Black Jack

  What the fuck? Razor blades!

  He had never bought those. His eyes filled with fear as he watched ‘his’ hands - he had no control of them - unwrap the razor, and hold it carefully, and far away from his body. His eyes bulged. He had no control. What the hell was happening to him? He should scream. The manservant. Someone would hear. The bell pull. But the bell pull was a mile away. He raised one leg and put it into the bath. The water was deliciously warm.

  Mmmm, a voice said inside his head. Female and familiar, but he needed more to put a face to the voice.

  He frowned. Another leg was going in. He was sitting in the water in his silk dressing gown.

  Hello, the voice said.

  Suddenly he knew. ‘Shekina.’

  A small chuckle. No, Dakota.

  ‘Dakota?’ Impossible. Then he recovered. ‘Listen, I can make it better for you. I can free you. You can disappear. Go anywhere in the world.’

  A sigh. I can free myself.

  ‘But the tracker chip. I’m the only one who can turn it off. I’ll make sure no one comes after you.’

  It is already turned off.

  ‘You’re fourteen years old. Where can you go without a passport?’

  Apparently I’m eighteen in the passport I have.

  ‘Who got it for you?’

  Strange question for a man sitting in a bath holding a razor blade?

  ‘What about money? I can give you loads. You can have a life you only dreamed of. How much do you want? The sky is the limit. Anything, just don’t let me die. Please.’

  Money? You think I need money?

  ‘What about the boy? I can let you have the boy?’

  The boy is gone. What else have you got?

  Schooner looked down at his hands. He had one last trick left in his repertoire. Loudly he called, ‘D7114. I call forth Enmark. I demand you come forth now.’

  For a moment there was silence then a little giggle.

  Enmark is presently indisposed, Schooner Klaus.

  ‘All the unclean things you did, the wickedness - you could not have… You couldn’t have cast out the entire multiple system?’ he said incredulously.

  I didn’t. The boy did. Before he died.

  His right hand was holding the blade poised over his left wrist. ‘ Please,’ he begged, his voice having lost all its silk. ‘Please, Dakota. You can have anything you want. Anything.’

  She said nothing.

  Incredulously, he watched his right hand rise slowly and suddenly jerk downward to slash his left wrist, so viciously that it touched bone. His eyes bulged with terror. Blood. Blood. Blood. HIS! He watched in fascination as the red clouds formed in the water. Waste, waste, waste…

  Click your heels little kitten. And have fun over the rainbow, she said. Then she was gone. Instantly his body was his again. He pulled his hanging hand together and bound it up with a towel. He stood up in the bath and felt faint. Quick, quick. He staggered out of the bathroom. Blood, blood, blood, flowing, dripping, going, going... The bell pull was only a few steps away. He fell on the bed, rolled over, and pulled it, but even he knew it was much too late. Bitch. The croissants!

  His eyes glazed over. The darkness was already waiting. He lay on his stomach and died. Scared, listening to all the children he had tortured and killed gathering around his body. They were singing softly, snatches of songs he had taught them.

  Like the weather, one’s fortune may change by the evening.

  - Luu Mengzheng, Song dynasty

  The woman sat in the shade of a mango tree. It was afternoon and the sun was yellow and fierce. She was drinking tea from a fine cup. Behind her was a very large stone house with a swimming pool beside it. The air was noisy with the sound of children playing in it. In the distance she could see a girl walking toward her. Her hair was glowing like a golden halo around her head. As the woman watched with squinted eyes. the girl raised her hand and waved.

  The woman turned her head and called out to the woman who came daily to help her around the house to bring another cup from the glass cabinet. Then she stood and went to the gate to greet her visitor.

  ‘Hello,’ the girl said.

  ‘You found me,’ Bumi said with a smile.

  The girl laughed prettily. ‘It wasn’t difficult.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Dakota.’

  ‘Well, come and have some tea with me, Dakota.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dakota and followed her to the table under the tree. She looked around. The compound was large and full of fruit trees. A woman came with a cup and saucer and put it in front of Dakota.

  ‘This is Menachi,’ introduced Bumi.

  ‘Hi,’ said Dakota.

  Menachi smiled broadly. Her teeth were stained red with betel juice.

  ‘She doesn’t speak English,’ said Bumi, pouring out some tea. ‘Milk?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘A tomato sandwich?’

  Dakota nodded and smiled her thanks. She lifted her cup of tea and took a small sip. ‘This is a really pretty cup.’

  ‘Limoges,’ said Bumi.

  ‘Expensive.’

  ‘Very. A totally unexpected gift from my employer just as I was leaving.’

  ‘Black.’

  ‘Without any doubt.’

