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Hilly
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Hilly


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PostSubject: Forever Autumn   Forever Autumn EmptyWed Jan 08, 2020 4:42 pm

In light of my recent review on YOLT (novel), figure I might re-post this thing that I wrote in 2012.

---

With considered respect to John Barry OBE, without whom…

Lake Tahoe, Nevada shore
Late 1971


The redhead slammed the trunk of her equally red Mustang shut managing to wrestle her two brown grocery bags in her arms. She wore the skimpiest top with the tightest of hot-pants. All this hugging her figure and it was her long coppery mane that attracted everyone’s attention. As she walked to the porch of the nearby logcabin she heard a shout. Half-twisting her head she saw the teen who helped out round the area. True to form he had a broom in hand whilst in the other he held a transistor radio blaring out a song by the Who.
“Hey Miss Case, you still here?”
“Sure, George, why wouldn’t I be?” she carried on up plucking her keys from her jeans. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Six months she had been here with the man inside. Oddly enough for the young, brash woman from New York this had been a good six months. Inside the smartly furnished cabin she dumped the bags on the counter. “Room service!”
“In here,” the voice sullenly replied. Tiffany Case threaded her way into the bedroom smelling the strong scent of sweat that comingled with the scent of pine from outside. He was pretty much how she had left him a couple of hours ago –sprawled across the king-sized bed wearing tatty pyjama bottoms. She knelt on the edge of the bed, the mattress springs creaking. “Is today the day?”
She had been asking the same question for almost three of these six months. The first three had been spent trying to help him.
The dark hair was thicker, longer and a tad matted in places from the night sleep. His beard was just as black, just as thick but his eyes shone brightly. He reached up and took her hand. “I think today might be the day.”
Tiffany blinked, surprised to find tears already there. “You mean it? You’re going back to London?”
James Bond squeezed her hand. “I think so. It’s been long enough.”
“Are you sure you’re ready? A couple of months ago you didn’t even know who you were. What was it the doctor said? Traumatic amnesia…”
“I think I’m fine. I know who I am. I also remember why I’m here.”
Six months ago after almost three years of hunting before that Bond had arrived in Las Vegas. That was when she met him. “I found Blofeld,” Bond continued as if reading her thoughts, “I got him…”
“Then you blacked out. You thought I was your dead wife. You thought you were someone else. Won’t your M guy take you back?”
Bond managed a smile, a somewhat rueful one. “He’ll see me. Whether or not he’ll have me back in the service is another matter.” He dropped her hand staring up at the ceiling. “Her Majesty’s Secret Service is still my job…”
She knew that tone of voice. He might have overcome the trauma that forced his memories from him. Drove him into reclusion but he still remembered his wife. Tiffany had wept on the shore outside not long ago when she realised Bond would never love her as he loved Teresa di Vicenzo.
Tiffany rolled off the bed springing back on her heels. “Want me to call someone? Felix?”
“No, I’ll make the call.” Bond climbed from bed stopping to give her a kiss on the head. “Dear Tiffany.” She followed him into the living area watching as he picked up the receiver and dialled. “Universal Exports? Yes…Extension two-two-four-one, Refunds.”
He tapped a foot as he paused before continuing, “It’s Bond. Who’s that?...Smithers? didn’t know you’d been dropped…Oh, I see…Well, I’m on my way home……You want me to go there when I get home? Okay, okay…I forgot what I was for the moment. Bond out.” Bond gently hung the receiver up turning to see Tiffany standing still by the bedroom door. “I don’t suppose you’d drive me to the airport.”
“They’re taking you back?”
“No. I have to sort something out though.”
He went to her and kissed her tenderly. Tiffany felt herself react before at the critical moment he broke the kiss. “Sorry.”
“Don’t leave me James.”
He said nothing going into the bedroom to change. Half an hour later the Mustang was streaking out west towards San Francisco. “What if they don’t take you back?”
“I’ll think of something. Maybe something in demolition.”
Tiffany snorted laughter. “Demolition?”
“An old friend…,” Bond’s voice dropped almost below the loud thrum of the engine, “a dear friend.”
“Well, if your demolition takes you back here let me know.”
“You bet. What about you?”
Tiffany shrugged. “Whyte’s held open a position for me. It pays so well you wouldn’t believe.”
“I could imagine.”
It took a couple of hours to get to San Francisco. It was almost dark by the time the Mustang rolled to a stop at SFO –the international airport. Bond pulled his bag from the trunk before going round to her wound down window. He leant in close. “All the best, Tiffany.”
“Take care, James,” she whispered. He kissed her, his beard rustling against her face. She’d actually miss that. She tracked him as he walked round the front of the car and into the terminal building. One thing was back, his assured swagger. She jumped when a voice barked by her window. “Come on lady, you’re in the white zone!”
She looked up at the SFPD patrolman. “Alright, Charlie hold your gas!”
Tiffany floored the accelerator leaving the patrolman standing shocked in the white zone. As she cleared SFO she found a place to park. Getting out she stood by the side of her car for a while. Maybe an hour into this vigil a mighty Boeing 707 in Pan-Am colours roared overhead black vapour trailing from its four Pratt and Whitney engines. It banked out over the Bay the contrails strengthening. Tiffany began to grin despite the sadness. She had no doubt she would meet James Bond again. She knew though that he would be eternally grateful to the fiery redhead that had nursed him back from the brink.
Whistling a song to herself she climbed back into the Mustang and drove off. By now the 707 a distant blur of flickering light.

