The Body Guard

"I told you not to fall for me... But you didn't listen..." She whispered through the payphone, a hoarse gasp echoed through the phone line.
"I love you," He whispered, she sighed and lent against the door frame.
"But I can't protect you forever, you're in danger and I'm wanted by my uncle. It's not safe Andy." She protested.
"But I'll protect you," He burst out.
"But you can't, you barely even know how to use a gun, let alone know how to pitch a tent!" She sighed with a slight laugh. "But I'll be watching you, I'll always watch. I'll always know that you're safe."
"How will I know?" Andy asked, he was spinning around, standing on the balls of his feet as he peered through the rush hour traffic of London.
"You'll know," She paused, watching from afar. "Because I love you too." She whispered and walked away from her past and into the future that is yet to come.

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1. Romance, Action, Thriller, Spies

Wednesday, 8th October, 1995.

The harsh storm rattled against the wooden shutters as the storm glided across the English night sky. Tossing and churning leaves and stones, flinging them into the air and pelting them at cold frostbitten windows. Rain thrashing down onto the frosty ground as the heavens broke open and let their solid tears fall to the earth, mixing into the matted hair of the dark shadows below, creating small streams of muddy red liquid with the dried blood that flowed into the empty stream next to the moor.

Gunshots fired onto the scene as shouts and cries echoed across the abandoned field that contained fallen stables and an old rusty tractor in the centre. Men dressed in black circled around the abandoned farm, their colours blurring into the darkness as their torches danced around to the sound of the wind howling.

People fell as more gunshots sounded; thuds came as people fell from roofs and landed in a crumple on the floor. Blood splattering the dead grass below, footsteps silent as the night itself, only hushes and sign language was made during the raid... or kidnapping... Which was it?

A loud helicopter sounded above them as the purr of the blades whipped up the fallen leaves and dead grass below, massive torch beams illuminated off the helicopter as a spot light pointed down at the mouldy, rotten barn below. Another purr of helicopter blades came up out behind the moor in the backdrop of jagged mountains and flashed its spotlight down on the barn. Another came and landed down on the ground. The men dressed in smudged black stood in line formation with their hands raised in a salute, light glinting off their berets badges indicating who they work for.

The helicopter door slid open as a shadowed man clambered out, light glinting off his leather black shoes; polished at the toes as they elongated into a slight curve at the tips, the medals on his black waist coat glinted in the bright spot lights as he adjusted his posture. Hands in his grey suit trouser pockets, as he strode forwards, letting his gun handle gleam at the soldiers stood in a formatted line next to the helicopter.

He nodded slyly at the saluted soldiers and pointed two fingers at them and then pointed them towards the rotten barn. One finger pressed to his lips as he indicated them forwards. He stopped suddenly at a fallen body, hunched over and sprawled across the entrance to the rotten barn doors. A sly laugh erupted from his lips when they pulled back to show the perfect whites that hid behind them.

“This is what happens, when you don’t give me what I want.” He hissed into the bleeding ear of the hunched over body. He stood up again and walked with pride over to a dead body, his grin became crueller. “My my... Brother, you were always the stupid one in our generation.”His dark eyes pinpointed the dead eyes of his stationary brother, blood seeping from two bullet holes in his chest and another between his eyes. He kicked at the dirt violently and howled out a laughter, a second later a silver bullet was imbedded in the dead brother’s chest. It came from the black gun the dark figure had in his hand.

“Why do you always bring out the worst in me, Isaac?” The shady figure asked, tusking and shaking his head as he placed the gun in the holster on his belt. A wicked grin flashed across his face when he studied the hands that joined tightly together between Isaac and his wife, Helena. “Helena... Dear me,” He shook his head again.

“You bastard,” She managed to hiss at him, lips slowly moving as cracks began to form when the dampness froze in the cold autumn night. “You... monster,” She spat at him, blood splattering his cheek. He scowled at her, eyes like a hawk.

“Sticks and stones my love, sticks and stones.” He hissed back at her. “And I thought you loved me? What did I do to deserve this from you? I gave you everything, love a better life than he gave you!”He asked the gaunt body.

“I never loved you! And I never will!” She shouted at him.