  ‘And how did you come by all this?’ Dakota asked, waving her hand to include the massive garden and the stone house.

  ‘I won the lottery.’

  Dakota laughed. ‘What happened? Did you find a winning ticket?’

  ‘Close. A gust of wind blew it into my hand.’ And she laughed too. They laughed together. Both connected by the boy. Both thinking of him. Missing him.

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘Orphans. I’m taking care of them.’

  Dakota leaned back into the chair and bit into a sandwich. It had been cut daintily. The tomato felt fresh in her mouth. She knew what the woman was going to say before she said it.

  ‘Why don’t you stay for a bit now that you are here?’

  * * *

  How do I know all this?

  Because it happened to the woman, the boy, and me. I stayed with her and Menachi and the sweet children (there is something wrong with each and every one of them) for a week, even though I know they are looking for me. I can feel them working in teams to find me. Sometimes I disrupt their little reconnaissance trips and mess with their minds, but it is getting dangerous - soon they will find me. And I wouldn’t want to bring trouble to Bumi; God knows she has suffered enough. So I made the decision to leave. Staying in one place is always a bad idea.

  That night I dreamed of a shaman. He had painted himself black, and was wearing the mask of a jaguar. There was something sleek and powerful about him. He danced around me, a magic ritual.

  ‘You are not a butterfly,’ he told me. ‘You are an owl. The owl is special. It is the only bird that does not have eyes on the sides of its head. Like a human it looks directly at the world. If you come across one tomorrow you must come and see me in Peru. There is something I need to show you. I will protect you until you are strong enough to protect yourself.’ Then he released a strange shriek and disappeared.

  I woke up in the morning and Menachi was going to the market. Bumi asked me if I would like to go too, and of course I said yes. In the market a boy was selling masks.

  ‘Buy a mask from me, madam. (Menachi says they call everybody madam as a sign of respect) I will give you a very excellent price.’

  I looked at the mask he was holding up and it was the mask of an owl face. I bought it. I have it in my luggage. A good luck charm from India. I leave for Peru tomorrow. I think I know where to find the shaman, but I guess it would be more accurate to say that he will probably find me.

  It has begun to rain and the rain makes me think of my parents. I am in a car with them traveling through miles of golden wheat. It is warm and cozy in the car. I long to see their f
aces, but it is impossible for now. I will only bring trouble to them. Let them carry on believing I am dead. One day I know there will be the opportunity to walk into that dear old farmhouse again. We will hug and kiss and remember old times. Afterwards, I will sit out on the porch and wait for the big rains to come. I used to love the rain. How it used to lash angrily at the windowpanes. My mother would be screaming for me to get into the house, and I would pretend to come in, but sneak back out to sit on Grandpa’s rocking chair, until I was soaked to the skin and shivering.

  It has stopped raining. The air is full of frogs croaking. The children have gone to bed now. They go to bed early and get up early. There is no TV. Bumi will not allow one in the house. It is quiet. The nights always bring me back to Black. I wonder where he is now. What it must be like outside the prison. Before he died he used to visit me in my dreams. It might be hard for some people to believe, but I truly loved him. He was so special, so beautiful. I wish you could have seen him. His eyes, his hands, his lips. I know we will meet again. In another life, another dimension. Who knows? For now I will go to Peru. Maybe the ticketing officer will ask me, as the other one did, if I would like a free upgrade to business class.

  Of course, I will smile and reply, ‘Awesome.’

  Miss Monroe - pure habit makes me call her that - Alice will join me there. It will be an adventure. Perhaps you will come with me. I will tell you about our escape from the Black Hole, how easily we fooled their clumsy iris and fingerprint scanners.

  Menachi has switched on her small transistor radio. She likes to sleep on the veranda outside, and music is floating in through the open window. I listen to it. It’s been a long time since I heard such music. The words are simple and incredibly catchy. Someone called M.C. Hammer sang it. It’s called, ‘U Can’t Touch This’.

  “Who caught his blood?”

  “I,” said the Fish

  “With my little dish,

  I caught his blood.”

  - ‘Who killed Cock Robin?’,

  Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book (1744)

  The man looks out at the mountain range in the distance, its craggy peaks covered in mist. Its wild untamed beauty never fails to move him. He thinks of the story of the man who looked at a mountain face for so long he begins to resemble it. Perhaps he looks like the range. Wild and craggy and dangerous.

  He is a stranger in these parts, but these are good people who accept him without questions. They think he is a retired city boy. A gringo who made a lot of money, got burned out, and came to their village seeking privacy. No wife. No children. A lonely man with too much money. They bring him provisions, potatoes, special ears of corn, chicken and hint about their unmarried daughters. They don’t know they are offering their daughter to the most deadly Delta assassin alive. His track record is impeccable.

