They had been made to pay the full price for their crimes; as had Pete Howlett the overlord of the Manchester drug running operation and four members of his gang; and finally, he had rid the world of Usman Khan and Mustafa Jobe just two of the men responsible for the systematic abuse and death of Khalima Darbo the poor Gambian teenager, trafficked to London for sex by a family friend. Because that swine Hounsell had thwarted his progress, any other names he had identified for elimination, in his own small way, were now continuing to abuse children, peddle drugs on estates throughout the country and heaven knows what else. Colin wished he could start some of this ‘direct action’ his host kept banging on about!
The old man looked at Colin “All in good time dear boy; all in good time.”
Colin was flustered for a second; how did he know what I was thinking? Did I say something out loud without realising? He gathered his emotions in check and asked:-
“What are you called? What about the others too? What’s your story?
The old man replied “I’ll tell you my story; the others will reveal their code names and their own background this evening after dinner. Perhaps then you will understand where our motivation for Olympus came from and what drives us on to right the wrongs, make the criminals pay for their crimes and to head off any threat to the natural order of things.”
Colin listened intently and question after question was springing into his head “How do you keep what you’re doing here secret? Surely, people knew your colleagues before they came here; you yourself must be on a naval pension as well as a state pension; the DVLA, your bank or building society, the list is endless. How did you ever get planning permission for your underground foxhole on a Grade I listed property!”
“Steady on Phoenix! One thing at a time; I’m not getting any younger. I can’t cope with this machine gun questioning! Let me explain.
Larcombe Manor is built in a secluded spot, three quarters of a mile from a minor road; that minor road is used by very few vehicles as it is a ‘No through road’. Just over a mile further on it ends in the farmyard of our neighbours, the Davis family who have lived and worked on Larcombe Farm for three generations. They and the other families who have lived there have been tenants of this estate since the seventeenth century. We don’t bother them as they carry on their dairy farming enterprise; they, in turn, don’t bother us.
As the occasional car or farm vehicle passes our gateway they can see a sign on the left hand stone pillar which simply reads ‘The Olympus Project’ with a registered charity number. We five founder members are the trustees of that charity and as you quite rightly point out, the authorities and many other organisations know perfectly well who we are. This enables us to go about our business without any hindrance. Provided we supply all the necessary documentation to support the illusion that a charitable organisation operates on this site, then we will have no unwanted intrusion and we can take steps to prevent what we are ever being revealed.”
“What sort of charity is it then?” asked Colin.
“As you are no doubt aware ‘Help for Heroes’ was set up in 2007 to help provide better facilities for British servicemen and women who have been wounded or injured in the line of duty. This was the same year that our organisation took shape after my advert in The Times.
We set up our charity very shortly after and announced that it would concentrate on service personnel whose injuries were far from visible; our mission statement shows that we help servicemen suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, combat stress if you will; this has proved very useful in camouflaging what it is we really do here.
If we occasionally receive a visit from a charity commissioner then it isn’t a shock for them to find able bodied men, tending to the lawns and gardens, taking exercise in the swimming pool; perhaps learning new IT skills or playing computer games in the old stable block, or even baking cakes in our kitchens. All very therapeutic activities; just the ticket to help them get through the dark days and hopefully back to a position where they can rejoin the hustle and bustle of the modern world outside the walls of this estate. ‘Highly commendable work’ has been the general opinion of our efforts.”
The old man chuckled. “We keep them away from the ice house of course.”
The two men chorused together “Of course!”
“The driver of the ambulance that brought you here and his companion who played the role of a paramedic are our transport section. They have a few vehicles at their disposal; we are in a remote location and we arranged with the Post Office four years ago that we would collect the mail for everyone housed on the ‘No through road’; our driver drops any post into each property on his way back from Bath after the daily trip in for supplies. He acts as a paper boy too, even on Sundays; it’s the least we can do.
Your arrival was in the late evening, but we maintain the pretence of additional PTSD sufferers arriving by using the ambulance in broad daylight every now and then for our trips into the city. The drivers have to be extra careful on those occasions; we don’t want a member of the public hailing them down for some real medical emergency! In the past four years we have attracted no unwanted attention in that regard fortunately.
All the operatives you have encountered thus far are service personnel who have joined us following the end of their armed forces careers; many left before they were ready to leave; they were either put on the scrapheap through these abominable government cuts or court martialed because they were too ‘old school’ for the numbskulls that pass for officers today. They are all highly trained people who needed a purpose in life; we gave them that purpose.
The old man rang for a member of staff to come and collect their tea things; he stood up, walked to the window and stretched. “I’m a little tired Phoenix; let’s take a break for a while eh? I’ll go to my room for a nap I think. I’ll see you back here at 1800 hours. My story will be told well before we meet up with the others for dinner; we should have time for me to answer a few questions you may still have. I bid you good afternoon Phoenix.”
With that the elderly gentleman left the drawing room. Colin remained seated and reflected for a while on everything he had learned so far. It wasn’t even twenty fours since his unscheduled dip in the River Avon and yet so much had changed; if he allowed himself to be dragged along by his host’s enthusiasm for his pet project, then his life would never be the same again. But what were his options? He had spotted the printed card on the door to the torture chamber and the much used reference to the song’s lyrics that ‘you can check out but never leave’ had immediately sprung to mind. The locked windows in his room and the shadowy presence of staff wherever one was on the estate suggested that he was a virtual prisoner. Colin wondered what would happen if he decided to plough his own furrow; say “thanks, but no thanks” to the Olympus Project and get back on the road, maybe with another band and pick up where he left off with his own street cleaning. Although the woods looked to be a very pleasant spot, he wasn’t in a rush to end up there along with Fido and Smokey.
Colin realised that the old man was right. Nobody believed he was alive. Nobody was hunting for him any longer. For many men that would have been a relief; but Colin was all too aware that it underlined the fact that he was totally alone yet again.
As a child, he had suffered abuse and neglect in equal measure from his parents; as a young man he had been bullied by Scott, Leroy and their thuggish companions. When he had got Karen Smith pregnant and married her, they were both little more than children and although she loved him, he never felt able to experience that depth of feeling. It was Sharron, their daughter that had shown him how to love; to experience that feeling of belonging over and above everything else that was going on around him.