Authors note: "Horner Springs" is a collective concept as discussed in the Literotica thread "The Birth of Horny Town U.S.A" thread started by 'litfan10' in the 'Authors' Hangout' forum. Authors who add to this should pay at least lip service to the other Author's creations and may share characters.
My contribution is to try and see what happens when an Englishman is suddenly dropped into the USA, with no clues as to how to fit in and stay out of sight of those who wish him serious harm.
I hope I have done justice to the ideas; thanks are due in no small part to several folks, whose guide to punctuation and the story has helped me no end. And yes, it is fiction.
Tell me what you think (politely and constructively for preference).
"Guilty."
There was a low level of murmuring in the public gallery as the jury foreman gave their verdict. Then the noise level rose perceptibly. One or two vociferous voices were heard to say "hang 'im". Several people clapped and there were mutterings of "Here, Here" from some corners.
The judge rapped his gavel as the clerk called for silence. The dusty windows, through which shone a thin and wintry sunlight, looked down on a court full of history as the noise level fell.
"My lord," called Counsel for the Defence. "May we approach?"
He looked towards the Counsel for the Prosecution. The Judge looked at the prosecution who nodded. The Judge indicated that the two approach by a wave of his hand. After a few moments of unheard conversation, they returned to their respective positions and the judge looked up at the court:
"Henry Connaught, you have been found guilty and a custodial sentence is necessary. However, sentence is postponed for reports," he said in a deep voice.
"Take him down."
Two guards flanked the prisoner and led him away. As he vanished down the tunnel to the cells, he yelled: "Pendleton, you're a dead man."
George Pendleton was sitting in a dark spot in the public gallery and, whilst it could not be said that he was happy, he was happier than during the run-up to the trial. He'd been followed, harried, threatened, punched, and generally warned off. He'd been shot at, his car vandalised, and his house raided. The authorities had moved him about and generally protected him because his evidence had broken up a major ring of, as the tabloid press put it, "thieves, terrorists and organised crime." Now that the high profile trial was over, George had fervently hoped that most of the danger would be over. He was warned he was wrong and advised that steps would be taken to protect him.
"Hello, George," said a quiet voice behind him. "We'll get you out of this mess; as promised. Follow me, please." George got up, picked up his briefcase, and followed the man in the grey suit. The press were quietly kept away by use of obscure corridors and a phalanx of policemen.
The newspapers claimed it was an all-too-narrowly-avoided disaster and opinions were offered by any or all who had something to say. Naturally, the Ministry of Defence issued the blandest of statements assuring the public that they were safe from terrorists. Questions in the House were similarly fielded and quietly dropped. The commissioner of police gave a blandly re-assuring interview on TV. The country breathed a collective sigh of relief and the latest soap opera sensation emerged onto the front pages.
The next few months were confusing but reassuringly remunerative for Mr Pendleton. He did a succession of small contract writing jobs which all seemed to go well, although they were mostly with a military connection. When he asked his agent about it, the expression used was "Mostly for your CV or résumé." But the wages were good and kept the wolf from the door in some style. It did not, however, take him long to get thoroughly depressed living out of a suitcase. It could be a lonely, if nomadic, existence.
Strange towns and occasionally stranger fellow workers all had their impact on him. He reported this to his case-worker who said he's see what could be done. A house agent was looking after his old home address. He reported that occasionally a curious photographer would turn up, but that was about it. The Police and his case worker suggested he move house "even if it is only a few miles". All George had to do was find a property and everything was laid on, so he did.
The end result of this rearrangement was a nine-month contract in the midlands which involved going to other sites and lots of meetings. It also found him playing cricket with the section team and generally joining in with after-work activities not experienced for a long time including Amateur Radio. He relaxed and settled down to enjoy himself.
Then came a pleasant phone call.
"Your contract is extended by two months in order that the current work may be satisfactorily completed. Any questions?"
Mortgage, bills, debts and other matters could now wait another couple of months before worry set in. What, he wondered, am I going to do after that? Better have a word with the agent. The agent usually did a good job.
The evenings had warmed up and the cricket matches were there to be played and enjoyed. The public was distracted by an international football tournament at which, somewhat unusually, England actually stood a chance.
The project went well and at the end of his two months, it was complete and signed off by a happy client. He was given a bonus and a letter of recommendation.
The sun shone bright as he found his car to leave the site at the end of the day. It was parked nose-up against the low wall and he opened the rear door to put in his briefcase. As he ducked down to find his sunglasses and reached inside, there was a buzz like an angry hornet and a splatter of concrete behind him. A second or so later he heard the bang, by which time he was lying almost under his car. He didn't have time to wonder about why someone was chucking a high-velocity rifle bullet in his direction; it was enough that they were and being absent, or at least protected, from the scene became more important to him. He reckoned that the shooter must be somewhere round the old water tower which implied a good view. There were few other places to choose from. Getting into his car safely seemed more important and he lay there wondering what to do next.
