Douglas's Mouth - A new Extended version

As I am doing my course I will be occasionally revisiting old stories and updating them renewing them, but I will always try to give a little extra. So here is a new version of Douglas's Mouth written from a 3rd person narrator point of view rather than a 1st person narrator point of view. Would really appreciate your comments. Do you like it? Which point of view do you prefer? 

For audio click here 

Version 2

16^th March 1974

Simon Wetherby looked at the photo of Douglas and sighed. It was such a pretty mouth, the way the top lip curved like and archer’s bow above a plump lower lip made Simon want to kiss it. It was a mouth to die for, but Simon wasn’t ready to die yet. Simon had been bewitched by that mouth both for its aesthetic and intellectual properties since he’d first seen it. It had filled his fantasies and his realities.

Douglas didn’t say much but when he did talk, you listened and not just because of that beautiful mouth. Simon loved the beautiful sincerity of the words that quietly tripped off Douglas’s tongue.  His hushed serious tones sent shivers down Simon’s spine. He’d met people who were cleverer than Douglas and those who were more eloquent, but somehow Douglas managed to put Simon’s thoughts into words, saying what Simon was thinking with far more sophistication than Simon could ever muster. That mouth had teased him, pleased him and stimulated him; physically, spiritually and intellectually. The way he spoke about inequality, about greed, about intolerance and hate had awoken something in Simon that he’d only vaguely been aware of before then.

But now the mouth that had given Simon so much pleasure terrified him. It had gone from being an object of desire to being a harbinger of doom, a curse, a cradle of fear. Douglas didn’t say much, but when he did talk, people listened and the problem for Simon was  who exactly his listening to Douglas right now.

The phone rang, Simon snatched it off the cradle.

‘Islington 7228055’

‘The dog has the cat. Wildcat.’

The line went dead and a so did a small part of Simon.

17^th March 1974

Simon had barely slept a wink. Operation Wildcat was in action so this time tomorrow Simon could be anywhere. Every time a car door slammed outside the house, Simon pulled the covers up over his head; he was sure that was it, this was MI5 coming to get him. If a floorboard creaked, Simon jumped, convinced it was the footfall of the policeman detailed to arrest him. He was being paranoid, just silly fears, Douglas would never betray him; their bond was deeper than that. After all, it was Douglas who had recruited him, indoctrinated him, opened his eyes to the truth.

Simon wanted to bring communism to Britain, but now he was resigned to the fact that that dream was over, for now at least. Oh well if the mountain won’t come to Muhammed…

The rules of Operation Wildcat was to get yourself as quickly and as quietly to Berlin where a handler would help to smuggle you into East Germany. From there it was plain sailing to Moscow or Leningrad.  Simon was excited about the thought of going to Old Mother Russia, of seeing for himself how socialism brought equality and happiness. He’d always known the British press distorted the facts, now he would be able to prove it.  

Simon spent the day packing and repacking, he could only take one suitcase, everything he owned pared down to the essential items, one luxury item and, of course, his bible. It was all very Desert Island Discs.  The books, the knick-knacks, the memories that lived in this flat would all have to stay here. Simon paced, Simon bit his fingernails, Simon looked out of the window until eventually the taxi arrived and it was time to go.

Victoria station was absolutely ghastly at midnight on St. Patrick’s Day.  It was awash with drunks and louts.

‘A single to the Hook of Holland please,’ Simon yelled at the man behind the counter.

‘What?’ the man in the turban yelled back.

Simon yelled even louder and a bit slower hoping the foreign fellow would understand him.

The coach rocked Simon gently to sleep, but his dreams were invaded by visions of Douglas’s mouth; sometimes beautiful, sometimes contorted, sometimes lips sealed, sometimes allowing secrets to gush like waterfalls. What would they do to dear old Douglas? Would they give him immunity in return for information like they had tried with dear old Philby or would they lock him up and throw away the key?

Simon smiled, he’d soon be having a drink with dear old Philby in Moscow. (TBC)