***

Parliament Square, City of Westminster, London
Two days later


Bond was just one face amongst many as he walked up past the famous Houses of Parliament. He had his hands shoved into his Saville Row coat missing the Nevadan sun already. The dark skies matched his mood. He crossed near where the Houses met Victoria Tower Gardens. By the green was the Cowley Street underground car park. Bond walked in keeping to one side before long his footfall echoing loudly. He walked two hundred metres to the other side before reaching a lift. He pressed CALL and waited. It took a few seconds to arrive. Once in the lift Bond pressed B before opening a small panel. Inside the panel was a key which he took and turned in a keyhole below the panel. This might look easy but the panel could only be opened by fingerprint recognition. Bond was never sure how the SIS managed to get his prints unknowingly. Either way he descended for two floors though it felt like six. He put the key back and emerged into a long brightly lit corridor. He walked down the middle of it as if by touching the walls he would be harmed. At the end of this infinitely long corridor (or so it felt) he was confronted by two doors which he threw open. Immediately a breeze pushed at him. Bond advanced finding himself on a disused Underground platform. The posters dated from the 1940’s, the LT signs reading –just- DOWNING STREET. He dropped his hands waiting.
“This is the part where I say ‘Welcome Home’.”
Bond half-turned towards the source of that familiar voice. “I expected the full dead agent treatment. This is where they come to get sent off.”
“It’s something that started during the war. They actually carted off the basterds on a Tube train out of here. German agents back then that we had caught. Bullet in the back of the head when the lights went out.”
Bond walked slowly towards M. The admiral wore a grey longcoat along with his homburg. A red carnation was tucked into his lapel as if an afterthought. Maybe Mrs Hammond before M had been driven from Quarterdeck. Or maybe Moneypenny before he left Regent’s Park. Her slender fingers patting the lapel down. “Good luck, sir.”
“Is that what I should get? A bullet in the head?”
M’s lips curled at the edges in a scowl. “Against my better judgement, no.”
M walked past Bond circling him like a shark before coming out in front. He tapped his umbrella against the ground. Tat-tat-tat…
“You’ve got a bloody nerve coming back, James.” The use of his Christian name almost surprised Bond. “Six months. I tried to ignore Molony but he insisted you needed this rest. No one else came back from this long a hiatus.”
“Sir, I’m not asking to come back.”
“Then why are you here? You want out? You want in?”
“Whatever you want, sir.”
M shook his head then growled loudly. “You look a bloody mess, like a bloody beatnik!”
Bond touched his beard. “I feel somewhat in tune with the times.”
M turned to fully face Bond. “No man should have his wife shot out from beside him –on their wedding day no less. Yet you went AWOL for almost three years and it took a Double-Oh to come to Cairo and wrestle you home.”
“Sir, we went---“
“And still despite the fact I gave you a chance then you still went off the rails. You break from the operation and go after Blofeld. You kill him and that toad, Bunt! You then have the audacity to retreat for half a year in Nevada!”
Bond flinched. “Sir, it was a breakdown. I couldn’t even remember who I was, what I did for three months.”
M pointed his umbrella at Bond. “There was once no thing as a breakdown, mental or physical. You should remember that.”
Bond said nothing letting M pace once more. He stood on the edge of the platform looking up and down as if wondering where the train was. The legend of the Dead Station (or Station Zero as some called it) had resonated throughout the service since the war. Agents who had gone rogue –and caught- coming here to be sent off. Agents, who had snapped, needed a break brought here to see if they still had something.
“Think you have what it takes, James?”
Bond almost shrugged yet opted for a firm nod. “Sir, I think I do.”
“If you come back, it’s under my condition. You see blasted Sir James; get your head sorted out. You go on training…it’ll be like you’re a new agent.”
“Just like that. You take me back into the fold?”
“For a while things might not be as they were James, but they will in time. The service is not some damn charity for fragile men. You were the best agent. The amount of times I protected you from the powers that be when you went in over your head. Now that Blofeld’s out of the picture I hope you will take advantage of this moment.”
Bond nodded again he went up to M holding a hand out. “Thank you, sir.”
M made a half-snort, half-grunt staring at the hand before taking it. “James.” He headed for the exit pausing to look back at Bond. “Get your bloody hair cut and shave that bloody beard!”
With that he was gone. Bond smiled to himself than started when a hatch opened to the side beside a Tube roundel. Moneypenny appeared with a warm smile embracing Bond. “James.”
Bond held her for a moment. “Hello, Penny. Sorry I was away, hmm?”
“As long as you’re back,” she parted gesturing to the corridor behind her. “If you come with me we need to sort out your paperwork.”
Bond made a face. “Some things never change.”
“The Old Man’s going out on a limb for you, James. Word was that you were going to be canned if you weren’t back by Christmas.”
Suddenly Bond was confronted by the image of a blond man hanging upside down from a ledge his features already encrusted with snow and ice. What was left of his face twisted in a grotesque mask. Bond tensed clenching his fists. “So avid a climber…”
The touch of Moneypenny on his arm made the vision shatter. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Bond’s voice shook. This time he clenched his fists for another reason. Got to do better, James. “Come on Penny, back to reality.”
They walked off down the passageway as the door closed firmly onto the platform.

