Before 24 Billion and Counting

Chapter 19 Part 1 One down, and four to go.

"Hello. Oh Mabel, I wasn't expecting you. Is everything alright?"

"Yes Mr Berisford. It's just this man, a journalist he said, wanted to speak to you urgently. This is his number. 02132 6145 512156. His name's Joe Hannigan. I said you'd call him, if you had time. Did I do right?"

"You did Mabel, but why were you there? I thought I said go on holiday for a week."

"Yes, you did, but I couldn't remember if I turned the burglar alarm on."

"Oh, and had you?"

"Yes," she laughed, "I'll forget my head next."

"Well thank you for being so conscientious, and for the message from Joe. Ok Mabel, get home now. Goodbye."

I dialled the 15 digit number, and then realised I had to remove the leading zero and put 44 in its place, and did it all over again. The UK had become such a concentration of humanity crushed into a tiny island. I remembered Chris's number from 1994 - written on his manuscript - 0282 28105 - 9 digits only. How many more would we need in 2145 

to give each of the 24 billion their unique number.

The little screen showed Joe Hannigan.

"Hi Charles. Thanks for getting back, but why make it so difficult? Your mobile seems to be disconnected, and your home number, well Mabel's a nice old lady but she ain't zipping with efficiency.."

"Steady Joe, she got all the numbers of your phone right, so don't get too sniffy."

"Sorry."

I heard a sigh and saw him rub his eyes.

"Look, Charles it's Alicia."

"Well, what?"

"I don't know how to wrap it up so I won't - she's dead."

"How, why, she was as fit as a fiddle and strong. Well she was blind but coping brilliantly. 

Didn't get run over or some such?"

"No. Do you want the police report or my feelings? You'll wait a couple of weeks for the first."

"Give me the Channel 8 opinion, and the story. I was very fond of that lady. She and my father worked together, and she was my niece no - no - Chris Williamson's niece."

Was I melding into another personality - Chris Williamson's?

"Well I arranged an appointment with her as we agreed , and went to visit her this afternoon. I couldn't raise her on the room buzzer, nor on her telephone. It struck me as puzzling as you gave me the impression she was a meticulous lady likely to treat an appointment like this seriously."

"Yes, she would. Go on."

"Anyway I did the reporter's old trick. Ran up the steps just as someone came out, and puffed out 'I'm late for Alicia England' and of course he politely didn't shut the door and even said it was flat four, top of stairs. We all do it, flat dwellers - in London - in converted houses. We're all too polite to shut the door in someone's face providing they don't look to eccentric or evil."

He sighed again.

"It's only human," I said, "but that only got you into the building - not into her flat."

"Yeah, that's why I spent the next three hours with the police. The door wasn't latched so I just walked in."

"But even if someone went in and killed her it would have shut on the night latch."

"Don't you start. The police was enough."

"Sorry. What did you find?"

"The blood. Not from Alicia but a Siamese cat. Head bashed in."