The Conspiracy

Private Thomas Markham of the 5th Regiment of Foot is stationed in Accrington, Lancashire. He has been for 120 years but after the "incident" he has not aged a day. Ghosts of the past have come back to haunt him...

The witching hour. What an appropriate name for the specific time of night. Nothing could stir at this time so peace at last. The Prime Minister of Great Britain began to slowly fall to sleep at last. This was his favourite time of the day.

RING RING. RING RING.

"Of course, terrorists do not rest at night!" he blurted out after the sudden awakening.

RING RING. RING RING.

"One time I will unplug this phone!" His frustration was rising.

RING RING. RING RING.

"Just one time!" The ringing, he knew, would never stop.

RING RING. RING RING.

He angrily lifted the phone from its hook. He muttered a curse under his breath.

"Parkinson." he answered routinely.

"Mr Parkinson. At last! This is Private Markham," a man with a proud Northern accent introduced himself, "I do hope I have ruined your evening."

"Evening?! It is the middle of the night! You do realise that this phone call will be monitored and you will be tracked." said Parkinson cooly although he felt fearful.

"I expect nothing less. I just need an answer to a question I am going to ask you."

Parkinson remained silent.

"Why is your government trying to kill their greatest ally? Why are you trying to kill me, Mr Parkinson?" asked Private Markham darkly.

The humming of the phone continued until...

"We are under orders. They have returned."

The End

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