***

The Outer Hebrides, North-western Scotland

Bond grunted as he was forced to his knees. He tried to work his hands but they were bound together by wire, the knots dug into his flesh scratching the skin roughly. He then tried to stand but the thick hands forced him down. “Stay on your feet, scum!”
“Taking this a little…”
Bond was punched with a rifle butt in his face. It was not too hard a blow yet hard enough for his vision to blur. Everywhere around him and his captors was dark, green, wet, muddy and everything else you could imagine when picturing the Hebrides. If Bond was able to look behind him he would see the open Atlantic with dark grey clouds over. The waves crested a few metres away from him, the other side of a steep drop. His cheeks ached from the wind that roared all over the island not letting up. “We don’t take kindly to prisoners talking. Now we’re going to march you to the command post.”
Bond refrained from an eye roll. He let them bundle him up pushing him ahead of them across the green fields. His ankle throbbed lightly from where his ascent up the cliff tops had gone awry, the wind smashing him against the chalk face remorsefully. Behind him the two somewhat bulky men in their camouflaged macks walked stiffly, robotically. Every now and then one would give Bond a shove. After ten minutes they sighted the CP. The little Command Post was marked by a fluttering Union flag and a green tent. Bond smiled a little to himself. It was still some way off and he had time. Two minutes later Bond stopped. He felt the two behind walk into him then one growl and push Bond. Bond held his ground though turned. The taller of the two with his long yet square moustache lifted his bayonet from his belt waving it at Bond. “Come on, no silly beggars now.”
“No.”
“Thinks he’s a joker this one,” Moustache said to his slightly shorter comrade. “See if he thinks this funny.”
He lunged at Bond the bayonet flashing. Bond held his ground yet lifted his hands and brought them down over the bayonet. It had happened in a split second but it left Bond with his binds cut and it must be said his left arm. He did not waste time for as he was bringing his hands down he continued their downward flight into a jabbing action at Moustache’s chest. Bond knew even in his off-peak state that he would not get the man doubled over but he would get enough out of him for his means. His hands bounced off the chest causing the man to back up dropping his bayonet. Bond spun to his left lashing out a high kick that caught the other over the head. There was the sound, quite audible over the gales, of teeth smashing together before the man dropped to the ground. Moustache had quickly recovered aiming a couple of kicks Bonds way. Bond ducked a couple before catching the boot in his hand and giving it an almighty twist. The pop was like a gun shot and certainly the man’s howls doubled over the gales.
Bond punched him in the face hard knocking him to the ground. He squatted to tie the man’s feet together using his shoe laces and did it for the other. He then got hold of a Browning handgun which he checked over. Shoving the gun into his mack he flexed his right hand. That never used to hurt that much. The last time it hurt that much was killing Blofeld…
