First Chapter of THRILLER

hippychippy

Chapter 1.

Roger sat at the bar and loosened his black necktie. He never liked wearing suits and couldn’t wait to shed the restricting clothes. Seeing his father laid out in the coffin had physically shaken him, he had left before they had closed the lid, he didn’t want to be there for that. The funeral home was full, usually a sign that a popular person had passed away, but it was full of people that Roger barely knew, relations were scarce and so it was mostly work colleagues and acquaintances of his father that had turned up. Roger was in Peru when he had received the news of his fathers passing. The world’s media had an interest in the story too. His father, Damon Turnley was one of the best-known modern day archaeologists. He had made many important discoveries in his time and was hugely respected in his field of expertise. He was well respected up until five years ago anyway. Many of his colleagues had felt that he was quite mad at the time of his passing; he had become an embarrassment to the Archaeological Council, a society that Damon had co-founded and had chaired for many years. His once good friends and colleagues began to whisper behind his back, he was removed as chairman of the council and was forbidden to speak on their behalf. Damon had ruffled a few feathers over the past few years and most of the Council were glad to see his passing. His one good friend in life was Arthur Gale, a man that wouldn’t entertain a bad word being spoken about his friend. Arthur had pleaded with Damon to let his latest obsession go, to uphold his hard earned reputation and to leave the world of archaeology with his dignity intact. Damon Turnley just wasn’t that type of man, he held beliefs, he had a way of proving his theory, he just needed time, he just ran out of time.
Roger lit up a cigarette and nursed a bottle of beer at the bar counter. He called for a whiskey and threw it down his throat when it came; he nodded to the barman for another. Roger was an only child; his mother had died giving birth to him, which resulted in himself and his father being extremely close, more like brothers than father and son. His father had never remarried; he was still heartbroken by the loss of his wife, right up until the day he had died. The television was on in the corner of the bar and it caught Rogers' attention. James Steller, chairman of the Archaeologists Council was being interviewed. ‘Obviously Damon Turnley was a well respected man in these parts’, Steller started, ‘but as for his latest theory, I think that we all know, that age and too many Hollywood movies influenced, Mr. Turnley too much’. Roger’s stomach turned, this supposed colleague of his fathers was taking the opportunity to distance himself and the Council, from his father’s theories and claims. Roger slammed home another whiskey, ‘bastard’, he muttered under his breath. He looked back up to the screen, ‘so you don’t think that there is any truth to Mr. Turnley’s research’, the interviewer questioned. ‘What do you think? I mean, come on, it’s absolute nonsense talk, total rubbish with no grounds whatsoever’. Steller laughed as if the question had been meant as a joke. The young female reporter stood in front of the camera, ‘so there it is, the death of one of the worlds greatest archaeological minds and the death of the hollow earth theory, this has been Lucy Stevens for U.G.A. news’. It suddenly hit Roger like a punch in the guts, his anger turned to hope, he knew what he had to do.
Lucy Stevens jumped into the passenger seat of the U.G.A. news van; she flicked down the mirror and reapplied some lipstick. She checked through her notes and stopped at a name she had forgotten about. Her cameraman had just gotten into the van after packing all his equipment away. ‘Thank God, for that’, he said as he closed the door, ‘another night over’. Lucy looked at him, ‘don’t even think about it Lucy’, he said as he started the van. ‘What?’ Lucy answered defensively. ‘I know that look Lucy and I don’t care what you are after, I’m going home right now, and it’s been a long day’. Zac her cameraman knew that look all right, he knew Lucy better than most, he knew her as well as any brother could know his sister. ‘It’s Roger Turnley, Damon’s son, we should have interviewed him as well, I’m sure he would have a different opinion than Mr. Steller on his fathers theory, you know Zac we need to balance out the story’. Zac put the van in gear and drove off, ‘we’ll look for him tomorrow Lucy’, he agreed, ‘but right now I need some sleep’. ‘Ok Zac, but early tomorrow, we need to wrap this story up and we don’t want the other networks getting to him first’, Lucy smiled to herself, she was the younger of the siblings but was used to getting her own way.