  He has never failed.

  Somewhere in the house he can hear the woman making refried beans or tortillas or some local thing. He enjoys it all. He had thought he had retired - and how he relished it - but now he knows. They will never allow him that right. He will have to kill, kill and kill, until the day he draws his last breath. He picks up his glass, hand-cut crystal from Prague, and takes a sip of the amber liquid. He closes his eyes as it slides down his throat. Gentleman Jack from Jack Daniel’s.

  Smokey.

  He opens his eyes. The world is still the same. Shame. He looks at the photo of the girl on his desk. Behind the vacant eyes a child. So young to have fallen foul of them. He doesn’t want to do this. He looks away from her eyes. The phone rings. He lets it. One ring. Two rings. Third ring. His hands are itching. Fuck. They have really fucked his head. His hand claws, then snatches.

  ‘Hello, Fish.’

  ‘Gentleman Jack. You received the photo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you got a location?’

  ‘She was visible yesterday. Briefly. Mumbai Airport.’ In his mind’s eye Gentleman Jack sees her again, standing alone in that dreary airport lounge. A frail thing. But she was no frail thing. She turned bravely to face him, and said, ‘U can’t touch this.’ And then he could no longer close in and ‘look’ at her. He was glad. He didn’t want to catch her.

  He becomes aware of the silence on the other end of the line. Expectant silence. ‘Sorry?’ he says, ‘I didn’t catch that?’

  ‘Flying in or out?’ Kite repeats with an undercurrent of impatience.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Impossible to tell. Someone has put a screen.’

  ‘Someone other than her?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Who is more powerful than you?’

  ‘Perhaps I have become too old for this job.’

  ‘Perhaps you have not applied yourself to this job. The horses in the carousel don’t fly away. They go round and round.’

  Gentleman Jack feels his hand go slack around the beautiful glass. Who would believe that crystal was made from sand? His mouth opens. ‘She is going to Peru.’

  ‘Well done, Gentleman Jack. Now, eliminate her.’

  To be continued…

  Want to find out what happens to Dakota or receive advance notification of new releases? Sign up at http://ranimanicka.com/contact/ with the words – WANT MORE.

  Acknowledgements

  As ever thank you to my mother for a lifetime of love and care and encouragement. As my late father said to her, ‘If I am born again I want you to be my wife.’ I say to her, ‘If I am born again I want you to be my mother.’ To the great love of my life, Rick Sansome, thank you for EVERYTHING. To my sister, I express the same sentiment I showed my mother. ‘Be my sister again.’ To my best friend, Dom thank you for the never ceasing support and love.

  Gratitude to James Veitch – website designer extraordinaire, Lori Heaford – who meticulously copy-edited this book, Spiffing Covers for the best book jacket I have ever had; the award winning, James Worthington for a super book trailer, sweet Jeanie Boo for her eagle eyes, and Matt Maguire of Candescent Press for formatting services. Much thanks also to the inimitable Mary Darby of the Foreign Rights department at the Darley Anderson Agency.

  My deepest respect and gratitude goes to these remarkable individuals. This book wouldn’t be what it is without the knowledge they gave me. Dr. Joseph Chiappalone, John Lash, Matthew Delooze, Mark Passio, David Icke, Caslos Casteneda, Steven J Smith, Jean-Dominique Bauby, Jay Weidner, Montalk, Fritz Springmeiser, Robert A. Munroe, Cathy O’Brien, Colin Wilson, Sophia Smallstorm, Zen Gardener, Barbara Marciniak.

  Finally, to my readers. Thank you for the privilege of letting me share my story with you. I hope you have enjoyed as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

  With much love,

  Sources

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  http://wermanylights.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/mind-control-expressed-as-art.html

  Grazyna Fosar and Franz Bludorf in their book Vernetzte Intelligenz summarized by Baerbel.

  The human DNA is a biological Internet with evidence that DNA can be influenced and reprogrammed by words and frequencies.

  http://www.omniology.com/CretaceousHandPrint.html

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&n
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  China’s Super Psychics: paperback by Paul Dong & Thomas E. Rafill. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Holographic-Universe-Michael-Talbot/dp/0586091718

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  http://kcovino.hubpages.com/hub/Experts-Admits-Chemtrails-Are-Real

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  The Universe as a Hologram by Michael Talbot. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Holographic-Universe-Michael-Talbot/dp/0586091718

  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jV9WTLAuhMY

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  http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=XHAXjRPXH2Q#!

  http://beforeitsnews.com/beyond-science/2012/12/giant-cube-recorded-by-nasa-near-sun-on-dec-21-2012-nasa-source-alien-cube-first-seen-in-2011-2440352.html