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7 Days in May


“My, what a beautiful day,” she said, bending over to fuss the cat that had twisted itself around her legs. “Go on, you
bad boy. Go and do your business.”
Finished with the cat, she straightened up, walking out into the sunshine beside Booker.
He turned and smiled at her. “You haven’t called me a bad boy for years Helen. Are you feeling quite well?”
Helen Booker turned and watched the gardeners at work for a moment. “I meant the cat,” she said after a pause, her
voice neutral.
“I know,” answered Booker with a wry smile.
Helen shot a look at him, distaste clear in her eyes. Unlike herself, who had kept her slim figure with constant exercise,
he’d piled on the weight and she wondered for the thousandth time why she’d married him all those years ago.
She held out a white plastic box. “I made you some sandwiches for the flight,” she said.
“Why thank you Helen. That’s very kind of you.”
“When will you be back?”
“Probably about five with a bit of luck. I’ve got a meeting at half past two with Vasant at Area 7.”
Helen sighed loudly, turning back to the house. “Stupid name,” she muttered.
“I didn’t name it Helen. I just work there.”
The front door closed behind him and Booker walked down the long flight of stone stairs to the drive.
“Morning, Mr Booker,” the gardener tending the drive greeted him, nodding his head. “Nice „un.”
Booker nodded back before disappearing around the side of the house.
“Stuck up bastard,” the man muttered. “No wonder his old lady is always out on the razzle.”
Booker crunched his way across the yellow stones towards the helipad located behind the house. As he passed a green
wheelie bin, he opened it and dumped the box of sandwiches inside. He’d get himself a couple of nice bacon rolls at the
airport before he drove in for his meeting with Sir Craig - he hated the salad muck that Helen favoured.
Rounding the house Booker saw their cat loping down towards the stream running along the bottom of the garden. A
cruel look entered his eyes as he hoped the damned thing drowned itself. It was always covering him with hairs and pulling
the threads in his suits. Maybe he should take it to the project for Dr Vasant to work on.
With that cheery thought buoying him up, Booker struck out with a jaunty step.
Having been told that Booker was going to use his helicopter today, the flight-engineer had checked it earlier in the
morning. Booker stopped for a moment, studying the machine. The sun glinted from the clear perspex canopy and its blue
paintwork shone like a treat. He still couldn’t believe that he was the owner of such an aircraft. It had been a dream of his
since childhood to own one and now his position as Director General of Area 7 had given him the means to indulge his
fantasy.
As Booker settled himself into the helicopter’s padded seat, he pulled his iPhone from his suit pocket and hit one of
the quick-dial buttons. After a moment a youthful voice answered. Booker’s heart did a flip in his chest and his forehead
broke out in a light sheen.
“I’m coming into London for a meeting,” he said into the mobile. “Yes, yes, I’ll be finished my meeting by noon. I
have an hour to spare, so I thought perhaps, lunch at the flat?”
Booker listened for a moment, his penis swelling in his trousers. They’d agreed to use the euphemism „lunch’ because
it was so easy to hack a mobile. A man in Booker’s position needed to be very careful.
Blowing a kiss into the iPhone, Booker slid it back into his pocket and strapped himself in. Five minutes later he was
hovering over his mansion, marvelling at the view spread out below - his well kept gardens surrounded by fields, and over
to the south, the waves sweeping their way across the sea before crashing onto the shore.
=09:45 hrs=
Booker looked down at the airport, talking into his headset. Air Control directed him to the end of the runway - a
stand beside a large shed, where he settled his helicopter. Struggling his way out of the cabin, he thought yet again that he
needed to lose some weight - at this rate he wouldn’t pass his next medical. The last one had been a pretty close call and he
was convinced that it had only been his invite for the doctor to attend lunch at the Savoy that had got him through it.
Booker poked his head around the door of the shed, his nose crinkling at the smell of oil and diesel fuel. Spotting a
man in a pair of greasy overalls, he called out, “Is my car ready?”
“I don’t know mate. You’ll have to ask in the office. Know where it is?”
“Of course I know where it is!”
“Then why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Booker held his temper, knowing from bitter experience that it was useless expecting any respect from such uncouth
individuals. Striding over to the office, he pushed his way through the glass doors and stalked over to the young
receptionist.
He gave her a frosty smile. “I ordered a car,” he said.
“One moment please.”
The girl checked something on her computer screen, took a key from a drawer under the desk, placed it in front of
him and held out a ball-point pen. Pointing to a box on the blue form with a long lacquered nail, she smiled at him.
“Would you sign here please sir.”
Ignoring the proffered ball-point, Booker pulled out his own Schaeffer fountain pen, signed the form with a flourish
and pushed it back at her.
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