Frederick

Story of a rather weird man.

This story tells of a man called Fred, who seemed to have no idea of whether he was a villain. What happens when authorities approach him?

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Frederick. That’s the name he likes to call himself: Frederick. He even uses that name for his black-and-white cat, Marmite. That was the name his parents chose for her. He doesn’t like it. Oh, he doesn’t tell anyone that he uses the name Frederick. For himself and that cat. He keeps reminding himself that his name is Frederick: Fred-er-ick Norman Pickering. Most people call this 45-year-old, slightly balding man Fred. He doesn’t like that, but he has to put up with it. It's what people do!

Ah, Frederick is a far, far fancier name. But, if he's addressing someone else he won't use the name he likes to call himself. Probably sounds too posh. And there have been some important Fredericks, of course: a Holy Roman Emperor, a Prince of Wales, a Denmark king, Frederick Delius. And “Frederick” does mean “peaceful ruler”. Fancy thinking about names! Oh, he's rather a complicated man.

He's a rather nervous man, too. And he can't say why. His brain seems to be doing strange things. It does that now and again. Then stops. “Why?” he asks himself. “Why, oh why, Frederick?”

Today - a Sunday, when he’s not at the government office in which he works - he bumps into a young, woman called Nancy. He recognises her. She works where he works. She’s very attractive. In fact, she’s rather gorgeous. Slim with black hair, wearing a nice pair of jeans. She smiles at him. Can he avoid looking so shy? Oh, dear, he is a rather shy man, is, er, Fred. Yet something is clattering around in his mind. But he puts it on one side. He has disturbing thoughts now and then.

They've both found themselves in the Tesco supermarket, where he’s picking up this and that for his mum and dad, whose house is round the corner from where he lives. He recognises her. Is there something he wants to do? His brain's nagging him. Hopes he's dressed OK: neat jeans, a teeshirt, plimsolls. It's quite a warm day, although it is autumn, with the nights arriving a little more quickly than they were a few weeks ago. But it is quite warm - and he feels a little warmer now he's spotted this young woman.

They’ve seen each other in the office, but haven’t spoken till today. She hasn’t been with this government department - what they call “The Company” - for long, just a few days, really, whereas he’s been there for twenty-four years. Since he was twenty-one. Long, long time. Much of his work is rather, well, secret. He's not supposed to talk about it. So he won't be mentioning his duties to Nancy when he begins to talk to her; and she, likewise, would not be allowed to talk to him about her work.

Nancy! Yes, he likes that name. Frederick and Nancy? Hmm, come to think of it: the names Frederick and Nancy don’t seem to fit nicely together. But, of course, he says “Frederick” only to himself. For himself, that is, and for Marmite. What if he referred to himself as Norman? That is, of course, his second given name. No. He’ll have to stick with Fred. Fred and Nancy. Nancy and Fred.

Anyway, today is the day when Fred and Nancy meet - in that supermarket. And he's feeling disturbed. His heart is at a pace.

“Hello,” he says, in a rather shy-sounding voice. “You work with me, don’t you? In the office. Big office, isn’t it?” He knows her name is Nancy.

“Yes,” she says. “I’ve seen you around. Wondered what your name was for a while. Then someone said you were called Fred. I’m Nancy. I suspect you know that. Pleased to meet you.”

They toddle along an aisle, looking at vegetables; then stroll along another aisle, looking at food in cans and jars and packets.

“I thought we might have a drink together,” says Nancy. “Sorry - I’m a bit forward in asking, but I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

That evening they meet up in the Stag and Pheasant pub. It’s Fred’s suggestion. It’s quite close to where he lives. Where does she live? he wonders.

“I sometimes call it the Hag and Peasant,” says Fred, still sounding a little shy. “I come in here a fair bit. I sit in this corner. I’ve got a cat. I call her, er, Marmite. Mum and Dad gave her that name and, and -"

Nancy interrupts.

“Fred, I think we ought to go back to your flat - sit on the mat in the flat and have a chat.” She giggles. “There you go. Playing with words.” He liked that.

