I had the idea for this earlier and as you might tell it's somewhat on the fly but I'm sure some won't mind. To quote the Prisoner: "It means what it is."
"All Time High
All Time High
Moving house was never an event to be cherished or something to be looked forward to. All that packaging, that dumping of artefacts prized or otherwise, the tears, the aggravation and the heartache.
This was no less true of the SIS (or MI6) than it was for anyone else. After many years in the same nondescript building near Regent’s Park and some nomadic existences in buildings within Whitehall, SIS was finally moving into new digs. Brand spanking new premises in Vauxhall, down the Thames from Westminster.
James Bond pushed open the door in the labyrinth belly of SIS with something of interest and resignation intermingling. He frowned as he saw a man in a white lab coat –stained in places- bent over a desk. Bond’s expression softened as he feigned to clear his throat. “Dusty.”
The young man started and then settled. He appeared quite relieved. “Ah, 007, fancy seeing you here.”
“Yes, well, I thought I’d pop in, before all this goes,” Bond stepped into the vast room –the size of two residential garages. For all the lighting in the room, there was too much in here to fully illuminate the four corners. Bond walked up to Dusty –the young archivist had earned the nickname a year or so ago when his internship had started and then become quite permanent. Bond peered at the desk. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“Trying to see if this thing still works,” grunted Dusty as he wrestled with the somewhat plain looking Parker pen. As he said those words, the pen suddenly emitted a screech followed by a single puff of smoke. He waved a hand with a sigh. “It does.”
“Only just,” Bond picked up the pen refraining from a sigh. “I know the feeling.”
“Not all of this will go you know,” Dusty said brightly. “Some of it will come over with us or go to the archives they’re going to open in Cheltenham.”
Bond put the pen down, wandering away to nearby shelves. He picked up a pack of tarot cards. “Where did you get some of this junk, Dusty?”
“Ways and means, 007.”
Bond shuffled the cards remembering the warm embrace of a young woman named Solitaire. Putting the cards down he moved along smiling as he held a golden gun in his hand. Swinging around he aimed at Dusty. “Say your prayers, Dusty.”
“Another day perhaps.”
Bond put Scaramanga’s wonder weapon down. He gingerly side-stepped the nose of the yellow-black nosed bobsled to pause. Ducking into open space he whipped at musty green tarpaulin, gathering it in his hands like a magician would tissue, to reveal a somewhat sorry looking bronze Lotus Esprit. Already the car was a relic of another time compared to the new Aston Martin V8 Vantage soon to be used.
‘You left this with Ferrera,’ the words and the kick that followed came to mind. Bond tossed the tarpaulin back onto the Esprit. Another world. Behind the Esprit Bond found a crinkly yellow jumpsuit. He ran his fingers over the ‘MOONRAKER’ logo and looked skywards.
“Far out, 007.”
“You’re too young for such memories,” mused Bond with a smile remembering Holly Goodhead.
“Did you really go…up there?”
“Space? Yes, and the other things,” Bond chuckled. He put the suit down and found, as he expected, a laser on the shelf behind the Esprit, tucked into the corner. The white laser felt light in his hands. Even now he could feel the tremor of the crumbling Moonraker as it tore itself apart and the terror within him, that Drax’s globes of death could kill millions if they didn’t stop them. ‘We can use Drax’s shuttle, it’s armed with a laser.’
He felt the heat of re-entry as Holly did her best to keep the Moonraker 5 level and not go flying off into bits and pieces. He put the laser down, patting it. Walking on he found a cigarette lighter with an octopus splayed across the back. The inscription on the other side simply read ‘two of a kind’. Bond did not touch it. He found himself quite touched by Octopussy even now. Bond stepped over a discarded crocodile –its open jaws showing the tight confines of what actually was an one man submersible. He would never forget stepping out of it to be confronted by Vijay’s body.
‘All he said –was that it was Kamal’s men.’
Bond lightly touched the strongbow sandwiched between a fake Fabregas egg and jacket that read ‘ZORIN INDUSTRIES’ across the back. He re-emerged into the open, wiping cobwebs off his sleeves. Dusty was regarding him with a curious look. Bond cleared his throat. “Like I say, memories,” Bond folded his arms nodding to the shelves. “You know if they’re keeping all of that?”
“Some of it, you’re something of a legend around here.”
“I’m old enough to become legend!” Bond snorted. They all came to mind then- the villains he had fought to stop dastard plans- Kananga, Scaramanga, Stromberg, Drax, Orlov/Khan, Kristastos/KGB and Zorin. Exotic and wide ringing locales- from Phuket to San Francisco, deep sea to outer space and the women, always the women. The young –Stacey, Solitaire and Melina, to the older if perhaps mature and most similar- Octopussy, Anya and Holly Goodhead. But also his allies, tragic and otherwise- Felix, Q, Vijay, Chuck Lee, Ferrera and Colombo.
“We who are so young, should live as long or be as wise.”
“What’s that from?”
Bond shook his head not aware he had spoken aloud. “Someone wiser than me,” he started to walk out. “Good luck, Dusty. Best to ditch all of this.”
“I’m sure we’ll keep some of it,” Dusty said loudly turning to watch Bond go.
Bond paused in the doorway. “Make room for the next man. I’m sure he’ll have much more adventures than I will and memories too!”
Bond closed the door thinking to himself that it was up to someone else now. The oddest thought which made him leave MI6 for one of his favourite restaurants in Mayfair. He could only hope Dusty did not find a way to archive the menu!
-
For Sir Roger
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