“I can’t believe it’s all come to this... But it brings me grief yet pleasure to be saying this after all these years of rejection... Kill her,” He finally said, standing up and wiping his hands on a white handkerchief, smudging it in blood and throwing it into a soldier’s hand. “Get rid of that,”

“Yes sir,” He replied, saluting before marching away towards the landed helicopter.

The figure stepped back as he watched five bullets enter the chest of Helena, hearing the sheering screams of her life dying out of her mouth. The cries of a little baby screaming. He laughed to himself before staring at the limp and cold body of his dead love Helena, the pale eyes bloodshot within the whites, the slow steady life slowly passing through as the light inside her began to switch out. Her breathing slowing within seconds before a final tear was shed and landed into the dark muddy blood that bled from her and her dead husband.

“Open those doors,” He ordered, snapping his fingers in the direction of the abandoned barn house. Soldiers jogged over towards the chained up door as some dragged over battering rams, heaving back and forth until the wood splintered and thudded to the floor...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday, 8th April, 2012.

 

“You say that’s all you remember?” The psychiatrist asked her, his eyes peering over the clip board he had resting in his hands. Tired brown eyes glanced at her and the greying black hair glinted in the sunlight escaping through the wooden blinds.

“Yes sir,” She replied, “I try to remember his face, but it seems that my mind doesn’t want to know what he looks like or who he is...” she replied fumbling with her hands as they perched on her stomach.

“How often do these dreams occur?”Dr. Collins questioned her, swinging from side to side on his black swivel chair, watching him made her head spin. She perched a hand on her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut.

“About three or four times a week, the other three days I’m up and awake trying to sedate myself in order to get the best possible night’s sleep I can after almost sixteen years of the same thing going through my head.” She replied, rubbing her hand over the lump on her shoulder after jamming the needle forcefully into her arm the previous night. Her neck ached from that morning too; she tilted her head to the sides and heard a small click. She winced.

She listened to the sound of the ball of the blue inked pen Dr. Collins was using scrape across the paper. “And what point of view are your dreams usually from?” He asked in the most uninterested voice on the planet.

“It varies... Sometimes the figure, a crow in the sky, my parents, a soldier or myself for that matter... I watched the whole thing through the barn window...” She replied with an agitated sigh and tilted her head back until it hit off the back of the uncomfortable couch she was lay on. Skye winced in pain as the ache in her neck returned; she massaged it thoroughly. “Sometimes it’s not the same dream, but the same mysterious man always appears.”She sighed.

“Is there anything about this man that you can recognise? Anything you can link him too?”Dr. Collins asked, in reply she shook her head. He continued to ask similar questions she thought and thought, answered his questions as best as she could until the clock on Dr. Collins oak table dimed four times.

“Thank you for coming today Skye,” Dr. Collins said, a composed face greeted her again when he held his warming hand out to her. She shook it firmly and got to her feet. She never really looked at this room properly; she concentrates too much in her own problems that she never took in the detail of what a room could tell about a person. She noticed the grey and pale blue stripes on the wall, the navy carpet and the worn out rug in the centre of the room, the clay cherubs flying on the ceiling. She could hear their childish laughter, it irritated her.

Oak bookcases filled the wall space on either side of Dr. Collins desk, books filled with logical explanations, Shakespeare, Beatrix Potter, Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker; Books filled with poetry, short stories and lots of words dancing across pages. His desk was cluttered with books, old maps, magnifying glasses, his round thin specks and ink pots and quills. Probably the most interesting person she knew in her life.

However, one book caught her eye. A greying brown velvet spine with a leather label, fraying ribbon and fading gold letters stared at her from the corner of her eye. She crossed the room abruptly and dragged her finger down the spine before pulling it out of the book case.

“I see you have an eye for poetry, Skye?” Dr. Collins asked her whilst he carefully recorded his notes in her file. His pale green eyes peered at her over the brim of his glasses.

“It’s kind of my own escape from reality really...”She replied, tracing the gold lettering with the pad of her index finger. ‘Sonnets’ was what it spelt out.

“Keep it; I was planning on throwing it out anyway.” He replied as he crossed the floor to her, handing over her file. “You’ll thank me one day.” He replied.

“I’ll return the file now; I have to walk past the file room anyway. It’s on the way to my room.” She replied just as she was placing her hand on the glass door handle.