He wanted to refer to Marmite as Frederick. He could play with words, too. “Frederick, who's fed - fed fancy food.” Oh, stop playing with words, he tells himself. Silently. She does it far better.

They knock back their drinks - a glass of lemonade for Nancy, a pint of bitter for Fred - and leave the pub lounge, walking, arm in arm now, into the cooler air.

They are but ten minutes from Fred’s flat, and will soon be there. A good chat on the way. He tells her he's seen her at the office. Regrets the fact that he hasn't already introduced himself to her. Oh, yes, he says: he's like that. “I'm a bit lacking in courtesy,” he admits.

“Oh, don't be like that,” Nancy replies. “We're all very different, you know.”

Soon they are at Fred's flat.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“OK,” says Nancy.

He quickly puts together two instant coffees.

“Sugar?” he shouts from the kitchen.

“No,” she says. “Just a drop of milk.”

They sit in some silence, drinking their coffee.

“I'll need to nip to the loo,” he says. “That pint of beer.”

He's soon back.

“Shall we go to the bedroom?” asks Fred, having generated some courage - courage to suggest they might, er, go to bed.

“Not just yet,” says Nancy, tenderly. “Let’s drink the rest of this coffee - and a chat on the mat.” Words again! Then she says, “But oh, OK, then,” in an I've-changed-my-mind tone. “The bedroom. Lead the way.”

Has her attitude changed? She does suddenly seem a little different. Or is it something that's happened - in Fred? In his mind? In his brain?

But, as he walks to his rather tiny but tidy bedroom, and they lie down on the bed, his eyes close. She seems to be looking at him as they do so. But he's soon gone, dropped into a snooze.

That name Frederick comes to him in a dream. When he wakes up, makes a face, looks apologetically at Nancy, she frowns. She's sitting on the chair by the wardrobe. Looks as if she's been sitting there for some time. He glances at the bedside clock. He's been gone for at least half an hour. “Frederick?” she says. She seems to be stuffing a mobile phone into her pocket. “You don't usually use the name Frederick. But that's what you want to call yourself.”

Fred looks embarrassed. How does she know? And why does she now seem displeased?

“How do you . . . I mean, was I . . . Was I talking in my sleep?”

“Yes, you were,” she says. “And I've found out so much about you. Your cat Marmite is also Frederick. You and a cat. And I've found out that you like certain . . . stuff. Stuff most of us would condemn. And I now know you, you . . .” She can't continue. “I've got to go; I've got to go! I heard you say things. Things!”

“But whatever did I say?” he seems to plead, but she's making for the bedroom door. She's gone. He hears the other door go bang. Yes, Nancy is gone. Why? Why? Has he said something in that sudden sleep? What has he given away? Is she going to report him? If so, to whom? The cops? Yes, I did have what she calls “certain stuff”, but it's only been a bit of hash - stuff you smoke when you're a bit younger. Or are there other things?

Anyway, Fred heads off after her. He dashes out of the flats-block main door and sees her in the middle distance, following her as quickly as he can. He still feels rather dizzy. What was in that drink they've had? Or that he has had? Or his coffee? He did nip out of the room for a pee. Could she have put something into his coffee?

“Nancy!” he shouts. “Nancy!”

But then something grotesque happens in his brain. This has been going on for some time. And wasn't there something strange about Nancy's face? When he woke from his weird sleep?

Suddenly, he's caught up with her. Why has she stopped? Was she expecting him to follow her? This feels rather weird. What's happening to his brain?

Two figures stand behind her. Both male. Both stand in a certain way. Cops, I'll bet, he thinks. He turns, as quickly as he can, but there are a pair here, too. One is female. Cops again, no doubt, but are, of course, in plain clothes. They've closed in on him. Been called here by Nancy, presumably. He recalls seeing her put her phone into her pocket. What's happening?

“You need to go to a particular . . . place,” says Nancy. “We've found you. Strange things have been happening. Aren't you aware of them?”

“I don't know about anything,” says Fred.

“Hmm, and I can see why,” she says. “Come with us, Frederick, if you prefer that name.”

