Georgia on My Mind Read online

  GEORGIA ON MY MIND

  GLEN DAVIES

  © Glen Davies 2003

  Glen Davies has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Part II

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  PART III

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  EPILOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  Author’s notes

  Henleaze Dramatic Society

  Presents

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  by William Shakespeare

  USA Tour 2003

  Cast

  Theseus, Duke of AthensTimothy Wainwright

  Hippolyta, Queen of the AmazonsAnthea Clifton

  Egeus, father to HermiaJolyon Winterbourne

  LysanderRoger Parkstone

  DemetriusKenneth Oldham

  HermiaDebbie Grantham

  HelenaChloe Keating

  PhilostrateAndy Simmonds

  Oberon, King of the FairiesNicholas Beacon

  Titania, Queen of the FairiesJemma Forster

  PuckGavin Springfield

  Bottom the WeaverFred Oldsworth

  Flute, the Bellows MenderEd Rochester

  Quince the CarpenterAlf Kingswood

  Snug the Joiner ]

  Snout the Tinker ]Members of Henleaze Dramatic Society

  Starveling the Tailor ]

  Peasblossom, Cobweb, Moth & Mustardseed

  Members of Henleaze School Senior Orchestra

  ProductionDeirdre Cosford

  Asst to ProducerSadie Pershore

  Stage ManagerJamie Todd

  Asst Stage ManagerElla Dexter

  LightingNeville Wharncliffe & Stuart Wells

  SoundSimon Race & June Kingswood

  Lighting & Set DesignJamie Todd & Andy Simmonds

  North London, June 2003

  The system they were using was out of the ark – ridiculous when this was one of their most important trade delegations. It wasn’t as though they were short of computer experts back home, even if they had lost a fair few to the west during perestroika, when the noose was loosened under Gorbachev. Not that it took much expertise to free up the memory on the old-style computers: wiping the hard drive was the kind of task a twelve year old could be trusted with, but everyone here was paranoid since some of their obsolete computers had been found at the local council rubbish tip, with Russian government information still on them.

  Still, Irena, the boss’s pretty young assistant, had kept him well-supplied with coffee and little dough-cakes over the last week, and this was just a five minute favour, freeing up an old computer for a new employee while they waited for new equipment to be delivered from Moscow. He toyed with the idea of asking Irena out for a meal this evening: who could tell where it might lead? Dinner, then a walk along the Thames – it stayed light quite late now and the evening would still be warm…He slipped off his heavy tweed jacket. Who’d have expected a June heat wave in London?

  He glanced down at the staff file-card Irena had given him for the previous user of this decrepit machine: Ruslan Davidoff, 46. Quite old for the lowly clerical position, but still young for the heart-attack that had removed him to the local NHS hospital on Highgate Hill. He shifted uncomfortably, conscious of his own bulky stomach, and tried not to think of all the fat and sugar in those little fried dough cakes. Still, when you were a favoured expert, it was madness not to take advantage of the perks, especially when some parts of Russia were still suffering from shortages. Not for long though; the new man at the top, Putin, had promised to sort it all out. Ex-KGB, was Vladimir Putin, so it seemed unlikely anyone was going to stand in his way.

  Still, might make sense to call in at that fitness centre in the basement of the London hotel this evening, if they were still open. Get an assessment before he went back to Moscow. If not, then he’d do it tomorrow morning, though he had been thinking of going in to central London to give old Putin a cheer.

  First state visit to the UK by a Russian leader in nearly a hundred and thirty years, they said, but he didn’t imagine there’d be many British cheering him on, even if Comrade Putin was riding down the Mall with the Queen in a gilded state coach. Too many memories of the Cold War, even now, judging by the negative comments he’d heard over breakfast in the hotel dining room.

  He typed in Davidoff’s password and the screen filled with the detritus of the last eight years: files that were never important in the first place, and now would be missed by no one. The same could probably be said of Ruslan Davidoff.

  He went back through the various directories. It didn’t take too long; these old machines had very little memory. Endless lines of trade reports…

  One of the files caught his practised eye: the suffix differed by one letter from the others, and that particular configuration rang a bell somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind. Idly he opened the file, but the initial text meant nothing to him. Probably encrypted. He scrolled down a few pages, losing interest, but as he moved the mouse to shut down the file, a name caught his eye, an unusual name he recognised from a treason trial in Stalin’s time. His father had been a great fan of the old dictator, being from the same region of Georgia.

