up there? What’s the plan to move them undetected?”

“Nothing fancy, I’m afraid - tarpaulin in the back of a truck, usually, so it won’t be a comfortable ride. Do you think Mia will be ok? It'll  take weeks for those cracked ribs and broken bones to heal, and she’s covered in bumps and bruises.”

“I’ll make sure she has pain relief,” the doctor said.  “And supply everything  else she’ll need. The pain killers are strong at this stage, and her body will demand healing sleep. She’ll probably sleep despite the discomfort.”

“She’s been in...  shock, survival mode. But she’s brave. She endured worse than...  a truck. I’ll... look after her.” 

“Love her to bits,” Carla said, and I smiled inside, warmed by such  unexpected affection from someone I hardly knew. “I’d house her in a heartbeat if I could. I never did take to that Victor, though, even as a stand-in relative! But working for Parry? I tell you I never thought that, not for a single moment.”

“Parry be damned,” the doctor said, “his sort work for no one but  themselves, for themselves and for whoever pays the most.”

“But what about the info on Resistance bases?” Carla  went on. “What if they access it?”

“It’s not on their... systems. Victor wasn’t ready to... share it, and he wasn’t  employed by Parry.  He was freelance, so they couldn’t stop him...  using a password. There’s AI working on it...  as we speak.” 

“Nonetheless,  leadership will surely have to move plans forward, in case he stored it elsewhere,”  the doctor said. They all seemed agreed on that.

 I wondered what Roland had told them about himself, about all that had happened. Too much knowledge would be dangerous, too little would hinder trust.  I remember thinking he had plenty practice in deception, that perhaps his life and deception were forever entangled. Then I sunk back into deep dreamless sleep.

Hoods and Bots: Part Sixteen by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

 “Mia, have you heard of...  Garbo?” Roland sipped hot coffee, while Gyp sat beside the chair, nudging his free hand for caresses now the working day was done.

“Greta Garbo, the twentieth century film star?” 

“No, just... Garbo. He was Hitler’s...  spymaster. Hitler trusted him absolutely, but he was working...  for the allies, for people like your ancestors... all the time.”

I took my attention from the other collie, Mac, who’d settled on the sofa beside me, and looked up Garbo on my device. Juan Pujol Garcia, codename Garbo, Spanish; learned to hate extremism through the Spanish Civil War; created a false identity as a pro-Nazi official; operated first from Lisbon, then from Britain, a double agent posing as Hitler’s Spymaster. 

“I didn’t know about him.”

“Garbo was my... role model. I wanted to do what... he did.”

“You mean, what Victor said - you really were Mars, and trusted by Benson Parry?”

“Completely... until Kellerman.” 

“And you were his Spymaster, but all the time serving the Resistance?”

He shrugged. “I tried.” 

“So the locket was... ”

“Just a double-agent’s tool. You transmit...  false information.”

“Were you a double agent for long?”

He nodded. “But it got... complicated. No, I got... complicated.”

He shook his head slowly; darkness settled on him, and I let him be for a while, until he said, “I thought I’d tell you some... truth.” 

“So – Victor,” I went on, the whole confusing muddle coming back to me. Victor’s staring eyes, the manipulating of his long beautifully  muscled limbs into that body bag, his still-living scent in the jacket Roland gave me, vied with the recurring  image of the dead guard on the railway bank. I felt unclean, even though rape hadn’t happened, even though it hadn’t  been me who wielded the smart gun. 

“So, did Victor know?”

“If he’d known I was a... double agent, if he’d known for sure I was...  informing the Resistance, he'd have killed us... both.”

I still couldn’t get my head round Victor being in the pay of the Regime.

“So, you knew he was working for Parry?”

“Not really.  It was a split-second...  realisation, a calculated guess. When he said he was Sully...”   

That made little sense to me. Sully had been Radical, an ambusher of Bots. 

“You didn’t know he was Sully?”