He got up moving down the field towards the CP. Rain had mixed in with the wind often shielding his view of the somewhat makeshift post. He started to come in from behind on a wide curve but he went awry. He knew something was up when the CP had moved. Somebody had moved the damned tent and flagpole. Just as he realised this something thudded into the decrepit stonewall next to which he stood. Glancing down he saw pink paint sprayed across. Moving to his left he saw someone now next to the tent with a Sten gun. The Sten rattled spraying paint at Bond. Bond rolled forward coming up Browning in hand. He could barely see now in the rain but squeezed off a shot. It crossed his mind that he didn’t know if this thing had paint cannons in or not. Taking a further gamble he tore ahead into the wind and rain. A few seconds after this he found the CP and the gunman standing behind his tent, red paint across his chest. Bond waited for him to topple forward but the man with his white beret stepped forward hand extended.
“Good work Commander Bond, you got me.”
Bond smiled awkwardly. “Good.”
“Not often 21 SAS is caught,” the man checked his watch. “You have half an hour though to find the main CP and capture it.”
Bond was not entirely surprised that there was more. He left without telling the SAS man that two of his boys were tied up in the fields. Bond followed the coast trekking across two small gorges that dropped to the Atlantic and one brook that had flooded. At one point he had gotten bogged down in grass next to the brook that had become a bog more-or-less. He had chosen the coast to get around any roving patrols. The island was not all that big; indeed it was half the size of East Falkland on which Bond had done his original SAS training. If he could get in…
Twenty minutes into his seemingly endless trek Bond crossed up a coastal path sighting the only centre of population. A village propped against the rolling hills as if it had been there since time itself. As Bond threaded his way behind a stonewall that lined the road in he heard just the clatter of hooves on the road. Peeking above the wall he sighted a milkwagon. The island had never used cars, much like Sark relying on bicycles or horses for their work. Bond leapt over the wall and crouched under the wagon as it ambled along. His back swiftly began to ache but it did the trick getting him into the village. Sliding out he took a quick look and guess. His guess led him into the post office. Reaching the counter he drew his Browning and said: “Bang, you’re dead.”
“Really James, you gave me a fright,” Bill Tanner said hand to chest. It was the rare sight of Tanner in his army uniform. Former Lieutenant William Tanner, Sapper. He checked a watch and scribbled a note. “One minute. Not too bad.”
Bond looked about the PO seeing two SAS bods with a radio set. He turned back to lay his Browning before Tanner. “That’s it?”
“Not quite. SAS are doing their nut. They found their boys that caught you.”
“Just business.”
Tanner snorted. “Sure. M will get a chuckle out of it though. Inter-service rivalry and all that.” Tanner shuffled his papers. “You did well considering. I’ll have to pass this on to the internal boys downstairs at SIS HQ.”
“Makes you wonder, bureaucracy.”
“Don’t you remember we are the Red Tape brigade.”
“As long as you said Red Tape. Red Brigade would send M into convulsions.”
They left the post office a few minutes later. “A navy patrol boat will come and get us. Take us over to Clyde and then we’ll get the train down to London.”
“I’m still on probation?”
“Kind off, I imagine M has something else planned.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”