  Not encryption, then. Probably one of the many minority languages that, unlike Russian, didn’t use Cyrillic script. Perhaps Davidoff was originally fro
m one of those wild southern republics that were trying to break away now the iron hand of Moscow had briefly relaxed its grip with the break-up of the Soviet Union. The next few were in Russian or English, and hidden behind a series of defences, inaccessible to anyone less skilled than he was. With a nervous glance over his shoulder at the human drones, answering phones or hunched over their monitors, he paged on down, eyes widening as more names scrolled up.

  He forced himself to go on breathing as he took in what he had found. One file, a list of names with code words and numbers – probably KGB numbers – against them, was dynamite. Another was an old sedimentary report on an area currently disputed between two republics. Oil! What wouldn’t either republic give for this information!

  Cunning old Ruslan Davidoff! How had he ever come across all this highly sensitive information? Perhaps it was the strain of what he held on his computer that had caused Ruslan’s heart attack! Part of this computer expert’s mind knew he should delete the files, clean up the computer, and get the hell back to Moscow. That was certainly what he should do.

  His hand dropped to his work-case and, without taking his eyes from the screen, he drew out a disc. Out of the bolt-on CD drive, he palmed the CD that ran the debugging programme and slipped in the blank in its place. Within seconds he’d downloaded the entire contents of Davidoff’s computer and wiped what little back-up there was. A last nervous look around, then he dropped both discs back into the storage box, clicked the case closed, and took his leave.

  ‘Don’t be too long in the canteen,’ said the floor manager, rocking back in his chair and picking yellowing teeth with the end of a paperclip. ‘Plenty more problems you can deal with this afternoon. Whole system is crap. Crashed three times last week.’

  He nodded coolly. No point in getting into a row with these fools – party apparatchiks one and all, and most of them didn’t know a Rom from a byte. Debugging experts didn’t soil their hands with everyday computer housekeeping. He’d done the sweep they wanted on the system, and he’d leave his underlings to do the updates. Now all he wanted was to get back to his hotel room and see what else friend Ruslan had hidden away on his ancient machine.

  The floor manager watched him go with a deep scowl on his face. The afternoon was nearly over and Irena hadn’t been near him. No coffee, no cakes. She’d made sure the Moscow man had been well-provided though. He’d seen her wiggling her hips close by whichever desk the fellow was working at. Who knew what they’d been up to in the other offices?

  Perhaps he’d drop down to the basement later to see his comrade, Pyotr, who reviewed the surveillance tapes. He could take along some vodka and ask him to see what Irena had been up to. A little bit of leverage over the boss’s pretty assistant would definitely come in handy.

  PART I

  Our true intent is…all for your delight

  Midsummer Night’s Dream : Act 5, Scene 1

  England, June 2003

  1

  Chloe suppressed a yawn with difficulty. It had been an early start, for they’d had to drive quite a way to get to the airport for their charter flight. Everyone in the theatre group had been hoping for a sleep on the coach, but the advance party from the school orchestra was, inevitably, wide awake. When they travelled with the juniors, the older girls were so good at keeping order, but being the youth element in an adult environment seemed to have given them all licence to indulge their high spirits.

  Some of the less charitable members of the theatre group were grumbling that Chloe should keep them under stricter control, but it was proving an uphill task. You could divert eight year olds: teenagers were much harder work. Then Ken had egged them on – she hoped she wasn’t going to have trouble with him – and once they had Alf, the driver, on their side, and Radio One blaring out, there was no holding them.

  Deirdre, the producer, or Sadie, her assistant, should have taken some share of responsibility for keeping the girls in order, as they were only travelling in the advance party to suit the play. Still, it wasn’t a very good start. For a brief moment, as they drew into the airport and the noise levels escalated, Chloe wondered what she had let herself in for, but she reminded herself that the reward would be worth it – more than two weeks in which she could be herself again, free from the daily round of teaching and child care. In one blink of an eye, apprehension gave way to excited anticipation.

  Everyone else disappeared into the terminal building to wander round the duty free shops and the bookstore for last minute purchases, but Chloe, with the coach and the box van, was diverted around the back with a bored young woman from the charter company. Neat and trim in her maroon uniform, the ground hostess showed no interest in anything but her exquisitely polished nails.

  Chloe couldn’t remember when she’d last had the leisure for nail varnish. A lifetime ago. No. Don’t exaggerate, Chloe. Five years ago, before…well, don’t go back there…

  One of the loaders, a large man with a spider’s web tattoo on his neck and up one side of his face, called out a string of numbers; she forced her gritty eyes open and marked them in on her copy of the manifest. Curling her toes until she felt the pressure of the grey tarmac through her thin shoes, she ticked off another props basket: the most important one, the basket Bottom had to hide in.