“No one did. All we knew was... Sully murdered Bots.  But I’d noticed something - that’s a spy’s job -  many  of Sully’s victims had... fallen from favour with...  Parry – failed on a mission... bungled an arrest... used the black market.  It was too much... coincidence. I took a gamble, listened to instinct,  if you will. Being Radical was the perfect... cover, but Parry must have paid him handsomely.  If I’d been wrong...”

 He didn’t need spell it out. I shuddered to think anyone could be an instinct away from certain death. 

“So, Benson Parry paid Victor to kill you?”

“To kill me if I failed... the test. To kill me if I pleaded to Sully I was... double agent.  Kellerman had suspected me... for a while, but Parry trusted me,  wouldn’t...  hear it. But Parry is nothing if not... paranoid.  Victor was paid to set the trap, carry out sentence if Kellerman proved... right.” 

“So you took a gamble. But what if Victor had really been Radical?”

“I’d be dead, but you’d have been...  safe.” 

“You thought about that?”

“I thought about everything in those...  few seconds.”

“Was it because of Kellerman you came to us when you did?”

“Resistance pulled me out, cut my old chip away with Bot... credentials. Kellerman was one reason, yes.”

“One reason?”

He looked away, and dropped his head. The sight of him on the bench with Frank flashed across my mind.

“Does Frank know? Another reason, I mean?”

He nodded, but would say no more. 

Hoods and Bots: Part Eighteen by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

    I was gobsmacked. Frank, up here at High Tarn, all devastating smile and flattering tailored jacket.  Lin, all fuss and fluster, said she must get afternoon tea prepared in honour of the occasion. It wasn’t that he flirted, just that he came bearing some of those expensive hand-pollinated flowers, and treated her as though she were a countess holding court. She’d melted like illegal butter in the sun. 

“ How – what – what are you doing here?” I stuttered.

“Great to see you too, Mia.”

“I mean –  did you somehow get permission to go North, then sneak up here just to see me?”

“I might well have done, if I’d been sure of a welcome.”

Tears stung my eyes. This was not how I’d imagined things would be, not now I’d forgiven him. 

“Well, you don’t need me to make you welcome.” I knew I sounded defensive, though I hadn’t meant to. “Lin and Ben will do that. Looks like Lin already has, there’s a surprise! And I’m quite sure Roland’ll be glad to see you. Where are the dogs?” 

I hadn’t wanted to say that, either. I’d imagined giving him a real hug, so he’d sense the difference in me. Then I’d tell him I’d let if all go, still cared about him, and genuinely wished him well, even though trust might have to be rebuilt. 

But I deserved the reply I got:  “And thank you Frank, for taking care of them for me, wow, all that extra time as well.” 

“Well yes, of course, I just...” 

I imagined that hug again, how warm and sweet it had been in my imagination. A relief. Enjoyable. Breathing his scent again, even if we were to be just friends.

“Well Mia, if you must know, they’re having the time of their little lives, living like royalty with your soon-to-be-divorced parents-in-law. Never had it so good. They think they’re in doggie heaven, venison every day and more fuss than they can decently handle.” 

“Oh. Ok. Your parents  - are they well?”

“To quote your host Ben, I’d say, with mum’s digestive  problems and dad’s chest, they’re ‘fair to middlin’. And just in case you cared to ask, I’m fine.”

“Good. Me too, actually, absolutely fine!” It sounded sarcastic,  I knew, but   just couldn’t seem to get the words right. “I mean, when you’ve  been beaten by Bots, starved, chilled to the bone, been within seconds of rape and execution, all the time completely confused while your whole world turns on its head, you find recreating somewhere as beautiful as this is actually all you need to get well.” 

There was a slight shake of his head, and disappointment seemed to cloud his face for a moment. But this was Frank, and as ever, he flipped back into happy-go-lucky mode.

“Well, that’s good then,  because I didn’t come here so we could enjoy making each other gloriously unhappy again. I know you’d relish that, but I’m here to reconnect with Roland. We’ve a mission to fulfil.”

“Really?” I could have cried. I knew I’d messed up, but cutting me with words was not like him. 

“Sure. Was sent to look at some army camp infrastructure that needs revamping. Been all over on a consultancy basis lately, but this one was wangled so we could do the mission. Love the new haircut, by the way.”

