The Blackthorn Syndicate

Chapter 1 - Esmeralda

Was life truly worth living when one felt no more than a delicate porcelain doll? Cherished, yes, but imprisoned in the cold embrace of solitude?

I clutched the necklace around my neck tighter as I stared out of the window of the commercial aeroplane.

Perhaps 'imprisoned' is not the most fitting term. After all, I was sent away for my own safety. London, a city engulfed in the chaos of World War II, became a perilous labyrinth, especially given my father's esteemed position as second to Sir William George Coxen, the Lord Mayor of London.

I recall vividly the days before loneliness became my constant shadow. The innocence of childhood shattered by the cruel reality of war. None could have foreseen the rapid escalation of conflict, yet it unfolded before our very eyes. As the beating heart of the nation, London stood as a prime target for German bombings. Despite the looming threat, many defiantly clung to their homes, their lives entwined with the city's resilience.

Even at the tender age of nine, I bore the weight of patriotism instilled by my upbringing. Raised in the looming shadow of my father, Henry Callahan, I felt the weight of his expectations. Sacrifice for the greater good was woven into the fabric of our family ethos, and I embraced it fervently. Death held no sway in the face of honour—or so I believed.

Yet, reality proved harsher than the ideals I had been taught. By the age of 11, when the first bomb shattered London's tranquillity in 1940, my father made the agonising decision to send me away, far from the tempest of destruction, to Switzerland, accompanied only by my devoted caretaker.

As I boarded the train bound for Switzerland, leaving behind the bustling streets of London and the warmth of what little family I had, a profound sense of isolation enveloped me like a heavy fog. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels seemed to mirror the emptiness in my heart, each mile carrying me further from all I had ever known. Memories of my mother's funeral flooded back, the rain-soaked earth echoing the tears that now streamed down my face.

Then, at least, I had my father's hand to hold. Now, I was utterly alone.

My stay in Switzerland had been better than other refugees seeking asylum - courtesy of my father's influence. Missing my own family had often made me feel childish if not unthankful. At least I didn't have to live in internment camps where the cold would bite my skin or eat canned food. I was privileged to be hosted, with a sturdy roof above my head and the family's daughter for company.

The Johansson family resided in a quaint, well-kept house that exuded a sense of warmth and coziness, with its whitewashed walls adorned with vibrant flower boxes and a neatly trimmed hedge lining the front garden. Mr. and Mrs. Johansson were pillars of the community. Mr. Johansson, a respected banker, exuded a quiet confidence and often spent his evenings engrossed in the latest financial news, while Mrs. Johansson, a gracious hostess, delighted in tending to her garden and hosting gatherings for friends and neighbors.

Their eldest child, Erik, was exactly four years older than me and fiercely protective of his family. The first few days after my arrival he had simply stared at me as if I was a bomb ready to explode. Overtime, he had grown to empathize with me and while we didn't talk much, I had begun to look up to him. He dreamed of enlisting in the Swedish armed forces to defend his homeland against the encroaching threat of war, which I had found to be deeply brave since I had seen the destruction first hand. When a bad injury on his knee had made that impossible he had become a humanitarian worker, travelling the war torn countries and helping their residents.

His bravery was the thing that had made me fall in love with him, not that it would ever be reciprocated. He had never thought of me as anything more than a little sister, the same as Ingrid - his actual sister who was luckily close to my age.