Arthur Gale rose to his feet in pure rage, his normally red face was now a beetroot colour and his skin was working hard to keep the veins in his neck, internal. ‘You cannot be serious Steller’, he roared towards the top of the table. Steller glared back at his attacker. ‘He has brought this Council into disrepute Arthur, the world is laughing at us’. Arthur walked towards Steller, ‘the man is dead, can you not just leave him rest in peace, he has done many good things for this Council’, Arthur’s tone had turned to pleading. Steller looked down the long table; all eleven remaining members were present. ‘We’ll have a vote on the matter in hand’, Steller announced confidently. Arthur sat back in his seat, he pulled a packet of pills from his jacket pocket and threw two of them into his mouth, he drank down the glass of water in front of him and composed himself. ‘A vote it is then’, he said as he folded his arms defiantly. Steller stood looking down along the board table and started, ‘we all know what’s at stake here today, so use your vote wisely’. Arthur was on his feet again in an instant, ‘you can’t do that, you can’t canvass for the vote, just get on with it and remember what Damon Turnley did for this Council. He’s a founder member for Christ sake’, Arthur sat down again. Steller frowned at the interruption but continued, ‘all those in favour of removing Damon Turnley as an honorary member of this Council, raise your hand’. One hand went up, then two, then three, Steller glared at the members with their hands down, then the fourth hand went up in the air, shortly followed by the fifth. All the remaining members remained still. ‘And all those against’, Arthur asked, five hands went straight into the air. Steller smiled as he glanced around the table, ‘since the chairman of the Council doesn’t have a vote’, he started, ‘bar in the case of a tie, I vote in favour and announce that the motion is passed’. ‘You can’t do that’, Arthur stood again, ‘there is never a tie, it’s an impossibility, the Council is a twelve man committee and the chair has no vote’, Arthur thumped his fist off of the table, ‘since no member is allowed to abstain from a vote a result has to be carried one way or the other, the chair forfeits his vote by accepting the position, you know that Steller’, Arthur pointed to Steller to make his point, Damon Turnley’s seat on the Council should be filled before this vote is taken again’. The other members mumbled and talked among themselves. Steller brought the chairman’s hammer down hard on the table, ‘Arthur, you know the recommendations required to gain a seat on this Council, that process could take months, even years, we need to disassociate ourselves from Damon Turnley as soon as possible, before this Council is regarded as a farce by the outside world’. Steller sat down and slammed the hammer down on the table again, ‘motion passed’, he shouted. Arthur walked around the table, ‘as an honorary member of this council, I Arthur Gale make a recommendation for the replacement of our former brother, Damon Turnley. Steller glanced around the room, this had taken him by surprise but he smiled at the suggestion, ‘who could you be possibly be recommending at this short notice Arthur?’ he asked. Arthur took in a deep breath, ‘I recommend Roger Turnley’, Arthur announced, quickly removing the smile from Steller’s face.
Roger stood up to leave the bar; his head was racing with so many thoughts that he couldn’t think straight. He needed to get back to his father’s house, his house now and find all his fathers research papers. He knew what he needed to do but he also knew that he would need to organise a team to complete this expedition. There were plenty of nuts out there that would gladly sign up for this mission but Roger already knew the team that he wanted to assemble, only the best of the best could manage such a unique and testing trip. How he would convince the people that he had in mind was a different matter but he had to try, he owed his father that much. He sat back on the bar stool and pulled out his little black book from his pocket. A book of contacts that he had built up over the years, he ordered another beer and started to flick through the pages. ‘I thought you would know my number off by heart’, a voice said from behind him.
‘Roger Turnley?’ Steller questioned, ‘does he even qualify for membership of the Council’. Arthur was up to argue again, ‘of course he qualifies and well you know it, Steller, I can’t think of a better candidate to replace Damon’. Arthur made his way to the door and turned to face Steller, he enjoyed watching Steller squirm at the thought of another Turnley sitting at the Council table. ‘All candidates have to present themselves here by noon tomorrow, Arthur’. ‘I know that and that’s why, I’m going to go and find him, goodnight to you gentlemen’, Arthur tipped his hat and was gone, leaving the Council members to argue among themselves. ‘Now where the hell are you Roger?’ Arthur muttered to himself as he left the building. Roger had just stayed at the funeral home long enough to say hello to Arthur. The burial was to begin at one o’clock the next day. Arthur needed to find Roger tonight, tomorrow would be too late, he needed to get Roger on to the Council or Steller and his cronies would drag Damon Turnley’s legacy through the muck. He went back towards the funeral home and started checking the bars in that area. An only son that had just lost his father would surely be passing the night away, looking into a bottle. Arthur’s instincts were correct and a couple of blocks away from the funeral home, Arthur entered an Irish bar and sitting at the counter he saw the familiar sandy blonde, shoulder length hair of Roger Turnley. Apart from the hair, Roger was the image of his father. Arthur entered the bar and stood behind Roger. He watched as Roger flicked through a small black telephone diary. ‘I thought you would know my number off by heart’, Arthur said. Roger turned to see his father’s friend; he was a bit plumper than Roger had remembered but otherwise the same old Arthur. He still looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. ‘How are you Arthur?’ Roger asked. ‘I’m fine Roger, listen I’m real sorry about your father’. Roger could see the genuine hurt in Arthur’s eyes; he had always been a great friend of his fathers’. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t hang around the funeral home to talk to you Arthur, you know that too many of those guys at the funeral were hypocrites and as for James Steller, did you see the interview that he gave?’ Roger took a swig from his bottle of beer. Arthur put his hands on Rogers shoulders, ‘I know son, but you know that your father and Steller never saw eye to eye’. Arthur called to the barman, ‘listen Roger let’s have a few drinks and talk about your father, and lets remember the way he would want us to’. Roger’s eyes began to well up, ‘let’s do that Arthur, what about the Council? Are the hypocrites going to have a guard of honour at the burial tomorrow?' Arthur studied Roger for a second, ‘that’s what I wanted to talk to you about son’.
High up in the mountains, Matt Brooks looked back to his team mates, he sat to catch his breath at the high altitude, ‘this is the last commercial job we are ever going to do, remind me of that, when we get back to base, will you’. The wind blew the freezing snow into his mouth as he spoke, his team- mates laughed out loud at his request; the only jobs that they had taken on in the past five years were for commercial companies. Ivan Kashenko, Greg Spence and Julie Shaw had climbed with Matt Brooks for just over six years now. The first time that they had all been on the same team was an exploration expedition but ever since, they had taken on contracts from the big phone companies of the world. The large phone corporations paid the climbers to report on the company’s antennae and equipment that they had situated high up on mountains all over the world. The team photographed and tagged everything with the time and date, if there were any problems, the team would have to escort a technician back up the mountain and bring him back down when his work was complete. Matt hated having technicians with him when he climbed; they usually didn’t know the first thing about climbing and were a danger to themselves and the team. This climb however was a mere formality, climb, photograph and tag. It was a lucrative business for the climbers, each phone company paid the climbers, even though, their equipment may only have been a few feet away from their competitors equipment. As they were making their descent down the mountain, the weather changed severely. It often happened at these heights, one minute it could be calm, the next a blizzard could blow in from all sides. All the climbers had years of experience and they all knew that they would have to make it back to base camp before nightfall, they would never survive a night on the mountain in these conditions. The snow blew hard and furious, the wind was picking up even more and the team realised the seriousness of their predicament, they now had little or no visibility at all. Their experience would prove instrumental in their survival; it was a climb like this one where they earned their money. All four team members were former world champions in one climbing discipline or another. Team leader Matt Brooks had been climbing since his early teens, he had also led a team to the North Pole, a serious undertaking. Ivan Kashenko was a former Russian Olympic climber and world champion, a capable navigator; he had also led a series of expeditions in South America. Julie Shaw was an accomplished climber; she was English and had been recommended to Brooks when he was putting his team together, she was also a qualified geologist. Greg Spence had been part of the expedition that Brooks had led to the North Pole, a qualified meteorologist, he had given up his weather station job when Brooks had asked him to join his team, but his qualifications were very useful to a team of climbers. It would take all their experience to reach the base camp safely. They descended the mountain blind; they were depending solely on Kashenko’s navigation skills to get them down. Even with their wealth of experience it was a very difficult descent but they would live to tell the tale. The climbers were relieved to finally reach the flat platform of their base camp. They just made it to the camp in time to see the night close in around them. Their tents were a comfortable temperature and they needed to be as the cold winds blew bitter cold, the warm cups of soup were much needed. It would be their last commercial climb that any of them would ever make; they just didn’t know that yet.

Memnoch

font too small didn't read sorry

Jack Sheehan

Oh man where's the formatting? Where are the paragraphs? Please edit that so it's readable.

hippychippy

I have it right on word but when I pasted it in here, that's how it ended up, apologies, I will try to rectify it

hedgeh0g

Memnoch wrote: »

font too small didn't read sorry

If you have a mouse with scroller and using Explorer 7 hold down the CTRL key and use the scroll bar on the mouse. That increase/decrease the the text size.