   A brief smile lit his face, just as Lin came through the door. “Frank, you must be hungry after such a long day, dear. Do come through – you too, Mia. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up later. You won’t be doing any more work today, will you Mia?”

 She began talking to Frank as if I wasn’t there.  “So good of you to come in person to see her and to thank us – I mean, we don’t look for thanks, it’s  required duty, but even so, it’s very sweet of you. It’s been a pleasure to have her, she’s a natural with the farm chores, but still needs frequent rests, of course. Now Roland is actually losing weight out there, he’s  working so hard. It’s  just..”  she caught my eye again, and we began to giggle. “He just can’t seem to get the hang of doing the geese.” 

Suddenly  emboldened  by laughter, I straightened my face and turned to Frank. “I’ll show you round later. You’ll love the collies. There’s sheep on the fell, and lovely illegal eggs to collect. Perhaps you’ll enjoy meeting my newest best  friends - the renowned watch-geese of High Tarn Farm.” 

Hoods and Bots: Part Nineteen by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

 I didn’t want Frank to go, not without trying to tell him how I’d changed. But it was awkward. He'd spent the evening  joshing around with Ben while charming Lin all at the same time. Roland sat with Gyp and Mac, looking into the fire. I felt alone, disconnected from them all, and put off speaking to Frank until it was too late, almost time for him to set out the following morning. It was hardly the time. He and Roland had a mission to fulfil before his return to Gloucestershire. Roland was to stay on at High Tarn while I healed. He needed to lie low for a while, but this mission was an exception. He would, however, stay out of sight on a Resistance base where he’d share information about sympathetic army personnel at Catterick; Frank would then proceed to meet them with designated Hood, with his survey as cover. 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, drawing close enough to hug Frank, right there in the hall, if the chance arose.

“You’re  sorry?” he replied, low-voiced but resolute. “I’ve been saying sorry for ever, Mia, but it’s never enough for you. In fact I’m so sorry, I’ve changed my entire life, and that’s not enough for you either. You know what? It might just be time for us both to move on. I can’t spend the rest of my life putting off that divorce, wasting my life in longing to get you back.” 

“But I’ve...”  I was going to say,  “truly forgiven you now,” but it suddenly sounded inappropriate, because now he’d placed me squarely in the wrong. All I could say was,  “Well, I’ll see you when I get back.” 

“Ok,” he replied, just as Roland appeared with Lin, Ben and the collies.

“Ready?” Frank asked him, then turned to us all. “Mission, here we come! We’re off once more, ready to make the world a better place for farmers’ wives and other lovely ladies everywhere!”  

Of course we all laughed; but Lin blushed, Ben guffawed, and I felt desolate. 

To be continued.  

Spacebound Hearts: Chapter One: Into The Wormhole by Adam Rutter

credit Gencraft AI

‘Open the wormhole,’ radioed Alex.

The view of the stars through the window inside the cockpit began to stretch and squeeze, forming a ring around a black hole. The Falcon’s engines roared, pushing the spacecraft toward the invisible anomaly. Red and green lights flicked on the consoles.

‘All systems are looking good Falcon,’ a man’s voice said on the headset.

‘Copy that.’

The Falcon started shaking. The black hole’s gravity was pulling the single seated spacecraft into its mouth. Alex’s pressurized suit was equipped with sensors, monitoring his heartbeat. The bleeps grew faster as his heart was beating more rapidly. As the anomaly grew larger, the Falcon fell into the long, winding tunnel. Alex had left planet Novaterra and the Milky Way galaxy behind, travelling on a quick journey to another galaxy that would take a spaceship 163,000 years to get there at the speed of light.

‘Falcon has entered the singularity. I repeat, the Falcon entered the singularity,’ confirmed Alex.

‘We copy that Falcon.’

Blue lights flickered on the console, indicating a build up of radiation inside the anomaly.

‘Falcon, can you give us a progress report,’ a woman requested, voice distorted.

‘Radiation levels are stable. All systems normal.’

