This short tale is set in the Thunderbirds universe and was the result of a creative writing exercise to "Take a character from a film, TV show or novel and tell a variation on their story".
It examines the relationship between patriarch Jeff Tracey and his five sons.
Jeff Tracey - Family Ties
Jeff was relaxing in his green-striped recliner alongside the kidney-shaped swimming pool, open novel overturned in his lap, when Virgil emerged from the house and approached him, descending the winding stone stairway. Hearing the advancing footsteps, Jeff opened his eyes and blinked away the glare of the sunlight.
“Virgil,” he said, greeting his third son, “I thought I heard your plane arrive.”
“Father,” Virgil acknowledged, “Yes, Gordon’s inside talking to Kyrano.”
Adjusting the recliner to a sitting position, Jeff watched his son settle in the adjacent wicker chair.
“How was Penny?”
“Lady Penelope was great, father. She made us both feel at home.”
Virgil faltered, and Jeff regarded him curiously.
“Something on your mind, son?”
“Yes, father,” said Virgil, clearly considering his words, “and it’s been there a few days – although I didn’t know exactly what was bothering me. It was only when Lady Penelope took us to meet her neighbours in the lodge I realised.”
“Go on.”
“It was their lifestyle. Comfortable. The simple domesticity, I guess. A couple happy with their work, their kids, their life in general.”
“And?”
“It came to me. Here we are – five brothers living alone with their father…”
“Hardly alone, Virgil. There’s Grandma, Kyrano, Tin-Tin. And don’t forget Brains.”
“Yes, yes. I know, father. But we seem happy to carry on without… companionship. Even Alan. He’s barely out of his teens, but he seems to be going the same way as the rest of us. I thought he was attracted to Tin-Tin, but even that…”
“You want to take him on another trip to Thailand?”
“No! It’s not that, father. Really, it’s not.” He stared into the sky, gathering his thoughts before squarely meeting Jeff’s gaze. With deliberation he continued, intent on making his point.
“It’s not a sex thing. It’s a family thing. Doesn’t it seem a little odd that we haven’t shown the slightest inkling to start a family of our own?”
“We have responsibilities, son. International Rescue is important. Surely you realise that?”
“I know father…”
“And who else but family could I trust with the Thunderbirds?”
“That’s just it, father. Family. You had mother…”
“Not for over twenty years, Virgil.”
“Yes, but she was there. And she gave you five sons. The way things are going, we’re not going to get the same opportunity you had.”
Jeff reached out to the patio table by his recliner, took a glass and the covered jug and poured himself some iced water. He gestured towards another upended glass on the tray but Virgil shook his head. He took a long drink and regarded his son.
“I hear what you’re saying, boy. And it’s understandable. Are you saying you’re unhappy here?”
“No…”
“Because if you’re unhappy and you want to leave, I won’t stand in your way. I won’t stand in the way of any of you. But first consider this. How many families have you saved – directly or indirectly – by the work you’ve done in Thunderbird Two? How many children have fathers that they would have lost had it not been for your actions?
“International Rescue isn’t there for corporations. It’s there for people. For saving people. For saving families. It may be a sacrifice for you and your brothers, but who else is there to make that sacrifice? And I’ve made a sacrifice too. Whilst I love your mother, wouldn’t it been easier to have someone else share in your upbringing when she was no longer there? I’m not saying your Grandma wasn’t invaluable, particularly when I was out earning, but I never visualised a life without – companionship, as you call it.”
Virgil remained silent for a while. Jeff could see that his son was processing the information, realising that if any of his sons would start to question their lives it would most likely be Virgil. He was the sensitive one, the musician, the one who seemed most at ease when visiting Creighton-Ward Manor and socialising with Lady Penelope’s set. Scott and John seemed happy with their technical prowess. Gordon’s sense-of-humour and preoccupation with swimming and all things nautical gave him direction in off-duty hours. Alan – well, Alan was still developing; potentially a bit of a loose-cannon, but the prospect of family was not on his radar. The question was, had he forestalled Virgil’s concerns?
Virgil stood, looking down at his father. “You’ve given me something to think about, I guess. But I don’t know how long it can continue this way.” He turned to go.
“That’s all I can ask, son,” said Jeff. “If you’re going back indoors, would you ask Kyrano to come see me? Thanks.”
He watched his son climb the steps back towards the balcony and the house. He thought he could see Gordon. Minutes later, Kyrano emerged and made his way down to the patio and across to Jeff’s side.
“Kyrano,” Jeff said, “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“Yes Meester Tracey,” said Kyrano, with an involuntary bob of his head.