***

The Strand Theatre, Aldwych (Covent Garden)
Central London


In the shadowy light of the inner circle just under the lip of the rightmost balcony Bond checked his Rolex. The dials glowed quarter past eight. Beside him Loelia Ponsonby gave him an irritated look. He caught the look and dropped the sleeve of his suit. This was meant to be a reunion after years of her leaving the service to marry and settle down. His old secretary (though there was nothing old about her) smiled. Just like old times he thought. Except he still dreamt of Tracy. Still felt her beside him in that barn. Sir James had said it would be a few months before all that would stop. “You’ll still miss her, still mourn her but you will be your old self.”
Bond wasn’t sure if he wanted to be his old self. Draco still held the door open for him to join the firm. “I could do with someone like you. Someone I trust more than anyone!”
The play, The Property of a Lady, was more than just something to take Loelia to. It was his proving ground. No, sitting through a star-studded West End production would not get him his 00 status back. Bond glanced up at the opposing balcony. In the shadowy lights of the stage –presently it was fireworks night at the mansion- he saw the man. To say he was large was to be kind. Sir Lawrence was anything but. He was not how Bond had been a couple of weeks ago. Having let himself go after Tracy’s death it was one of M’s conditions that he sorted his weight out.
Focus, James…
When the intermission came an hour later he disengaged himself from Loelia with a polite word or two and slipped into the lobby. He made his way across to the left side of the theatre slipping into the toilets before anyone got there. When Sir Lawrence burst in first Bond lunged at him from a cubicle and hauled him in slamming the door shut. Bond drew his PPK pressing it against Lawrence’s head. Sweat glistened on the fat man’s forehead but his voice betrayed no fear.
“James Bond. I would have thought that M would have sent someone of a greater calibre.”
Bond did not reply as others entered the toilets talking loudly about the play. Bond pulled the PPK away reaching into his suit for his silencer. Finally he whispered. “M has some hope in me. You’ll forgive the somewhat dubious way I’m doing this.”
Sir Lawrence guffawed. “I could think of worst being queer. Though a toilet isn’t the best place, Bond.”
“I say,” a voice said loudly, “are you alright in there?”
Bond prodded the fat man in his chest with the silencer. Lawrence nodded speaking just as loudly. “Yes, yes. Just…just one of those moments.”
Bond waited until he was sure they were alone and pulled Lawrence out of the cubicle. He was going about all this wrong. “Selling secrets to the Soviets is one thing but trying to blame it on your aide was bad sport.”
“I refuse to be lectured on sport by a man who has a licence to kill. Sorry, HAD a licence to kill.” Lawrence’s assured smile wavered. “Bond?”
Bond went to the door shoving the wastebin under the handle cocking it so no one could get in. “Your aide jumped from Tower Bridge two days ago. The press hounding him day and night. His fiancée –pregnant by the way- leaves him. His death would have been ordinary had he not been sucked into the propellers of that ferry. I’d rather drown than be mangled. Wouldn’t you?”
“I have a feeling I won’t know,” Sir Lawrence picked at his trousers. “On my knees?”
“Open the window,” Bond ordered. He watched holding his PPK steady as the former business leader and present traitor opened the frosted window. “What now?”
“Onto the fire escape.”
“This is amateurish even by your standards, 007.” He spoke with such contempt that Bond let anger boil to the top. He advanced on Sir Lawrence kicking him in the small of the back. “Now!”
On the fire escape they headed along descending eventually into an abandoned courtyard. “Now you can get on your knees.”
“My body will be found, complete with bullet wound. No one will be fooled.”
“I’m using a specially modified PPK that uses Soviet made bullets. Ballistics would do the rest, Sir Lawrence.”
“No last words?”
“Go to Hell.”
Just as Bond squeezed the trigger Sir Lawrence lunged up and forward with the speed and agility of a man half his weight, half his age. The bullet missed him in the process pinging off a dirt encrusted drainpipe. Bond struggled then felt his gun drop. Sir Lawrence trod on Bond’s right foot before punching Bond across the face. Bond was thrown back into a garbage container falling to the ground. The traitor fled before Bond could get up. He reclaimed his PPK and tried to find Sir Lawrence. He gave up and returned to his seat. Loelia frowned at him just as the lights dimmed. “You alright, James?”
“Just had the living daylights knocked out of me. Wouldn’t believe the strength of those hand dryers.”