Alex was the first human in history to travel beyond the Milky Way 600 years after humankind left its first boot print on the surface of the moon. This was no ordinary journey. It was a scientific experiment. The vast distance between the two galaxies had been cut down, making it look as easy as travelling from Earth to the Moon. Humanity had colonised a quarter of the galaxy. Now, it was looking for a new frontier. To expand human colonies beyond the galactic boundaries.

‘Radiation levels critical,’ said Alex.

The radio buzzed and crackled.

‘I repeat...radiation levels critical.’

The buzzing was loud and persistent.

‘Do you copy?’

The cockpit was filled with flashing red lights. An alarm blared.

‘Do you copy? DO YOU COPY?’

The wormhole swung and slithered like a winding snake, the Falcon hit against the wall at every corner, bouncing along a narrow corridor.

The walls were closing in.

‘Warning,’ announced a computer generated voice. ‘Cabin pressure is decreasing rapidly.’

Alex pressed four green buttons, attempting to keep oxygen at a maximum  level, but it was futile. The air pressure was falling at an incredible rate. Alex’s only best chance was to reach his target destination before the wormhole collapses. The valves inside his suit were released via an AI feedback loop. It was enough to give him plenty of breathable oxygen, though for only a short period of time. The Falcon tossed and twirled, ricocheting like a bullet.

‘Warning! Structural integrity failure is imminent,’ said the computer.

The cockpit rattled and shuddered. Alex was bouncing from side-to-side, shaking violently. Even though he was wearing a helmet, the violent shaking was still enough to deliver a severe blow to the head if it struck against a hard surface.

‘Warning! Structural integrity failure is imminent.’

Steam jets pierced through walls inside the cockpit, hissing. Alex saw stars at the other end; the wormhole’s exit grew bigger. Big enough for the Falcon to escape, but with potentially disastrous consequences. Alex jolted, hitting his head against the wall. The violent blow rendered him unconscious. His spacecraft – out of control. Alex was left at the mercy of the volatile wormhole, determined to projectile his spacecraft out into a dangerous universe, possibly flying into a deadly target. An asteroid? A planet? The wormhole’s exit was drawing closer. Its gaping hole, closing. The Falcon was thrown out into space, and the wormhole imploded, sending out a shockwave. The spacecraft was being pushed out further, hurling toward a region of space unknown to humanity.

On-board the Falcon, an automatic distress signal began transmitting ... 

Hoods and Bots: Part One by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

  “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part One

     It began with Veganuary, and ended with Bubonic Plague. Struggle for political power waxed violent in the wake of WW3, and every civil liberty lay assassinated by 2043. A third of the UK population shared their grave, before the 2080 plague was anywhere near halted.

   “Despicable Bot!” I thought, eyeballing the Greenshirt, the Regime officer cradling a Cappuccino by the cafe window. I watched him savour the fear his presence spawned as customers sloshed through the footbath, before selecting a table as far from him as possible.  Even non-Resistance called Greenshirts ‘Bots’, after chat bots of the 2010s, the ones that only answered pre-selected questions in pre-programmed ways. But Regime Bots were malicious as well as blinkered. It struck me he might be a groper too: it was just a gut feeling, but I’d learned to trust those long ago. 

  “A man whose integrity's so small,” I thought, “there’s a cavern for his giant ego.”  But I shuddered. I wouldn’t want to find myself in his interview room. I wondered how many tortured souls he’d forced to confess real or imagined crimes, crimes against a dictator who decreed plague-bearing rats had more rights than any human being.

   As the Bot noticed my expression sour, I pretended to stare through the window behind him, at rats running the street, in and out drains, up and down drainpipes, over people’s feet. Cars couldn’t avoid them, and the crushed were soon fought-over fast-food for hungry comrades.  I hated seeing so many rats, hated coming to town, but it was necessary evil: I had my mission to fulfil.