“Page fifty eight. Sonnet forty three,” Dr. Collins said aloud as he scrawled across some paper and put it in a pile next to him.

“I’m sorry, sir?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Read it,” He replied, “Was your mother’s favourite.” He replied.

“Thank you sir,” She replied nodding her head.

“See you next month, Skye.” He replied and she shut the door behind her. She stared down at the velvety covered book and hugged it to her chest. This was something special to her that she knew no one could truly understand. She was now one step closer to knowing who her parents were.

Whenever she met people that she met when she was the age of a few months old to a year old at board meetings, they always commented on how she looks so much like her father or they would say “You have the heart of your mother” or “Your eyes are just like your fathers!” She always asked herself... Do I? Am I really like my parents? Who are they? What happened to them...?

She didn’t ask anyone who knew them because she was always afraid of the answer. However, it’s great that her mind can remember the whole conversation her mother had with that dark figure... Who is he? She always tells herself to find out who he is or why they were killed. She never does... She thinks she is a coward... But she’d have loved to have met them, or have something to remember them by. All she has is a book of poems, a sonnet that was her mother’s favourite and a box of her father’s medals.

She hurried along the corridor to the files room where the Keeper sat at his boring metal desk in a dull lit room. How is that even possible? She asked herself as she chapped on the door, his grungy voice muffled through the door when he asked to come in.

“Greg, I’ve come to return my file,” She sighed when she saw him eating his fourth kebab of the week. “And don’t get grease on it this time!” She shouted, he merely sighed at her and mumbled something around the kebab he had in his mouth. Frustrated, she slammed the folder down on the desk before storming out the file room. People say she has her mother’s temper.

She took in a deep breath and clutched the poetry book to her chest, imagining her mother hugging her tightly and whispering to her that everything was going to be OK. She bit back a few tears and gasped for air. She felt the walls closing in on her, the echo of guns ricocheting off the walls and bombs blasting left, right and centre. Running down the corridor, she pushed out all those memories before finally breaking down into tears in her room as she slammed the door shut and slumped at the foot of her bed.

I guess I should tell you who she is, and where this is set.

Her name: Jones, Skye Jones. She’s eighteen and she is training to be a world renowned spy.  In case you didn’t catch on, her parents were murdered when she was a two. Mr Bourne took her in and looked after her ever since. She lives at Bourne Academy, an academy which trains you to be an MI6 agent, location? London - obviously. She has lived here for sixteen years of her life; she doesn’t know where she used to live or where she came from. But she does know this, she was tortured when she was younger, when she was trapped in that white cage, surgical equipment scattering the floor and tables. Tubes and wires hanging from the ceiling and a box that bleeped.

When she closes her eyes, she sees it all happening to her, she touches her scars and she screams. When she sleeps, not only the dream about all the shootings, but the torture haunts her. Her throat closes up and she can’t breathe. That’s why there is a panic button at the side of her dressing table which is adjacent to her bed.

She crossed the room to the window and sat on the purple cushion on the window box which overlooked the training tracks at the back of the academe. Gently resting her head against the cold pane of the window, she watched as a single rain drop glistened in the sun before sliding down the glass, almost as if the window was crying in pain. She guesses that’s why they call it windowpane.

She looked down at her sore, dry hands and realised she was still holding the poetry book within her firm grip. She sighed to herself and stroked the bind of the old book, she opened up the first page and a small note was scored on the opening page.

Helena Antoinette Smyth.

“Helena Antoinette Smyth,” She whispered to herself as she traced over the swirly letters that danced across the page. She turned the page to find the contents page, dragged her finger across the black inky letters and found the page number, turned to page eighty-four and read through her mother’s favourite poem. She read it aloud.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.”

After reading it, she clutched the book to her chest, taking deep breaths as she tried to hold back the tears and the whimper threatening to escape her mouth. “I shall but love thee better after death,” She whispered to herself and sighed. She looked out the window and realised how late it was getting, darkness was falling and soon it would be twilight. She had a big day tomorrow, training examinations and fitness tests to pass. She clambered into her bed and pulled her thick quilt over her head, not caring if she was still wearing her weekend clothes. It would be the last time she was going to wear them, not until she passed her ultimate task; her first mission. She let her eyes drift closed and let her breathing slow as she fell into the abyss of her very mind...

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