**

“Strike One James,” Tanner was saying as they waited in M’s office. It was not often someone was allowed to be in this office without the man himself but the two had special compensation from M. “The Old Man blew his gasket when he heard that Sir Lawrence had gotten away.”
“Probably halfway to Moscow by now.”
“No,” M said from the door shutting it firmly. Automatically Tanner and Bond stiffened to some form of attention. The light above the door flashed red. M puffing on his pipe went to his desk sitting firmly. Bond noticed how he refused to look his way. “One of the Met’s Special Branch found Sir Lawrence in a known Soviet safe house out in Bermondsey. We cracked a cypher suggesting the bastard is leaving in the morning.”
“Sir.”
“Vallance doesn’t do this often but he’s letting our department sort Lawrence out. His last shot to get him will be at Heathrow. Believe it or not the Reds are going to try and get him out the easy way. Get a sniper’s rifle from Q Branch, whatever else you need and get down to Bermondsey.” M handed Tanner a file. The Chief of Staff gave it a quick run through before passing it onto Bond. “Map, etc.”
Bond took it glancing at M. “Thank you, sir.”
“Get a bloody move on.”
At that, Bond left.

**

It was just like his first kill. The first of two that guaranteed his Double-Oh. Sitting in a New York skyscraper staring down the barrel at a Japanese spy. Except this time it was a Bermondsey warehouse, a relic of the Victorian era facing another warehouse. Bond sat in absolute darkness by a window whilst across the way the warehouse was lit up. Sir Lawrence sat to one side of a round table playing cards. Bond could not believe he had botched his kill. He would have to do it right this time or indeed accept Draco on his offer.
Sometimes the hardest missions were the ones with the easiest solution.
Bond took his jacket off placing it along the window sill. He wedged the window up a few inches just enough to shoot under. Bond proceeded to take the sniper rifle and put it together. Its various components made it easy for Bond to wear it on his person and if possible, pass police inspection. He leant the rifle up against the wall getting up to re-examine the floor. Everything was set up so that he could make his quick getaway. Crossing back he sat down resting the rifle on the window ledge leaning into it. He took a breath moving the scope to his right. There were two other men with the traitor. Both looked typical KGB. Bond would have to take his chances.
Sir Lawrence Clattenburg took the first bullet behind his right ear. The second hit on the left arm having been aimed at the chest. In a few seconds Sir Lawrence had gone from being quite alive to quite dead, his head exploding from the back showering the table in gory matter. Bond was leaning back when one of the KGB agents opened fire with their handgun blindly. They must have not seen Bond…Bond surprised himself by leaning back and taking time to get a bead on the agent. Bond fired feeling the rifle buck against his shoulder. His shot took the agent in the throat prompting the agent to drop his gun and grab at his throat. Bond wasn’t hanging about now. He grabbed at his jacket then ran for the exit breaking his gun down whilst on the stairs. Reaching the exit on Jacob Street he ran down the neighbouring alley. Nearing his DBS he sighted someone coming at him in the gloom. The other agent. There was a grunt of Russian before Bond had the man by the throat and hoisted him up. It happened so quickly that Bond didn’t quite realise. Either way he had the man and slammed him into the wall all the while squeezing. Yet the Russian wasn’t going without a fight –he kicked out at Bond breaking the grip. Bond pulled the barrel of his rifle from his sleeve smashing it across the man’s head. The Russian staggered falling to his knees before Bond brought the barrel down twice more. Not waiting Bond got into his DBS and tore off at speed.