  It was hot. She cursed her mother’s nagging that had sent her out in the misty pre-dawn wearing a jacket, but in fairness, layers were usually the answer to the very varied British weather. No one expected temperatures of thirty degrees C in June in Britain, but this must be the tenth or eleventh consecutive day that it had been so hot. There’d even been the odd mad article in the papers, foretelling a drought. In fact, according to Andy, who had been checking the forecasts for Connecticut for a couple of weeks now, it was currently hotter in central England UK than in New England USA. Who’d have thought it?

  She became aware of a voice at her elbow. Escorted by another hypertanned ground hostess, it was the first trombone. Moth? Probably. Not quite sixteen years old, she was tall and willowy, with a figure that would have graced any fashion magazine, and a mouth with a pout that owed nothing to her choice of instrument. Spider and Charlie stopped in mid-haul, a heavy costume trunk suspended between them. ‘Sorry,’ said Chloe. ‘Didn’t catch what you said.’

  ‘I said, Sophie’s got a migraine.’ The voice didn’t match the looks, and cut through Chloe’s brain like a buzz-saw. It didn’t put the men off; they gazed at the girl in open-mouthed admiration. ‘Mr Simmonds says you’ve got the first-aid kit.’

  ‘Just let me finish this, and I’ll be in to see to her. You really shouldn’t be out here.’

  ‘Hey, I just wanna help,’ snapped the girl. ‘Gimme the first-aid and I’ll get her paracetamol or something...’

  That wasn’t allowed. The parents’ committee at school had been quite adamant. In loco parentis would only apply to Chloe, even though a fair number of the theatre group members were parents too. ‘I’ll be with you shortly,’ she said. ‘Just find her somewhere to sit down, and keep her quiet. It’ll be a while yet before we take off.’

  The first trombone muttered something under her breath and flounced back into the departure lounge, shepherded, after a martyred sigh, by the second ground hostess. Chloe tried not to hear what the men were saying to each other, but rather thought she could have written the script. She could see the van driver from Henleaze trying not to smile. Biting her lip she brought her focus back to the manifest.

  The men had moved on from the costume trunks and were starting on the instruments. ‘Keep those the right way up!’ she said sharply as they unloaded the double bass and cello from the lorry.

  ‘You don’t wanna fret about it, ducks,’ said Spider. ‘We ’ad the Philharmonic frew ’ere last week, and all their gear turned up in ’Ong Kong in perfec’ nick. Best in the game, me’n’Charlie.’

  She fervently hoped so. The prospect of running round trying to replace a double bass in a strange country didn’t bear thinking of. Thank goodness th
e harpist was due to sit an entrance exam shortly, and so had been unable to commit to the tour!

  She saw the last boxes and crates loaded safely onto the trailers, and signed the manifests. When Charlie and Spider and the trailers disappeared out of sight behind a large jumbo, and the airline clerk floated off with her copy, Alf drove her back to the front of the terminal, where she tipped him and the van driver the sum she’d agreed with Andy Simmonds.

  ‘Good luck to you, Mrs Keating,’ said Alf, pocketing his share of the notes. ‘You’ve got your work cut out with that little lot. Couldn’t they spare another teacher?’

  ‘Two more are coming out with the rest of the orchestra at the end of the week,’ said Chloe, picking up her overnight bag and violin. And it won’t be a moment too soon, she thought, as she made her way to the departure lounge.

  It was a little cooler inside the terminal building: it must be one of the few places outside London and the big cities to have invested in full air conditioning. The group had divided into two: on one side the adults of HDS, the Henleaze Dramatic Society, and on the other, the advance guard of the school orchestra, those eight members of Henleaze Girls’ High who also doubled, for the duration of the tour, as Shakespeare’s fairies. She surveyed the girls, in their pretty summer tops and short skirts, chattering like magpies. She knew them slightly from orchestra rehearsals, but she’d have to get to know them better than that, and damn quickly: these young people were in her sole charge for the next few days.

  House mother, the head had called her, which had all sounded terribly Enid Blyton-ish and not at all in her style. She’d hoped that her complementary therapies and her reluctance to treat everything with pain-killers and antibiotics might have dissuaded them from giving her the job, but no such luck. Thank you, Neville.

  But her innate sense of justice stepped in swiftly. She wouldn’t have been able to afford the ticket if the Twinning Committee hadn’t stepped in, and there was no such thing as a free lunch. Her eyes scanned the seating area for Sophie-with-the-migraine. Spotting her at last, drooping over by the bookshop, she picked up her violin case in one hand and her flight bag in the other and crossed to her side.