On February 29th 2002, the famed English explorer and gentleman adventurer, Sir Norville Twiston-Shout VC. DFC. MFI and Bar, was reported missing while on a fly-fishing expedition to the notorious upper reaches of the River Lumbum.

Three years later, to the day, Inspector Philippe Singe de Nez of the Paris Gendarmerie discovered a man fitting Sir Norville’s general description in a dank and dismal cellar during a midnight raid on Madame Fifi’s House of Recreational Correction in the Rue de la Lapin Effréné. The man was chained to the cellar wall by his testicles and wearing only a pair of shop-soiled lederhosen, a latex mask and a pair of Marks and Spencer’s ‘comfy-knit’ thermal socks.

The man was taken immediately by ambulance to the Asylum de Giscard D’Estang where despite the solicitous care of several of France’s top psychoanalysts he would spend days on end rocking quietly in his bed while clutching the charred remains of battered leather diary. During the three years he spent at the asylum before his death two weeks ago he spoke only once when, having grabbed a member of nursing staff warmly by the left breast he announced:

“85 for 4 at tea? Damn fellah bowled me a fine old googly and no mistake!�

Those were his final words he uttered before the nurse, surprised by his sudden show of amorous dexterity, battered him repeated about the head with a steel bedpan. He died, three days later of cranial injuries suffered during the nurse’s attack.

Following his death, doctor’s managed to remove the charred leather diary he still clutched pathetically in his cold dead hand – they were unfortunately rather less successful in removing his penis from the rictus clutches of his other hand and were forced to amputate in order to assure the poor man of a good Christian burial.

What they found in its charred and semen-patinaed pages suggested that Sir Norville, if it were indeed he, had been the unwitting victim of terrible global conspiracy; a man undone by his search for the truth.

Medical staff at the Asylum immediately placed the diary in the safekeeping of the Paris Gendarme where it has lain, in the deepest, dustiest recesses of their most secure archive vault for the last three weeks.

The contents of this diary have never been revealed to the world… until now.

This is a true story…

…like the Da Vinci Code.

February 29 – Devon.

Met a queer-looking man on the moors, today. Shifty looking fellow, eyes too close together you know.

Damn fool of a man interrupted me while I was tying one of world-renowned Roehampton Ribticklers. I tell you trout just can’t resist a well-trussed Ribtickler.

Decided he must be one of those foreign Johnnies – no true Englishman would ever interrupt a man in the middle of sorting out his flies.

Anyway, the man sat down next to me, on a large rock, and introduced himself as ‘Jack-Jack’… or was it ‘Jacques-Jacques’? Y’know I couldn’t properly what with his ruddy foreign accent.

Anyway, next thing you know he’s telling me has a message for me from a ‘friend’ and mumbled something about ‘beware’ the bloody ‘Ides of March’. Couldn’t make head nor tail of a bally thing he was on about but I thought, ‘Well, he is foreign, I suppose. Best just humour him and maybe he’ll go away and bother someone else’.

Suddenly he leapt to his feet, slapped his hand to his forehead and cried out, ‘Merde!’.

‘Need to watch where you’re treading, old boy’, I said to him. ‘Bloody sheep get everywhere in these parts’.

‘I am so sorry, Sir Norville’, he gasped, ‘I have given you the wrong message.’

‘You are to go to Madame Fifi’s in the Rue de la Lapin Effréné in three days,’ he continued. ‘There, my master will contact you. He knows what you have been looking for and his information of much value to you in your quest’.

And with that, the funny little man shot off across the moors in the general direction of a quaint little country pub called ‘The Goat and Pentacle’ that I’d noticed on my way up here.

‘Information, eh? Quest? Mmm… Sounds rather like an adventure in the offing’, I said to myself. ‘Paris it is then!’

March 2nd – Calais.

Set foot on French soil at last.

Journey was easy enough. Caught the Coast Train to Dover and from there on to the high seas of the English Channel.

Had the Devil’s own time with French customs, mind. Nasty, uppity little man seemed to object to my bringing Bessie along with me. I mean I ask you, what gentleman adventurer would go anywhere away from dear old Blighty without his trusty Elephant gun by his side.

Had to phone old Squiffy at the FO in end. Damn fine chap. His pater served in with the regiment in India, y’know.

Soon got it sorted for me, sent some chap over with diplomatic papers from the consulate.

Found lodgings for the night just outside the town. Some new-fangled place called a ‘Travel Lodge’ – funniest looking lodge I ever saw, all concrete and brick and not a trace of a log or a native porter to be seen anywhere.

Had difficulty sleeping that night – kept being woken by the sound of creaking leather… all very odd, if you ask me.

March 3rd – Paris.

Found my way to Madame Fifi’s by early evening. Seems a nice enough woman, if a touch underdressed for my tastes.

