User:Llewelynpritchard/blog

Reference

Richard Ap Meurig steadily hauled back on the joystick of his favourite Cherokee light aircraft as it climbed steeply out of the mountains around Soler on the rugged north-west coast of Majorca. When Gary Shepherd his good friend had phoned him, serious doubts had come to mind. But the temptation of adventure became too great as soon as Gary told him that $100,000 was on the table if he accepted the assignment.

As Richard settled back into the pilot's seat, he was thinking about what Gary had told him over the telephone. As auto-pilot took over he thought he'd maybe bitten off more than he could chew but so what he thought, there was nothing new in that. He pulled out the brief memorandum from Justin Harcourt, British Secretary of State for Dominion Affairs, from the map pocket on the left leg of his flying suit. He didn't know how the memo had come into Gary's hands but he had known Gary for so long that he had no reason whatsoever to doubt its authenticity. It was written in the Minister’s own hand to the Newfoundland Governor himself dated and signed by Harcourt. Richard knew they’d probably never thrown away a single piece of paper during the Commission of Government days from 1934 - 1949. Its calculated ambiguity wasn't lost on Richard.

It said, “Wrigglesworth corrupt group proceed with caution."

On the face of it seemed like plain common sense, but Richard knew it was a stern warning to anybody thinking about delving into the affairs of the Wrigglesworth group in Wild Bay from 1934 to 1949. It meant, "Keep out Ap Meurig or else! He took out a "Majorcan Times" from his weathered green rucksack and settled back for a comfortable read and a ride. 15 minutes later air traffic control at Palma directed him on to approach runway 16A and Richard was soon taxiing towards his parking bay at the end of the hangars. His mechanic took over and Richard headed off to climb into one of the apparently endless line of yellow and black taxis heading out on the fast coastal road to his hotel.

Just as they were about to turn off at the penultimate roundabout there was a harsh screech of tyres, a loud bang and Richard was thrown forward against his seat belt. The next thing he knew his passenger door was yanked open and a rifle butt smashed into the side of his face shattering teeth, breaking his nose and splintering his left cheek. With blood pouring from his face he was hauled out face down in the dirt with a heavy boot on the back of his head.

He lay absolutely still for a few seconds whilst his senses cleared until he felt the faintest relaxation in the pressure on the back of his head. Then he pushed off with both his powerful arms, jack- knifed his legs and kicked his assailant at the base of his spine. Caught off guard the thick-set, black-haired, olive-skinned sailor gasped in pain. Momentarily losing his balance, he was unable to prevent Richard from springing to his feet with the taste of blood in his mouth. He kicked him incredibly hard in the groin splitting one of his testicles. As he bent over with the sickest feeling in his stomach and a searing pain between his legs he was helpless. Richard grabbed him by the hair on his head and crashed his face into his rising knee. The ruffian’s nose, lips and eyebrows exploded with blood. He was blind. Then bending his knees and using the combined power of his legs and his whole body Richard hit him with an almighty double uppercut.

He was unconscious before he even hit the floor.

The Guillard articulated lorry had rammed into the left-hand drive Mercedes taxi killing the driver outright and throwing Richard against the passenger door. Although Richard had expertly dealt with the first thug, out of the back had leapt another four hooded, armed men who had pinned his arms behind his back whilst one of them proceeded to punch him until he blacked out.

He came round from the anaesthetic in an overcrowded hospital ward with a bizarre group of individuals around him. As he gingerly moved round after facial surgery he saw one man gazing vacantly into space with his eyes wide open. Another was bandaged heavily with left leg and right-arm in slings suspended by separate wires from the ceiling. Another woman was walking round and round in circles in her dressing-gown muttering something to herself. Richard thought he was in a lunatic asylum. After been so badly beaten up his abductors had left him here on the edge of town. He was a prisoner!

Standing outside the doors at each end of his ward were armed guards. Richard had no idea where he was or why he'd been taken there. All he could think about was how to get out of the place. Meanwhile in Lisbon, Harold James Johnston Wrigglesworth the son of Sir James Wrigglesworth was playing his compatriots in crime at poker when the door burst open and in came Harold Lessonfield with the news of Richard’s capture.

“Good,” said Wrigglesworth, “that should at least teach the interfering blighter a thing or two.” The game continued all afternoon until 1800 hours when the party had drinks, caviar and smoked salmon brought to them by one of the Chateau’s butlers. The French - inspired building was built as a property investment by the Wrigglesworth family but eventually it had become their winter home against the cold, wet English climate.

Justice had never been done in Wild Bay Labrador in the years after the horrific axe death of James John, the eldest son of John Owen Jeffrey the Labrador Development Woods Company owner whose grand-daughter Emily Jeffrey had also died at the scene. The Department of Natural Resources and the Dominions Office, London had over–ruled the wishes of the Department of Justice at the time. They had seen to it that the Newfoundland Rangers and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police did not investigate the crimes...

• Port Hope Simpson Right to the Top, historical fiction based on true story about one year as a v.s.o. volunteer in Port Hope Simpson, Labrador, Newfoundland, Canada 1969-70 and coming back out to The Town's Coming Home Celebrations in July 2002;