Unbound (The Braille Club #2) (6 page)

Chapter 11

The Braille Club, London, One Year On: The sensory suit now came as one entity. You slipped your feet into it and pulled it up your body before inserting your hands into the arms, and then your fingers into the gloves. The sleeves had zips that closed the suit right up to the wearer’s neck. This gave the patron two new areas to experiment on. The hand is extremely sensitive. Close your eyes…trace your fingertips over the palm of your hand…your mind tells you what you are experiencing. Now imagine that all over your body.

London 2014

Guy

Guy was looking into equipment development. Their first attempts delivered an adequate experience, but Siena had big plans in her head. Guy was gifted with technology but what they really needed was an engineer. Someone they could work with, someone with foresight and imagination.

They set to work to find him or her and one name kept coming back to them again and again: Crawford Monroe. They’d made contact with him but pinning down the elusive Mr. Monroe was like pinning down vapour; visible but unattainable. Guy reached out through his contacts and stumbled across a piece of information by chance. He still had friends on the force and, in fact, knew Glasgow quite well. A coincidence, but his memory remembered a colleague whose brother’s friend was a hotshot in engineering.

Michael Shields had been surprised by his call and had gladly given Guy his brother Danny’s number. When he had spoken to him, Danny was not surprised he’d been unable to speak with his friend Crawford Monroe.

“Sounds about right, he’s all over the world, so it’s best you email him. Do you realise what he charges?”

Guy hesitated. “I’ve heard he’s the best.”

“He’s very specialised. What are you after?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential, Danny.”

“Ouch, don’t give me that ‘if I tell you I’ll have to kill you’ shite,” grunted Danny.

Guy smiled. “It’s more than my job’s worth,” he apologised.

“Aye, that old chestnut. Do you have a pen handy? I’ll give you his email address.”

They chatted for a while longer before saying their goodbyes. With Danny coming up trumps, Guy lost no time in contacting Mr. Monroe.

***

Ford

Ford looked at the email from Guy thoughtfully. It was the first proposal in years that surprised and intrigued him. The work would take him to London. He thought of Esme—he had never forgotten her. Crawford Monroe was a Scot brought up in the affluent suburbs of Glasgow. He was at best a skilled and innovative engineer, at worst a reformed hellraiser, with expulsion from private school, his starter for ten. He never considered it a setback.

Failure was an adjective the Monroe family never considered. Crawford was their second son, some ten years between he and his older brother. Everything had been timed to perfection—his mother Susan delivering her firstborn son just after she had achieved her promotion to consultant, and shortly before her 36
th
birthday. She barely took two weeks off before she was back in the saddle and Murray was in full-time nursery. Childcare and private education was costly, so they budgeted for one child going through this initial process before they embarked on the next. Money was needed to finance the aggressive expansion of his father’s law firm. Although confident and successful in business, Peter was often intimidated by his wife. He would have preferred a second child quickly but Susan wouldn’t hear of it.

They planned a five year age gap so Murray would be starting school when the next baby arrived. His mother was outraged when she didn’t fall pregnant on schedule. After three years of trying, she accepted she would only have one child. She moved on without regret and focused on her career, but Peter was annoyed.

When Susan discovered to her horror she was pregnant at the ripe old age of 46, she wanted to terminate. She was too old and the health risks for her and the baby were in the high-risk category. But for once Peter stood up to her, and astounded by this turn of events, she gave in. Peter longed for a daughter although he never shared these thoughts with his wife. Susan also decided a girl would complete the perfect gentleman’s family. When Crawford was born safe and healthy, he was to be a disappointment to both of them. Peter thought both his sons were like their mother—focused, driven, competitive—and he struggled to like them. Crawford, always headstrong, did things his own way, and his older parents didn’t always have the strength to fight him. They were shocked when their youngest child was expelled from school; their world was suddenly turned upside down. Murray, in contrast, had been an easy child.

Crawford took this turn of events in his stride, rising to the challenge, a natural troubleshooter even then. He wanted to learn and get his hands dirty. An apprenticeship in engineering seemed the obvious choice. He went on to obtain his degree. There was nothing conventional about Crawford Monroe; he loved to break the rules. He was exactly what the Braille Club needed, except he didn’t know it yet.

The engineering firm he applied to recognised his cultured tones as a bonus; it was the fire in his eyes that secured an apprenticeship. He never looked back. His friends shortened his name to Ford, it suited him, but in business he was always Crawford. He used his name as a shield. He liked to hide behind it, using it to conceal the real person underneath.

His first love had broken his heart. He had fallen for Esme MacDonald without warning. The only female apprentice, she was used to men staring at her. She had pretty eyes the colour of dark toffee, her rich brunette hair a mixture of autumnal hues. She wore her hair down her back in a long pleat. Small and thin, she was surprisingly tough and hard working. She had a hunger to learn. When he had boldly asked her out, she had laughed and said, “No chance,” but had flushed, her pale skin tinting. They soon became friends and Ford settled for this, whilst yearning for more.

Esme and Ford’s friendship flourished. Although flattered, she told him she must focus on her job. She worked longer and harder than anyone, except Ford, which irritated him. Their competitive natures clashed, and they often brought out the worst in each other. No matter what they did, it ended up a contest. As soon as they hit eighteen, Esme matched him drink for drink in the pub after work. Often the first to volunteer for more challenging work, she put him and the rest of the guys to shame. She won their friendship and their respect; her humour just as caustic as the rest of them. Her jokes were often the dirtiest, making the younger lads blush. Most of them were afraid and a little in love with her, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Ford clung to the hope she might relent to his offer to take her out, but she never did. The closest he got was a kiss at the end of the Christmas party. They were both drunk, and she had pushed him back roughly, her eyes furious. But just for a second she kissed him back. Ford felt raw passion flair in both of them although she never referred to the incident again.