**

“In review: one traitor dead and two KGB agents dead.”
Bond held his gaze on the wall above M’s head. Tanner was to one side of the desk holding a manila file. M put his hands down on the open file before him regarding Bond with one of his frank gazes. “This department does not take cover for its agents when they foul up so. You were meant to kill Sir Lawrence only. The Minister almost had a heart attack when he found out.”
“Sir Frederick always did strike me as too nervous.”
“Bond!” snapped M. This also served to stop Tanner’s smirk. “Why the two agents?”
“Like I said in the report one was taking aim at me and the other cut me off. As far as I knew the second was still alive when I took off.”
“Death by automobile,” M said dryly reading from his file. “Though I daresay the blows to his head helped him along.”
M’s face gradually creased into a smile. “Welcome back, 007.”
Bond blinked. “I’m back, sir?”
“That’s what I said,” M stood holding a hand out. “You’ll still be under observation for a month and there is still the matter of your sessions with Sir James.”
“Understood,” Bond took M’s hand. “Admiral.”
In Moneypenny’s office Tanner said, “Fancy dinner with the two of us? Nice little place in Marylebone High Street?”
Bond smiled at his friends. “No, I’m sorry. I have something quite urgent to do. How about tomorrow night? My treat.”
“If it’s your treat I can wait.”
Bond went downstairs feeling buoyed. He was not back properly yet he was on his way. He half imagined somewhere a computer getting his ID out of the filing cabinet and stamping LICENCE RENEWED across it. Bond drove off onto Marylebone Road stopping by a florist. He brought a dozen red roses and drove off once more. It took half an hour to get across London and into Barnes by the river. Here on the bend on a clear day once could see up and down the river for a mile at least. Stunning area. Bond was not quite preoccupied with the view. Parking just off Barnes High Street he walked across the green and beyond to the cemetery at the town’s church. The cemetery extended up as close to the river as the main road would allow. After a brief word with the verger he walked to the edge and to a fresh tombstone. He squatted placing the flowers reverently before scraping moss off the name.
Teresa Bond 1939-1969 ‘We Have all the Time in the World’.
It had been Draco’s idea to have her buried away from her home country. Her mother had come from London and with James… “She’ll be near the man she loved, James.”
Remembering her touch, her voice, everything Bond felt the tears come. The past three years had been a constant rush of grief, anger, despair and everything else. He had become someone else. A more realistic person or at least a realistic side.
Bond stood his face clear, his eyes dry. “Remember, tears should be shared by friends…or lovers.” He touched the tombstone’s top and turned. There would be no more tears. He thanked the verger on his way out.
In his DBS with a smile Bond wound the window down resting his elbow on it he started the engine.
It was time to move on.
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