Hoods and Bots: Part Two by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtez

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Two

In the dark before dawn, the terriers leapt high as my waist. They loved an assignment like this, an early walk through the forest to ‘lift’ a defector from the rendezvous agreed on Cafe Cameron Day. I intended to arrive a good half-hour early: I’ve always been OCD about timekeeping, and besides, there’s always sunrise to enjoy. Dawn dragged my attention from the beleaguered forest. Unchecked deer populations were stripping the countryside bare, and the venison we took made little impact. Seedlings were devoured before they had time to grow, so bird and insect life was failing. Hay meadows had gone too, along with their complex ecosystems, because there were no farm animals to feed through the winter, and few horses, because Benson Parry had decreed riding or working horses was cruel. Even resourceful feral pigs were struggling; a few more years, and they’d starve along with the deer. Sometimes I wondered if disease would take them first, like myxomatosis took rabbits. I dreamed of revived land, grazed by horses, their empathetic bond with people rekindled, and by the free-range cattle and sheep I just about remembered from childhood. Even then they were scarce, and farmers had walked like the disembodied: dishevelled, displaced, soul destroyed. How often I’d longed to live in Northern hills, where prescribed crop growing was impossible, and resourceful stockmen developed new strains of sheep from non-sheared breeds. Unmarked and unattended even at lambing time, living feral on fells and mountains, these sheep appeared to be a Regime triumph. We knew better. They were secretly shared, monitored and managed, and how I longed to see them! 

   It was when I reached the top of the ridge, I knew something was wrong.

Hoods and Bots: Part Three by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Three

It was another dawn mission, a very different one, and my mouth was dry as a desert. I packed a hood for my own use: Roland had been issued with one of his own. The hoods’ purpose was disguising identities, but it was no secret our more radical members made use of them to ambush and murder random Regime personnel, usually at dead of night.

    Roland was still being cleansed of propaganda but had completed an initial two months of intensive interviews and meetings with our leaders. It was time for him to see some active Resistance life. He was still unaware of our underground complex, nor was he allowed a weapon, but a high-tech rifle hung over my shoulder. My job was to help defend an operation of which I was a small part; Roland was simply there to observe.

    I’d hardly seen Roland over the last two months and found I still disliked him. I’d protested someone else should take the six-month shift showing him operations, and pretended I was too busy scaring the occasional rat to make conversation as we moved out together on foot. Rats had increased even here, but this was no mission for my excitable rat pack. Hercule accompanied me everywhere in his capacity as combat dog, unless missions took me into the city, where his presence might have caused suspicion. 

Hoods and Bots: Part Four by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Four

    Hercule, Roland and I lay flat atop an ancient railway embankment, hoods on, weapons primed. There were many of us from multiple units scattered along the embankment both sides, most with weapons like mine, two pairs with missile launchers to target enemy spy drones, which often accompanied freight trains. I wondered if everyone else was dry-mouthed too. Time and tension felt one and the same. We could practically hear each other sweat, though the early morning air was cold.

    It was over in an instant: the whirr of a high-speed hovertrain into ear-splitting, sparking derailment as the cab tipped off the wrecked magnetic track. One drone squealed to the ground; the other dipped and dodged, as smart as our target-seeking missiles. Soldiers rose like ghosts from long grass and scrub to check the demolished cab and break into trucks holding boxes of weapons, technology and supplies intended for Regime use. Just as I registered relief I hadn’t fired a shot, some dozen guards emerged from the rear of the train around the bend, weapons discharging. All was confusion, shouting and shooting as our embankment marksmen opened fire. Just as the second drone blazed from the sky, Hercule tensed, and from the corner of my eye I saw a guard, pistol pointed, crawling up the bank right for us. A flash-thought told me, ‘Send Hercule,’ but I shut it out. Without knowing why, I disengaged the heat-seeking device before I aimed, closed my eyes and fired a volley. When I opened my eyes, the pistol-toting guard lay still, and the hatred that burned for him began to turn itself on me. 

Hoods and Bots: Part Five by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Five

   Bhuresi poured us coffee in the glossed kitchen that graced her home in the village near our base. There was a single piece of Zimbabwean folk art on the wall, a nod to her roots, to the ancestors who fled Mugabe many decades ago. It looked incongruous among the sleek trappings of high-tech modern life. But Bhuresi, even when decked in African fabrics and towering headgear, never looked out of place. Without trying, she emanated an impression it was everything and everyone else who might be just a little out of kilter with her very own brand of normality.