He and Esme finished their apprenticeships with distinction. Several weeks later he was utterly crushed when she announced she was leaving, not only her job, but the country. She was off to Denmark and her last week with him was bittersweet. Letting down some of her defences, she told him she never dreamed of marriage and babies. Instead, she wanted to travel, build things of importance, and make money. Money seemed very important to her. She didn’t have any, and as she met his eyes, he saw depths of hunger that only poverty can provoke. She was intoxicating, intriguing, but in the end she left him.

Her leaving party had been torture. He’d sat as far away from her as possible, miserable and wretched. He could barely stand to look at her. She was so beautiful with her long hair loose and curling over her shoulders. He had never seen her in a dress and her feminine curves made him blush to the roots of his hair. Esme’s face, always pretty, looked striking with makeup. She was elegant and full of poise with not a grease mark in sight. It was getting late as she worked around the room saying her goodbyes but he didn’t want to hang around any longer and slipped on his jacket. When he turned round she was there.

“So were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

He turned towards this new Esme, suddenly furious. “Show’s not over yet, Esme, don’t let me keep you,” he spat.

She recoiled from his anger, her face clouding. “Don’t be silly, Ford. I want to say goodbye properly.”

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. This time it was Ford that shoved her away roughly, eyes blazing as he turned and stalked out. It was only later in the taxi that he put his head in his hands. He didn’t need her or her friendship, but with the feel of her lips still fresh on his, he was beginning to regret leaving. He wasn’t angry she kissed him; he was angry she’d not responded when he kissed her back. Like all unrequited love it was intense and full of despair. Ford understood he was no looker; his growing pubescent body was thin as a rail. His mates teased him, saying, “We’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.” His thick red hair, which he despised, had a habit of standing on end in all directions, so he wore it in a buzz cut, which made him look hard and aggressive. Acne scars covered his face, and he was prone to flare ups. The smeared, cheap glasses he wore because he kept breaking them hid his dark brown eyes. By contrast, Esme was beautiful, and she’d made her feelings towards him clear. She’d given him a kiss, intending to make him feel better but instead made things worse.

Ford’s face felt hot. His memories of Esme were always painful, and it did not improve his mood. She’d hurt him, one of the few people who had, and it still stung. People found out quickly if you pushed against Crawford Monroe he not only pushed back, but hurt you in the process, and not just theoretically either. It was why he had gotten expelled. He would not be pushed around. Not by his parents, not by school bullies calling him ‘ginger’ and ‘specky,’ not by anyone.

He worked hard and played harder. Based in Holland, his speciality was oil and gas. He was just as surprised as anyone to discover he was a natural linguist. It would become an invaluable asset to him. He travelled around the globe, going where the next emergency took him. His consultancy fees were colossal, but desperate companies would pay him anything he demanded to fix the mechanical breakdowns that restored their oil or gas supply.

He worked for all the major players performing his engineering miracles. His stillness calmed those around him. People often made bad decisions while under pressure but Ford was not among them. His silence was an unusual skill that enabled him to listen and assess. This lack of reaction unnerved most of the companies he worked with. They assumed he had somehow misinterpreted the sense of urgency they required, but his solutions were always deadly accurate. He was a lethal weapon and his company CEM Engineering was at the forefront of emerging concepts.

He picked up the phone to call this Guy Walker. If he was in London working, he could be home in an hour. Nothing made him smile like home. He loved his city—it was vibrant and fast paced, with that ever present hint of danger that made every native give Mother Glasgow the respect she deserved. She took no prisoners, but her warmth and humour was world renowned and it’s what he craved most after long periods away.

He looked at his mobile, the one word text from his friend Mikey direct and to the point.

Boozer?

His friends met every Friday night in the West End of Glasgow at 5:30. The numbers ebbed and flowed, but there was always a hardcore group of around four to five. He received the same text from Mikey every week at 5:00. No matter where he was in the world, it arrived without fail and every time he would experience a sharp stab of homesickness.

He didn’t miss his parents or his brother, although he loved them, or his childhood home, but he missed his mates. Their company was like an old pair of slippers, the only place he felt comfortable and finally himself. Crawford was left at the office and Ford slipped into the pub and the banter, with a welcome grin from his mates and a punch on the arm.

But those times were getting fewer and fewer. His company had expanded and encompassed many additional services: crisis consultancy, oil spill containment, and advanced cleaning solutions. At 33 he had made serious money and still loved the thrill of the challenge. He’d jump on a plane at all hours. Arriving in dangerous locations often meant putting his own safety on the line, but there was one thing missing in his life. He punched in the number and when connected, asked for Guy Walker.

“Crawford,” began Guy, delight clearly evident in his voice, “or would you prefer Ford?” There was a silence that neither man rushed to fill. Ford had stiffened immediately, his defensives rattled.

“We have a mutual acquaintance,” said Guy smoothly.

“Ahhh,” said Ford as he settled down to listen.

“Danny Shields,” said Guy.

Ford did not react as his friend’s face swam before his eyes. He liked Danny. He was a keeper, but still he did not speak.

“Ford, I’ve heard good things about your work, but what we need here is very different and somewhat challenging.”