Berkhamsted – Bentley 63

[For a quick guide go here: Quick guide.]

[Old back story is here: Story so far at 30 Nov 2020 and read more recent Bentley episodes especially this one.]

[Other back story through in-links.]

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It was a suspiciously fictitious day in Berkhamsted when Bentley’s train pulled into the station. He’d enjoyed the ride. Nice connection through London, smooth timing throughout and even through his medical grade mask there was the unmistakable aroma of the interior of a train. You could change the train, change the line and operator but that smell was always there, always authentic.

He was travelling alone. No back up, no Lawrence or Natalie pretending they were doing any good. No squawk box. Just him and an address written on a post-it note, lodged inside a map of his destination town. That and the birth certificate.

Aston kept texting him. He ignored him. The texts became increasingly wrought, and Bentley weathered them until Aston just gave up.

It was strange how things worked out. Or rather how he assumed things at the moment would work out. The past year and more had dramatically shifted the way his life operated. No more the regular visit to railways stations just to see how everyone was, just to see how the latest moving stock moved. Just to shoot the breeze with whoever was around. 

His cat was gone, although Aston kept promising she was alright and ready to come home whenever he was ready. But given that things weren’t exactly on an even keel right now even he wasn’t sure he could offer the cat a place where she could chill out. There were too many other things happening and the last thing he wanted to do was to bring the cat into a stressful environment. The poor thing had been through enough - name changes, abduction, firearms at close range – this was no life for a cat.

And maybe it was no life for him either. At his age, finding the strands of his past life knitting together to make something altogether more dangerous. If lockdown had caused introspection Bentley wasn’t certain he’d enjoyed getting to know himself. Getting to know who he really was, or perhaps who other people really thought he was.

There were fewer people than Bentley might have been expecting at Berkhamsted on that day. He clocked the posters on the platform advertising a cycling road race and then again advertising the fact that it had been postponed. 

Perhaps half a dozen people exited the train with him. They were a random bunch. Not the cyclists and their support staff, nor even the invitees and workers from Epstein’s road haulage who might have turned up in order to take part in a part celebratory, part informative work event at which several of their newest fleet lorries would be present, engines turning over, metalwork gleaming.

Nor yet were there any itinerate musicians, clogging the walkways or bringing some kind of joy to the passers-by and commenters, singing their little hearts out while the rain fell, bringing some kind of light and a reminder of what was possible when things were freer and when there was nothing more enjoyable that someone bashing out a Beatles song on an acoustic guitar.

So there were fewer people around than usual. Fewer obstacles. The station’s own one way system meant there were fewer options to take when exiting the station. This gave a clearer view of those who had chosen to travel that day as they exited the building, should anyone wish to see who was exiting the building.

And someone did.

And so when he stood in front of Bentley, Bentley realised there was only ever one way it would play out. He felt the initial surprise of seeing him and had the time to process that he was who Bentley thought he was. He was real and not fictitious. And what he held was also real and not fictitious.

And that was as far as he got before the pain took over and his legs stopped working.

From the floor he could see how easily Fred Thimble could make his get away. There were no crowds, no one at all between him and his getaway car. It really had been simple. Man off train, one shot, go to car. 

Bentley mused how much more difficult this all could have been. How it all could have been avoided at so many times and even on this day. Everything could have been so different. But thank God, thought Bentley as he wondered if help would ever come, thank God they hadn’t got Shiela.

He could hear a siren somewhere and he hoped it was for him.