And both pairs of cops close in on him, gradually, as if they're being very careful, wondering whether he may suddenly go mad.

Yes, there has been that thing going on in his brain earlier, hasn't there?

Nancy stands to one side to allow one of the four officers to handcuff him. Another of them searches him. Finds nothing.

“You see, Frederick,” she says, “I had to get out of your flat in a hurry - just in case you did something strange. I'd heard what you were saying after I'd put you to sleep with that stuff I dropped into your coffee. Glad you needed to go for a pee - but I'd have found some way of feeding it to you. You see, Fred, we have been suspicious of you.”

The officers are leading him now to a police van, and opening the back doors.

“By the way, Fred,” she says, “my name's not Nancy, but you can call me that. I think we'll need to question you. Once I've done that, I'll just disappear. Oh, by the way, your employer cooperated with us. It is a government department, after all. I had to tell her what we needed to do, told her that you were a dangerous man, someone we suspected.”

“But suspected of what?” Fred pleads.

“We'll come to that. She was very cooperative, your boss, Fred.” She looks at one of the officers and orders, “Shut him in now.”

Inside the van, Fred can't see where they're going. No windows. And there are no lights inside. He's in total darkness. It seems like hours before this vehicle slows, is turning into somewhere and stopping, its engine being turned off and then the sound of what must be garage doors being closed. The van doors now open, light pours in, momentarily blinding him.

“Out, Frederick, if you please,” she says, firmly but gently. “We'll need to have a talk. We'll have to leave those cuffs on you for a while.”

They were soon in a rather ordinary-looking room: a large desk, a chair on either side. Oh, and a recorder at one end. Two of the men who helped to bring Fred here stand against the door, one at each side. Looks just like something on TV, doesn't it? he finds himself thinking.

“Sit down, Fred,” says the woman who calls herself Nancy. “That chair there.” She sat. And he suddenly noticed there was a camera on the wall behind her, looking at him. “Don't worry, Fred. We're going to give you something else. Little needle into your arm. Tiny prick. Won't hurt.”

No point in objecting. He knows they'll do what they wish.

She looks at one of her colleagues - a man who looks as if he ought to have a trio of stripes. Yes, he thinks, bet he's a sergeant, but, of course, he's one of the officers from this place. Whatever this place is.

The man pulls a small plastic bag from a pocket, taking a syringe from it. He pushes Fred's sleeve up to the top of his right arm, and plunges the needle into his flesh. No pain. He's had many of these, after all. It's coming back to him now. Yes, a friend - someone who calls himself a friend - would call him once a week. Arrive at his flat? His “apartment”? Look into his eyes. Cause him - somehow - to feel cooperative. This, too, seems to be making him feel cooperative. Oh, yes, he's been a, er, a . . . a spy? He's a spy?

She's looking at him. Gazing into his eyes. Is there a slight smile in her eyes? Yes, she's expecting something to have happened to him as a result of this latest injection. Any moment now he's going to give it all away. Into his mind will come the identity of the man who calls himself a friend, the one who calls on him once a week. They'll then know where he's from - which country uses him to gain information from the UK.

So, oddly enough, Fred now wants this lot to hold onto him, give him protection, in case that visitor's country gets to him and - well, executes him, with a possibly grotesque and painful mode of murder.

Oh dear! What has he been put into? How has he become a spy? He presumably made that decision rather a long time ago, but then had his mind played with.

She's still looking into his eyes. Expecting him to tell her which country is using him. She's signalling again to her colleague. The one who seems as though he should wear three stripes. Give him another shot, she seems to be saying. He realises that this stuff will either kill him or make him remember the country that's been using him, and give away his secrets. If only he were capable of suddenly disposing of himself - with a gun, a knife, his own choice of injection. But he's cuffed. He can't do anything.

And now, once again, his brain seems to be moving, wriggling, finding words and ideas coming alive within it. It's something he can't help.

And, of course, into his brain has come the name of . . . that country. He's about to say a word he'll regret: its name. He's about to tell her. He can't help it. He opens his mouth and takes a breath.

THE END