Prescott’s Report

My name’s Clive Prescott, and I apologise in advance if this breaks off abruptly for any reason; one thing that I do know to be inevitable is that they will get to me sooner or later, probably sooner, and then I will go the same way as all the others.

I’m publishing these web pages because of what’s happened to me over the last twenty months, and because some of the people I came very close to finding never got an epitaph at all, so I’m writing mine now.

What follows is the full results of a private investigation I was part of, and if you just want to read that skip ahead now, because the rest of this page is all about me.

I had what is called a ‘privileged upbringing’; my father was a barrister at Lincolns Inn, he’s now a high court judge. I went to a good-ish public school and then to a Cambridge college, where I read English Literature, wasted my time, and got an upper second by doing without sleep for my final term. I didn’t win a Blue or anything, though I hear they give them out for ping-pong these days, or is it tiddlywinks?

After that I joined a national daily newspaper, which led to nearly a decade and a half selling my pen to any paper too dumb to refuse it. My spell on The Sun was about the worst four months of my life, and the reason that I accepted Pendleton’s offer when it came.

Pendleton remembered me from school for some reason – I did remember him, but not fondly, but I set down here that he got me out of the very depths of the doldrums with the Abraxus job, and was very good to me for nearly five years – right up to the point at which he sacked me for ‘unprofessional conduct’ that I don’t think any national paper would have coughed at, and even than he was very kind about it, but you will draw your own conclusions, I hope, about Pendleton.

Abraxus Eye.