Water

It was a rainy, cold night in New York. The cars were trailing lights along the busy streets. Mr. George’s heartbeat was thumping. His busy footsteps were loud, but nobody could notice it amongst the stream of people. His forehead was beading with both raindrops and sweat. He was in agony. He felt his body increasingly become warmer as the rush of the events raised his blood pressure. He was experiencing a shock to his system, but he did not know who to call, who to trust. The noise of the streets, the pulsating lights, and the circulating people all built him a sensation of vertigo. The only soothing element was the water – cool, gentle fall of the rain helping him breathe and place one step in front of the other.

Focusing on the refreshing element of water, he eventually reached home. He entered the polished lobby, took the elevator to the eleventh floor, and found his sanctuary, the place where he could finally rest after the shock of the previous events. It all happened so suddenly, he thought to himself. A few hours earlier, he was in the museum noting down information, inspiration, and points of interest into his black book. He collected this research to fuel his design process.

Mr. George was an architect, and his latest project involved the redesigning of a famous museum showcasing ancient historical artefacts. His little black book helped him think and helped him turn his creative visions into reality. He used it as a tool for channelling all information presented to him. He viewed the artefacts and written down everything relevant, irrelevant, obvious, and intuitive. He often did not even know why he noted down certain things. Reading the notes on different occasions and viewing the sketches sparked his imagination. It often helped him put the pieces together about the vision for the new architectural design. Little did he know that these notes could also become useful to someone else in unwrapping the mysteries about certain artefacts found in the museum.

Still thinking back to the events that caused him such shock, he recalled a group of people dressed up in suits entering the museum. At the time, he was studying one of the artefacts and jotted down notes. The men immediately spotted Mr. George, and despite trying to keep a low profile amongst the civilians inside the museum, they succeeded at raising suspicion in him. He did not know what to make of them but felt an urge not to wait and find out. Mr. George knew the importance of the project he was working on, and he was aware of the kind of people who would do anything to get their hands on the knowledge presented to him.

Having memorised the original blueprints offered by the museum exclusively to him, he could recall all the access points as any good architect would. He used one of the hidden doors that opened to a corridor leading him to a tunnel underneath the museum. He decided to follow this path as a sure way to avoid the men in suits. He kept thinking who the men might be – perhaps secret agents or members of a history occult. No, neither would make sense. Then he felt certainty in his next guest, a group of men here to extract knowledge about a long-lost historical find, perhaps hired by someone of wealth.

As his thoughts were searching for answers, he reached the end of the tunnel below the museum. The urgency of the situation and his need to escape safely made his thoughts scatter. “One final turn and, I have reached safety,” he whispered to himself. Just as he said that he turned and found himself face to face with a gorgeous woman. Their eyes locked and, he could feel the tension and tenacity in her ocean blue eyes. He was shocked and mesmerised all at once. She lifted one hand, grabbed Mr. George’s wrist, and took him into a hypnotic state.

The lady was the head of the operations and, she hired the men in the suits. She was the granddaughter of an Irish historian who claimed to have found proof of a long-lost civilisation. She, however, never was able to trace down her grandfather’s steps. She thought that Mr. George’s black book would hold clues to the ancient civilisation. She hoped to find encoded motifs, shapes, or hidden messages. All she needed was a fraction of knowledge to complete the key to her puzzle. She knew that Mr. George was not a historian, but he was an enlightened architect, a designer with imagination. She knew the power of coding and symbolism held in the ancient world, and this is how Mr. George’s unique way of thinking could propel her findings.

After hypnotising Mr. George, the lady took him to a room inside the tunnel. The room was a maintenance closet filled with wiring and the smell of metal. Soon the men in the suits arrived and acted as security while the lady was preparing to interrogate the architect. She did not need much time to get the answers she so wanted out of Mr. George. Since he was already in a hypnotic state, she just needed to play with the man’s imagination and ask the right questions. He helped her find a connection between an Egyptian artefact and one of the sketches from the black book. It resembled an intricate geometric shape, one which was the pattern of a key.

Mr. George had no more use left. The lady touched his wrist again to end the hypnotic state. The architect’s full awareness was back, like a light switch. He had almost no recollection of having been under hypnosis. He had little time to make sense of where he was because the men in the suits threw a black cloth over his head. Two men grabbed him on either side, stood him up from his interrogation chair, and started walking with him. There was no way to guess what was coming next. Maybe a bullet to his head or a kidnapping? But the Irish woman was not a murderer. She did not desire to kill him.

The men took him outside from the tunnel. The only way Mr. George knew this was from the sense of fresh air and the cold rain wetting the cloth over his head. By the sound of the footsteps, there were more than just two men walking along with him. They tossed him inside a car and stayed close by his side. Mr. George accepted his fate, knowing there was nothing he could do. He did not see anything, nobody could hear him, and frankly, he had no idea where they were going. The rhythm of his heartbeat echoed in his ears during the fifteen-minute silent drive. After which felt like an eternity, one of the men grabbed him by the shoulder, opened the car door, and pushed him to the curb.

Mr. George could hear the car take off immediately. He took the cloth off over his head and found himself on the edge of Central Park. A cold, dark place during a rainy evening. He was unsure whether the men kept their eyes on him or whether to dare to call a taxi. He did not want to get into another unfamiliar car. Despite his heart racing from the events, he decided to take the long route home and walk in the rain.

Having reached home, he poured himself fresh water and sat down in his armchair. He recalled the events and was finally able to process everything. He was still shaking, unable to believe that this was not a dream. “Who was that woman?” he asked himself. That’s when Mr. George remembered to check his pocket for the black book. He reached inside his breast pocket, where he found his favourite Moleskine pen and a chunky envelope. Surprised, the architect carefully opened the envelope and discovered $20,000. He concluded it must have been an incentive to keep quiet and perhaps a compensation for the events. Nevertheless, it was clear that the black book was gone.