A quick look-round showed that he hadn't mis-heard an engine backfire and several workers were just as puzzled as he. He was still wondering when Ken, the guy on the next desk in the office, came out to his own car a few moments later and said "You OK, mate?"
"Erm, yes thanks, Ken," he said. "Just dropped something and it went under the car." He straightened up, got into the driving seat, and started the engine. "Have a good evening. Bye."
He swiftly drove off the car park into the stream of traffic for the site exit whilst part of his mind wondered about the shooter. Whoever was shooting obviously did not want to draw too much attention to him or herself; in these days of political correctness, logic sometimes went askew. This was something to report to his case worker. He pulled off the road into a smaller car park to make the call. He explained the incident and the circumstances.
"We'll sort that out for you; don't worry" came the breezy reply.
He pulled back into the traffic and drove slowly down to the main gate, stopped and handed in his Pass, nodded to the guard and walked back to his car. He was about to get in, when a big man in a sober suit approached the driver's door and said: "Excuse me. Mr. Pendleton, Mr. George Pendleton?"
"That's me," said George, "what can I do for you?"
"My name is Oakshot. I wonder if you'd care to attend an Interview at the Holiday Inn, the one on the park, about 11am tomorrow?" said the man. "You come highly recommended."
George looked suspicious.
There was a pause before Mr Oakshot went on: "Your agent told me where to find you."
George took his Organiser from his top pocket, made a few notes and said, "OK; who's it for?"
"Well," said the big man, "Uncle Sam, eventually. Ask for me at the hotel reception desk: My card." He passed George a card upon which was printed "Lance Oakshott"
"Right Oh," he said, "I'll see you tomorrow about 11am." And with that, George drove away, leaving Mr Oakshott looking at the rear bumper. He had the nagging feeling that Mr Oakshott wasn't quite the real deal. Why would an American have such a quintessentially English name; why such a direct approach rather than through his agent which was the usual method.
When he got home, he looked at the card as he drank his coffee. It was a plain pasteboard with a name and telephone number in no notably special fount. No firm, no address, just a large area of white. It was the sort of anonymous business card that you can pick up at many Motorway service stations for a small sum.
Some of the mystery was sorted by a message from his agent on his answering machine advising him that a Mr Oakshott would be at the Holiday Inn and would like to see George for a possible job. He added:
"This one's rather different and the pay's much better. And it's a long and rolling job, too; with the chance of foreign travel. You still twiddle with radio stuff, don't you?"
Charlie smiled to himself. The chance of getting back into the æther was very tempting.
A 'rolling job' implied a long-term contract, usually for six months and then renewed. The Tax authorities weren't over-keen because some greedy senior doctors, in an attempt to increase their earnings, had managed to work a fast one with it, but until tested in the Court, the scheme stood, albeit with a few caveats.
The Saturday traffic was, for once, cooperative and Charlie arrived quite early so he had a cup of coffee at a little place overlooking the river. Again, he looked at the card, but no new thoughts entered his head.
Looking at his watch, he rose, paid the bill and walked to the Hotel. Dressed in a jacket and slacks and radiating a wide smile, Mr Oakshott was in the lounge with an assortment of drinks jugs at his disposal. "Tea, coffee, orange juice or mineral water?" he enquired.
"Tea, please," said George. He felt no need for further caffeine. He looked out of the huge windows at a very peaceful park.
"Someone take a pot shot at you recently?" He said
George nearly choked on a mouthful of very good tea. How the 'ell did he know about that? "I think so, yes. How did you know," he said.
Mr Oakshott smiled and slowly shook his head. "Mr Pendleton, you are high on someone's shit list. The further away from the UK you are for a while the better. Fortunately, there is a vacancy at a new little place in the west. You will be really working for a US Government contractor, you'll have all the right documents and you will be looked after, especially in the event of a problem."
Mr Oakshott went on: "There are two advantages in this new job. One is that in the unlikely event of someone else taking a pot shot at you, you may be able to shoot back.
The other is that a lot of it is all new so the neighbours will not get too nosy. You will be hidden in plain sight. You'll need a new identity and that can, or rather will, be arranged."
George looked at him; "I don't think I have a choice," he said. "Can you persuade my agent to do all the necessary things with my house; perhaps let it out or something?"
He drew a breath as ideas whizzed round in his head.