 “Now Mia. You say you want to discuss Roland. What’s your problem?”

Hoods and Bots: Part Six by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Six 

   I didn’t have much success getting to know Roland. He sometimes asked questions, was curious about Resistance workers who might have defected to the Regime, why that might happen, what our response would be. But he didn’t offer detailed answers to questions about his own life, or how he was feeling. His personality seemed shrouded; I sensed life felt onerous, in slow motion, happening to him, rather than because of him. I still felt uneasy in his presence, sensing brutality sleeping like a cat, not stirring, yet somehow agile and alert.

   A month after that meeting with Bhuresi, Roland surprised me. We were out checking camera traps, ensuring there’d been no Bot incursions near the camouflaged base.  Hercule was way ahead when he suddenly started limping; I instructed him to sit. Roland took off before I had chance to tell him to wait. He seemed uncharacteristically energised and got to Hercule before I did. I observed the calm confidence of an experienced handler, watched him kneel by Hercule’s long muzzle, lift his fore limb, reassure him quietly. Apparently, Roland had never been phased by seeing Hercule ready for action.

Hoods and Bots: Part Seven by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Seven

   The following Saturday I almost collided with Frank by the village shop. I could never get away as quickly as I’d like, because Hercule and the rat pack were always excited to see him, always hoped he’d beg a bit of unofficial custody and take them adventuring through the forest. He was still lethally attractive: all the more for seeming unaware his looks and charisma could draw most women, though by now he knew it full well. His smile still got to me, but pain was stronger than attraction now. No matter. Today I wanted to ask him about Roland.

“I saw you the other night, late, I mean, really late - on the bench with Roland,” I began. “How come?”

“You must be mistaken, I haven’t seen Roland. Must have been someone else.”

“Frank Barker, if there’s one thing we thought we'd never see again, it’s bullshit, and all the time you’ve been stuffed full of it! I’ve taken enough lies from you - I’m not taking any more.  I’m not stupid and I’m I’m not blind! You know full well it was him!”

Hoods and Bots: Part Eight by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Eight

    When Bhuresi summoned me, I felt I must have done something wrong. That feeling had often grabbed me since I shot the railway guard, though I knew the alternative was unthinkable. ‘Everyone talks under torture,’ it was said, though we knew there were exceptions. My father’s memory was honoured because he gave nothing away – a true Imiołczyk, he’d maintained silence, ensuring there were no further arrests or security breaches following his death. It was a lot to live up to and only added to the inadequacy I often felt post-Frank.

“Come in, come in, coffee’s ready.”

 The smell of fresh coffee brought me back to the moment, but I still took my seat feeling like a teen whose curfew-busting was rumbled. Bhuresi had, after all, helped Mom raise me following Dad’s death, and it was hard to forget she’d caught me out more than once, even though my teen years were now well behind me.

“Don’t look so worried,” she said, sweeping her work aside and placing herself at the kitchen table. “I’ve news you’ll like. You’re off the last two months of your Roland assignment.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage for a moment. “Do you mean your decision was overridden?”

“Not exactly. You might have noticed Roland hasn’t been around this week. He’s had a bit of a personal crisis - big time, actually. I told you there were concerns about his mental health, didn’t I? And you saw the state he was in on the bench with Frank for yourself.  Well, he's been in counselling, and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that what emerged could put you in serious danger.”

“Like what? I can look after myself – did I ever tell you I held him at knife-point the day I lifted him?” I failed to say Roland had offered no resistance.

“You did what? Mia, that was foolish – I dread to think...”

“But no one told me I was lifting a Bot! What was I supposed to think?”

“Hell yeah, that was one almighty cock-up! How could anyone possibly’ve known you’d encountered him in town? But what’s the deal? I thought you wanted out!”

 “I do, but why do they think I can’t handle it?”