“it’s just that I think Virgil and Gordon may have spent too long in England. Virgil seems to be distracted.” He took another sip of water. “We may need to increase their dose of androbenetocin to make sure that their minds are at rest; so that they concentrate on the job. Just for a while though. Until their levels are consistent with those of the other boys.”
A selection of original tales. Perceived similarities to real people/events are coincidental/unintentional. All writings © Steven Green
Showing posts with label Television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Television. Show all posts
Thursday, 8 June 2017
Sunday, 11 May 2014
A Message from Moriarty
I wonder continually about Sherlock. He takes it for granted he can bank on me – which he can, of course – but once some new mystery is on his mind, he barges in like a rogue elephant, no thought of anyone else.
Take this morning, for example. There I am in my underpants and vest, in the middle of getting dressed, and I look up to see him there. I’m getting the impression he doesn’t believe in door bells.
“Ah, John,” he says, “I’ve been going through the condolence cards from my funeral.”
I pull on my trousers and make an attempt to quip, “It must be interesting to see what people don’t think about you.”
He looks up from something in his hand and, amazingly, for once my words seem to have penetrated his single-mindedness. But not for long.
“Going for the jugular, eh? Well, get over it.” He waves a small card in the air. “There’s a cryptic message from Jim Moriarty.”
My mouth must have dropped open, for he looks at me with one of those patronising stares. “Yes, I know he shot himself, but he was a man to think ahead. Here. Read this.”
Taking the card from his outstretched hand I read aloud. It is unsigned.
“Around, over the width of a circle, Hitler’s bodyguards are separated
from a unit of resistance”, the Danish prince would say logically.
“How does that prove it’s from Moriarty?” I say, and attempting to decrypt it, continue, “Width of a Circle – that’s from the Bowie album The Man Who Sold The World. Is that anything to do with it?”
Sherlock puffs out his lips in despair, then starts to explain.
“Take each bit in turn. ‘Width of a Circle’, that’s the diameter. ‘Around’ – that’s the circumference. Divide one by the other, and you get?”
“Pi.”
“And Hitler’s bodyguards?”
“The S.S.”
“The unit of electrical resistance?”
“Ohm.”
“So that’s ‘O’. And Hamlet is the Danish prince. Who is famous for the quote ‘To be…’”
“’…or not to be’. Yes, I know. Get to the point.”
“The card says ‘logically’. So if we write the quotation as an expression using Hex numbers –
2B OR NOT 2B – and minimise this using some Boolean logic, what do we get?”
“Enlighten me.”
“We get ‘FF’.”
“So?”
“Put them all together, and that’s why I know it’s from Jim Moriarty – PI. SS. O. FF.”
Take this morning, for example. There I am in my underpants and vest, in the middle of getting dressed, and I look up to see him there. I’m getting the impression he doesn’t believe in door bells.
“Ah, John,” he says, “I’ve been going through the condolence cards from my funeral.”
I pull on my trousers and make an attempt to quip, “It must be interesting to see what people don’t think about you.”
He looks up from something in his hand and, amazingly, for once my words seem to have penetrated his single-mindedness. But not for long.
“Going for the jugular, eh? Well, get over it.” He waves a small card in the air. “There’s a cryptic message from Jim Moriarty.”
My mouth must have dropped open, for he looks at me with one of those patronising stares. “Yes, I know he shot himself, but he was a man to think ahead. Here. Read this.”
Taking the card from his outstretched hand I read aloud. It is unsigned.
“Around, over the width of a circle, Hitler’s bodyguards are separated
from a unit of resistance”, the Danish prince would say logically.
“How does that prove it’s from Moriarty?” I say, and attempting to decrypt it, continue, “Width of a Circle – that’s from the Bowie album The Man Who Sold The World. Is that anything to do with it?”
Sherlock puffs out his lips in despair, then starts to explain.
“Take each bit in turn. ‘Width of a Circle’, that’s the diameter. ‘Around’ – that’s the circumference. Divide one by the other, and you get?”
“Pi.”
“And Hitler’s bodyguards?”
“The S.S.”
“The unit of electrical resistance?”
“Ohm.”
“So that’s ‘O’. And Hamlet is the Danish prince. Who is famous for the quote ‘To be…’”
“’…or not to be’. Yes, I know. Get to the point.”
“The card says ‘logically’. So if we write the quotation as an expression using Hex numbers –
2B OR NOT 2B – and minimise this using some Boolean logic, what do we get?”
“Enlighten me.”
“We get ‘FF’.”
“So?”
“Put them all together, and that’s why I know it’s from Jim Moriarty – PI. SS. O. FF.”
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