Still, she can’t be all bad. Had no end of dog collars and chains laying around the place. Good sign all around. Can always trust a woman who keeps dogs, good robust country-types the lot of ‘em. Must ask her what breed when she comes down for dinner.

Early evening –

Sat in the parlour sipping a small sherry – medicinal of course – when two young gals wander into the room, chattering away in French.

Must be Madame Fifi’s daughters. Same dress sense.

Just about to strike up a bit of conversation with them when who should walk in but that Jack-Jack fellow from the moors.

‘Sir Norville’, he said. ‘I see you arrived safely. My master will see you now… Up the stairs to the landing, second door to your left’.

So I got up a strode upstairs to see this mysterious master of his. Still not a bally clue why he wanted to see me.

I walked purposefully along the landing to the second door… walked straight into the room… and gave my shin a hell of a whack on the porcelain.

Never did get the hang of left and right. Try again.

This time I got the right door and found myself entering a dimly lit drawing room.

Next to the roaring fire, in a solid-looking leather armchair, sat a shadowy figure casually stroking what looked for all the world like a white Persian cat.

Only when I sat down in the chair opposite him did I notice that it wasn’t a cat at all, but one of those artificial fur thingamajigs that are always being given away by those Gypsy fellows that work the travelling shows.

Damn. What the hell are they called..?

Ah. Yes. Gonks.

This strange shadowy fellow was sat there in the chair, lovingly stroking his gonk.

I put that to back of my mind.

Presently he addressed me in, speaking with what sounded to my practiced ear like a Slavic accent… ‘Another bloody foreigner’, I thought to myself.

‘Sir Norville. So glad you could join me. Drink?’

‘Thank you’ - Well, it wouldn’t be the done thing to refuse.

‘Sir Norville’, he went on. ‘My time here is brief and I have pressing matters to attend to. You will perhaps forgive me if I forego the usual pleasantries and get straight to the point’.

‘Of course’, I replied. ‘But first I must ask. To whom am I speaking?’

‘My name? It is of no consequence. Only the information I must impart matters’.

‘Go on…’

‘You are, of course, Sir Norville Twiston-Shout, the famed gentleman adventurer’.

‘Yes. What of it?’

‘And you have long been embarked on a quest for knowledge… secret knowledge… this much I know’.

Suddenly I understood. The Quest. The adventure that would be the pinnacle of my career – he knew of it!

And more to the point, he believed that he had information that would take me closer to my goal, to an understanding of the great and terrible conspiracy I had been seeking to uncover for the last thirty years of my life.

‘Please sir, do go on. I understand you have information for me’.

‘Sir Norville. Tsk. Such impatience in a gentleman – But them who would not be impatient at the thought of uncovering the greatest of all conspiracies yet unknown to man.’

‘Sir. I apparent you have much to tell. Pray give me you message’.

‘Sir Norville. What I must tell you is of the utmost important. You must say nothing of our conversation this evening as were it known it could cost us both our very lives.’

‘Of course. I will say nothing’. What is it with these foreigners? Always bloody grandstanding before they get to the point.

‘Sir Norville. What I must tell you is…’

‘Yes…

‘Is…

‘Yes…’

‘Is…’

‘Look would you bloody well just get on with it!’

‘Everything you need to know to uncover this great conspiracy, is already know to you’.

Jesus Christ! After all that it just another bloody nutter!

‘Wait, Sir Norville. I see from your reaction that you do not understand. Patience, sir. You must allow me to elucidate further’.

Oh well, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.

‘You have, Sir Norville, been tracking various conspiracies around the globe for the past twenty years have you not.’

‘Yes, what of it?’

‘And you are now renowned as the foremost expert in this field?’

‘Yes. Of course’.

‘And yet not once have you ever noted the connection between them all. All these conspiracies you have uncovered over the years and yet never once have you the pattern in them, the single unique factor which draws them all together into a single, terrible whole.’

‘Sir Norville’, he continued. ‘Do you recall by any chance your investigations into The Project?’

As it happens, I did. Vividly. Had to do with documents found in a villa near Lugano which suggested some Arab chappies were planning to take over the world. Still, I thought, best play dumb for the moment and see where this is going.

‘And what of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion?’

‘Ah, yes. I do recall that investigation’, I said, unable to help myself. ‘Secret Jewish brotherhood and all that, wasn’t it?’

‘It was, Sir Norville – but do you recall where this document first saw the light of day?’

‘Mmm… by repute I believe it was first read publicly at a Jewish Congress held in Zurich in, ah… 1897 wasn’t it?’

‘Indeed it was. But do you see the connection?’

‘Errrr. No?’

‘Think, Sir Norville. Think. You are so close to the answers you seek if only you will see the connection… Tell me Sir Norville, what do you know of the Bilderberg Group?’

‘Politicians and industrialist, as I recall. Meet every year and are supposed to being the one’s that really run the whole show…’

‘And where did you first track this group down?’

‘Why… ah… Zurich 1995, wasn’t it?’