“I’m not party to details, I’ve no information about what came out, only that he needs placing with someone combat hardened, someone like... umm... someone like Victor Mann.”

 She let this sink in, then looked at me with a degree of tenderness I hadn’t seen since I was a child sitting on mom’s rug, obsessively arranging my toy farm. “I wouldn’t want you looking at having to – you know – having to - the very worst-case scenario.”

“Oh, you mean... worst case scenario... someone like Victor...”

 I squirmed a little. Victor had joined us from another unit two years ago. His role included willingness to carry out ordered assassinations, though such orders were rarely given.  He was definitely the sort who had few qualms about becoming what he hated. Everyone knew he’d worn our black hood on many a dark night.

“So, it’s not about doubting your abilities, just that the assignment may no longer fit your role. And I do have even better news.”

“Go on.”

“You and Roland would’ve been taking a trip North, to brainstorm and   negotiate ways we can buy and transport lamb from Resistance farms up there.”

“Hold on,” she said, as my mouth dropped open and I began to speak, “Wait a minute, now – yes, I’m well aware you’ve been fascinated by livestock - since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, in fact!” And “Oh yes, we teased you about it non-stop,” and “yes, drawers stuffed full of drawings of sheep and cows and horses - I’ll bet I’ve still got some somewhere!” Then,  “If  you’ll just listen one minute – thank you - I proposed you go North with Roland and Victor, the idea being to ease Roland’s transition, and because –  this is the best bit -  there might be a new role for you, if we can get the trade going and think of surreptitious ways to transport the goods. What do you think? You can’t take the dogs, of course. You'd have to work something out”

 “Wow, That’s awesome! Hell yes, the terriers have never seen sheep, they’d be beside themselves. Hercule might be ok though?”  

She shook her head. “No dogs allowed on this one. That’s non-negotiable. Sheep farmers are protective, they won’t have their sheep used for impromptu stock breaking. Anyway, you’ll have Victor with you.” She paused again before adding, “So who’d need a combat dog?”

 “You’re right Bhuresi!” Excitement had taken away all sense of the decorum a professional meeting demanded.  “I can just see Victor on his hands and knees in a collar and lead alongside Hercule! A Bot with half a brain would choose a fight with Hercule any day of the week!”

Bhuresi’s eyes twinkled, but she said, “Let’s show some respect, shall we?  Remember Victor's a decorated veteran, and the military training he provides is invaluable.”

 I knew this was why leadership turned a blind eye to Victor’s nocturnal excursions. He had proved very useful.

 “Ok, sorry - point taken. The North...wow! Are we going to Scotland? NotToo far!”

“Derbyshire then?”

“Right between the two! The Lake District and Cumbrian fells.”

“Wow, that’s brilliant!  I can’t wait to see those fells... love it, how farmers bred Soays and Lincolnshire Horns to get past that stupid ban on shearing,  turned them loose on common land, even males, think of that, males on the common land after centuries... and how the Bots think the sheep are totally feral and...”

“Yeah, ok, I know all that, I’ll take that as a yes then.”

“Yes indeed! Thanks, Bhuresi! Oh, the delight of seeing real grazing animals!  I can’t wait! When do we go?”

“Sometime during the next couple of weeks. Come see me on Friday around two, and I’ll have the details.”

     It was my turn to add something at the last minute, something prickling me.  “Why has no one confronted Roland about the locket yet? Why would we let him see facilities up North if he’s still Bot? Why would we string him along like this, especially if he’s dangerous?”

Bhuresi shrugged. “Like I said before, I don’t know everything. The powers that be know what they’re doing.  But meanwhile, think of all those messages getting intercepted by our agent.  You did a pretty good job spotting the locket, don’t you think?”

“I suppose I did.”

“But don’t let it go to your head girl,” she added, giving me a playful punch on the shoulder, something else she used to do when I was little.

   The thought I should advise Roland to watch himself around Victor flickered through my mind.  Then confusion:  why should I care about an infiltrator, especially him? Everything began to feel out of kilter again, but excitement about the upcoming trip soon refilled my head.

To be continued.