Chapter 1

There is always a time before, and a time after; a time when an idea doesn’t exist, and a time when, suddenly, it does. And it had been sudden in his case. The facts had been there, of course, for a long time, mostly out in the open for all to see. Suddenly it seemed almost commonplace, something that had, at that particular time, attracted such media attention that it seemed common. It had happened in Russia, and Austria, in America and now in England. Yet it was something of such enormity that everyone would comment, everyone express their horror that such things could happen, and in a civilised society too. Our society, for make no mistake most of human society is international nowadays, certainly western society. You might have said, a hundred years ago, that society was different in other countries. You might have, but it would probably not have been true even then, but the result of national pride, or just plain xenophobia. And you’d have been wrong anyway. This kind of thing had always existed, in all societies, and probably before anyone knew what civilisation was. Or cared.

The house wasn’t anything spectacular, it was large, it was rather dark, and styled in the watered down Gothic architecture that was prevalent at beginning of the twentieth century, when the Victorian era had lost its way. There were a number of other similar houses situated on the western side of town in an area that overlooked the water meadows beside the river. Built by the wealthier business and professional men these houses would have originally had a maid or possibly two, and certainly a cook. Surrounded by a large garden they would undoubtedly have had a gardener too.

The town was a sleepy backwater, situated on one bank of a fairly large river at a point where it was originally fordable, although an ancient bridge had spanned the river for half a millennium, a plaque on it informing anyone who damaged it that they would be liable to transportation for life, not that there was anywhere to transport people today. Almost the only other reason for the town’s existence was sheep, but they were long since gone. Stealing a sheep would have been worse than damaging the bridge, the penalty for that would have been hanging. The town was barely known outside its immediate environs, although it had some remarkable architecture. The town fathers in more recent times had turned down the application for a major local company, that had been situated on a nearby wartime airfield, to set up their new head quarters there on the grounds that this would had driven wages up and in consequence their own costs, since they were also the town’s employers. The company had found its new accommodation in a another nearby town, and this one had returned to its slumbers. Likewise chain stores and later supermarkets were resisted. But eventually, with the old breed dying out, change had come, but the town was only at best, an outlying dormitory for a larger conurbation. So the town slept, along with many of its inhabitants.

At some time in the middle of the second world war this house, and others near it, had been requisitioned by the War Department. For a short while the town came alive as a major strategic centre for the D Day invasion. As soon as that had taken place the town lapsed into its seemingly eternal lethargy. Meanwhile, the houses, having been requisitioned, remained the property on the War Department. It wasn’t until 1947 that they got around to the disposal of some of these properties, at which time there were few takers. The Crichel Down affair was a few years in the future, so the houses were not returned, or even offered back, to their original owners.

Jack thought, although he wasn’t sure, that his grandfather had purchased the house from the War Department. He had never known any other house, indeed he couldn’t remember his grandfather, but he had lived in the house with his mother all his life. He was a solitary boy, and although he knew most of the other boys in the town, he had no friends, close or otherwise. His mother either discouraged his friendships, or other boys mothers did, he wasn’t sure which when he was younger, but as he matured he realised that his mother was something of an outcast. He knew that when he was young there were ‘uncles’ coming and going, but at a certain age these became fewer and fewer until they ceased altogether, his mother becoming a virtual recluse. She had, he realised when he was older, been the town whore, shunned by all except those who would pay for her company, and as she grew older and became less attractive there were few who would bother, gradually becoming fewer, until there were none.

Quite where the money to run the house came from Jack didn’t know, and in fact never knew. What he did know was that when his mother died she left precious little.

When he left school Jack had gone to work as a labourer for a local builder, and although not apprenticed he gradually acquired most of the skills required to become a builder himself. When the Old Man, as his boss was known, died, and his son, who imagined himself a wealthy playboy, took over, it didn’t take long to run the business into the ground and bankruptcy. Jack was left without a job. His skills, however, stood him in good stead, and in addition he was a good worker, so he soon had a number of people who would give him work on a regular basis.

Although he was a well built, and passably good looking man, Jack had little to do with women, having had no friends as a boy, he had never socialised and acquired social skills. He felt uncomfortable around women, and since many of the girls at school had laughed at him when he was younger, he avoided women as far as possible. And that was one foundation of the idea, only Jack didn’t know it yet.

Jack would probably have done quite well at school if he had fitted in, and if anyone had taken the trouble to help and encourage him. As a quiet boy who never entered into any conversation, or activity without being coerced, teachers found it was better to just leave him alone, and get on with the more responsive members of their class. Left quietly to his own devices Jack read. Avidly. He consumed books at a prodigious rate, few works of fiction, Jack had little time for those, other than some detective and spy stories, but practical books, telling you how to do things. Jack’s mother was one of the earliest of television owners, and the workings fascinated the boy. He had already mastered the workings of radio, and television was not dissimilar. Because of this interest Jack became an early computer owner. By the time computers were becoming more common Jack had mastered them, knew their innermost secrets, and knew how to make them work.

And then came the internet. The knowledge that was available out there on the world wide web was phenomenal. Jack absorbed it in ever increasing quantities. No one knew of Jack’s abilities with computers. To start with he was ahead of his time, and by the time Jack’s abilities would have been useful to the growing number of computer owners, the time had come for his idea. Jack had, inevitably found sex on the internet. It wasn’t the biggest preoccupation that he had, but he didn’t get any beyond that which he provided for himself, and he felt perhaps he should. Some of what Jack found on the internet was fiction. Fictional writing, stories. Not the kind of sanitised stuff that you find in books that you can buy or borrow from the library. No, raw fiction, written by people who had ideas, not polished and well presented, but raw unpolished ideas. And one of these was the raw material for the idea. It just required one final thing, the one item that would bring the idea fully formed into Jack’s mind. That final item came on the TV news. It told him that the idea was beyond fiction, others had gone before. But he would be better.

There was, of course, a catalyst. A catalyst is something that makes other things work, without being affected itself. Jack knew that it was all too easy to make something or provide a service, but if no one bought that service, then the product was of little use, and many products were time constrained, if not used then they would go off, and the product that Jack was to create would surely do that.

The final news item was of Joseph Fritzl and his imprisonment and breeding of his daughter.

The catalyst was a story from the internet, raw and unpolished as it was, concerning one man’s baby factory, and how he could sell his product, babies, to childless couples, and the venue for his depraved activities, was an old military bunker. And Jack had exactly that.

And the time was right too, suddenly it all came together, the idea now existed.

As was very common at the time, the house was built with a stable and coach house at the far end of the garden, but at some time just after the Great War a large garage capable of housing two cars was constructed at the back of the house. Between it and the house was a large covered area with a glazed roof in the form of a pyramid. The stable and coach house had been left in place and that, together with a large number of specimen trees made the garden very secluded.

When the area taken over by the military to prepare for the invasion of Europe, because of its seclusion the garden of Jack’s house was selected to have a command bunker built in it. This was excavated beneath the garden to the rear of the garage with its access formed in the store at the back of the garage. Obviously at the time of its construction a few people knew of its existence, but after the military left its existence became a forgotten secret. Jack himself had discovered its existence when there was a problem with the house drains several years before, and although he knew of the existence of a large inspection cover in the store it had not occurred to him that it was anything other than what it appeared to be, an access to the drains. Naturally he was surprised when he lifted the cover and discovered a steep set of steps, not unlike a ships companionway, leading downwards.