‘It was, Sir Norville. Now do you see?’

‘See what? Oh… Oh my, it’s been staring me in the face all along?’

The Project… The Elders of Zion… Bilderberg… All connected? Yes. And all this time the connection has been there if only I could look.

And what else? The Knights Templar?

But of course! Their symbol are to be found everywhere on flags and in coats of arms the length and breadth of the place.

Dammit, I thought, Lenin lived there in exile. Einstein studied there. Worked there. Dreamed up his Theory of Relativity there – my god they even gave us E=mc²!

How can I have been so blind? All the wealth they’ve accumulated over the years, all the secrets they keep and all the power that gives them… and all this time I’ve missed it even though it was right in front of me.

By know I was visibly trembling with the shock of this sudden revelation. Could it be? It must be?

I had to ask.

‘Sir?’ - my voice a low whisper - ‘Do you suggest what I think you are suggesting?’

‘I do, Sir Norville.’

‘You mean to say…’

‘I do…’

‘You really mean…’

‘Yes…’

I took a deep breath before my next utterance, hardly daring to speak aloud.

‘Fucking Hell! The SWISS???’

He said nothing but inclined his head slightly and gave an almost imperceptible nod of assent.

Suddenly it all fell in to place. It was all there.

The Project? - Switzerland.

The Protocols of the Elders of Zion? – Switzerland.

Bilderberg? The Knights Templar, with their symbols littering the flags of numerous cantons? – Switzerland, again.

Einstein? Lenin? All connected with Switzerland.

The Pope has the Swiss Guard. Prince Charles even holiday there with his sons…

No, surely not. Not our own Royal Family? It can’t be!

Why did I not notice? Come on, man. Think! Dash it all, it’s a completely landlocked country surrounded by the highest mountains in Europe… and they have a Navy?

Should that not have given it away.

I felt the panic rising within me.

Thirty years of painstaking research, investigation, and it all comes down to this?

Everything we’ve feared for so long – the terrible power of the atom, Communism, Globalisation, the Illuminati, the Catholic Church, The Royal Family (freemasons the lot of ‘em!) globalisation, multi-national corporations with their aggressive tax avoidance strategies… hell, even Bin Laden and his suicide bombers.

All this was a front? A fake? A fraud?

All this, my life’s work for thirty years was a deception contrived to deflect attention away from the real threat, the true unadulterated evil that lay behind it all.

Go to bed on night a free citizen of the world. Wake up the next morning and everything’s changed. They made their move and taken over and now it mandatory lederhosen for all, chocolate for breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea, a precision watch on every wrist and a cuckoo clock in every dining room.

Goodbye freedom. Goodbye sweet liberty.

I could scarcely believe it but yes… It all made sense… I couldn’t be true but it had to be… Oh the horror of it all!

I confess that at this point I could take no more. The realisation of the enormity of that which has been revealed to me this very night was too much even for my sound English constitution to take.

Quickly, I made my apologies to the mysterious gentleman who have given me so much this evening, and repaired to my room on the upper floor.

He gave a wry, sad smile as I departed the room. He knew. He knew for certain that I knew. That we shared the most terrible secret known to any man alive.

Entering the room, my heart pounding in my throat, I turned the closed the door and turned the key, crossed to small antique bureau that stood opposite the bed, sat down before it and did what any Englishman would do when faced with such a terrible revelation…

…I phoned down to Madame Fifi’s office and asked her to send me up a pot of tea.

Then I sat down to chronicle my evening is the very diary…

March 4th – Paris, Madame Fifi’s

It is late and I have lost track of time as I write down my singular experiences of this evening.

Only now, as I finish my journal entry for this evening have I succeeded in collecting my thoughts. Only now does calm descend upon my troubled mind.

As I pick up my cup and survey it’s contents, tea long chilled by breeze of an open window, I speculate idly on the possibility of prevailing on Madame Fifi’s good graces for a fresh pot.

Somehow I get the feeling that sleep is as evasive to her as it is, this night, to myself.

It is, perhaps, fortunate that this night finds me unable to settle safe in the arms of Morpheus, god of sleep and brother to death, for I have noticed this last half hour that the same leathery creaking that so troubled my rest in Calais has returned to visit me.

Strange it is that such an odd sound should follow me from the coast, yet there it is seemingly outside my very door.

Creak… Creak… Creak. Squeak… Creak.

What?

What is that I hear? Is that a key turning slowly, oh so slowly in the lock?

No, It cannot be. How could they know?

I turn to face the door. Hear the sudden click as the key turned its last and watch with mounting horror as it inches open.

And then the sound. Oh God help me, save me from this horror, sinner though I am.

The sound… The sound…
…
…
…
… tick… tick… tick…
…
…
…
Cuck… –oo..!

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Posted with profound apologies to HP Lovecraft, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allan Poe, next to whom I am but a humble amateur with an iffy sense of humour