10th December 1855, Thursday, Belfast Our ship arrived finally at its destination. The weather was good, almost too good, no wind and so the steaming machines were working most of the time, sending a vibration through the hull, low vibrations that you could rather feel in your bones, than hear. I had some sleepless nights, but I’m glade, that we are on schedule and it looks like, I could arrive in London sooner as expected. By now, I’m sitting in the train station of this small village, whose name I couldn’t bear in mind, and waiting for my train. Looking at an Asian couple, the thought, that the world has gotten smaller, settled in my mind and I suddenly miss my stay in India, especially a girl I met there. But time goes by and so does love. I know, I’m depressed and so I’ll quit writing for today. It’s night and the train rushes through the county. I can’t see anything expect the reflection of my face in the window. From time to time the dark shadow of a tree passes by, like a messenger of death. Every time, I think of London and the bureau, it’s like a cold claw grabs my heart and presses every little air out of my body. Why? I don’t know... 24th December, 1855, Sunday, Bucharest What a holy day. It makes me warm to see families strolling in the streets, laughing and just living into the day. I myself, I sit there on the bench, listening to a group singing carols. I feel like a stranger here, with my long black coat and the cylinder hat, so typical for an Englishman. I really have to get some proper clothes, or... No, I don’t even want to think about it. Since sitting in the bureau in London, I was on this journey, travelling through old Europe, never staying at one place for longer than it took, to find the next transportation. I feel like, I haven’t slept for ages, my fingers tremble, but I fight it down. I’ll rest and listen to these wonderful carols, watch this little safe and sound world of these little children passing by. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, screaming and sweating. The dreams always fade before, leaving cold fear in my stomach and a sour taste in my mouth. Then I lay there looking at the ceiling, not seeing it, but instead seeing the explosion, seeing the flash of white and heat, that took away my love, took away my life. At midnight the carriage should arrive. Now it’s time to end this entry and to prepare. The last stage of my journey begins and I don’t want to be unprepared. 28th December, 1855, Wednesday, somewhere in the county We continued our journey at dawn. The roads are wet from the rain of the last days and the deep and dark clouds aren’t promising better weather. I can feel every single muscle in my body, the wet cold of the night crept even through the two layers of thick leather and not even a cup of steaming viscous liquid, that the inhabitants call coffee, could warm me up. Every singe nerve in my body wants to command the carriage to turn back, turn back, where we came from. I’ve had this idea for such a long time, but I simply can’t. I HAVE to continue my journey, and even so times runs through my finger, like sand, unstoppable. The carriage started to roll again. It’s almost impossible to write, or sleep, but I’ll try and surely fail. But who cares, nobody will ever read this little book and so, some smears won’t do any harm. Every day passing by, I get the feeling, that this’ll be a ride without return. The idea of death, waiting for me at the end of my journey, scares me, but it has lost its essence. I know my duty and my destination. I won’t falter, I can’t falter. The sun is setting and the air becomes colder and colder, but no snow has fallen from the skies to cover this dead land with a white sheet. My eyes caught the bony skeleton of a tree, standing in the middle of a field and I only could avert my eyes from it, after it passed out of sight. Sitting on the hard leather covered seat, starring out of the window, I had the urge to tear open the door and let myself fall. It would have certainly saved me some pain, being crushed by the big wheels of the carriage. But I won’t, I’m too solicitous, not for my life, but for the life of the innocent. 31st, December 1985, Monday, Castle Mitgard The last day in this year and the last in my life. What an omen. I am finally at my destination. Everything is prepared; there is only a last thing to do. My end is near, but I don’t want this book to be lost forever. Call it ambition or something else, I don’t care anymore. My colts are ready, my heart is steeled and there’ll be no more mercy, like there was no mercy for her. Surprisingly, I put on my black coat and my hat from England, which I hadn’t worn since Bucharest. But why should I hind? It’ll be over in an hour, or less and HE should know, who pulled the trigger. There is no more fear left, no pain and no happiness. I only hope that before my death I’ll be able to crush him. But enough, I must go. I’ll give this little book, which had been a good friend on this long journey, to the driver of the carriage, he should bring you back, back to Bucharest and from there back to London. THEY should know that I fulfilled my duty...