James Duncan's Blog
June 30, 2014
'Serendipity' Sample Chapters
CHAPTER ONE.
Edward Noble stared through the bay window at his enormous, perfectly manicured lawn, and nodded approvingly. There wasn’t an identifiable weed in the rose border and the privet hedge was trimmed to perfection.
Perfection.
Edward stared at his creation – and the perfection that surged from it was comparable to the magic mirror that oozed back pure flattery to Snow White’s stepmother. Edward’s garden was the fairest of them all (well the fairest of them all, in his income bracket, anyway).
The key to the perfection of all of Edward’s creations was his philosophy of human existence. His decision to hire the services of local landscape gardener, Mathew Ridgeway, had been, naturally, an impeccable one. Mathew was not the cheapest landscape gardener in Leatherhead. On no – he was the best. Edward believed that everyone had the abilities that they were eminently tailored to – designed for even – their station in life.
If a man had no higher calling than to sweep the nation’s streets and roads, then he had better pick up a broom and be quick about it. And if he wasn’t whistling a merry tune whilst he was doing it, then Edward Noble wanted to know why. He detested idlemongers, wastrels, cadgers, layabouts, malingerers, and socialists.
‘Work, work, work, and more work.’ was his motto.
‘If you have your health, but you don’t have your wealth – then you have less than
nothing,’ was not something that Edward had actually ever voiced out loud. This did not, however, prevent him from believing implicitly in this maxim.
Time, being the finite, teasing, capricious, and fickle little minx that it is, made Edward an impatient, pernickety, pompous, solemn perfectionist – perpetually pitched against a deadline. He was the joyless soul that is permanently in mortal danger of being devoured by Time.
‘Time waits for no man,’ they say.
‘I kick time up the arse,’ said Edward Noble.
His business was finance – the high end of finance. He was a player in the big league of Independent Financial Advisor-dom. His £2 million pile in the leafiest cul-de-sac in Leatherhead, stood as testament to that. Edward Noble Independent Financial Advisors Ltd was ranked as the 80th largest in the UK IFA industry. His elite clients – some already wealthy – some just comfortable – and some taking a big chance with their life savings – were nearly all considerably wealthier thanks to him. They were also, of course, duly grateful. Edward accepted the thanks and the praise showered upon him with dignified caution. Of course he was up there with the best. Of course those who sought his advice had prospered. He had a Higher Calling. He had spent his life meticulously cramming his brain with the complexities of Life Assurance, Savings Plans, Annuities, Financial Tax Planning and Structuring, Shares, Securities, Investments, and the like. He had forged enviable contacts and his towering knowledge of world-wide stock markets went above and beyond the call of duty. His wife had long ago accepted that she must not infringe too much on his time, as the lion’s share of it was allocated to researching and analysing financial information.
His success at second-guessing markets was stunning, but Edward had no crystal ball. A few of his clients had lost big, but not for some considerable time. Edward had an extensive network of contacts whose word he trusted, and his multiple methods of checking the validity of anyone requiring investment, meant that his clients were taking a considered gamble. However, this element of gambling explained why Edward had put very little of his own money on the line. Up until now, he had preferred ‘safe’ investments, and as such, his money was tied up in various PEPs, ISAs, and building society accounts. He had seldom invested in companies or products that he had rightly advised clients were ‘virtually a licence to print money’.
Edward was a control freak. If he didn’t have total control over his environment, he came out in a cold sweat. So therefore, a healthy £500 commission from a lump-sum investment of £10,000 was better than investing £10,000 himself and losing the lot. Edward told his wife exactly what she must do at all times, as he had superior intelligence to her. This meant that she enjoyed a far better quality of life than she would have done had she relied upon her own dull senses.
He had told her what to do recently – the result of which would make him very rich. The fringe benefit for his wife was that the allowance he paid her could be increased accordingly. This of course was based upon the understanding that she didn’t squander it on wasteful extravagances.
Edward was rich (he was worth several million when you took his business and assets into account) but not nearly so rich as he should be. So he had taken certain steps.
Golden steps leading to the dizzying heights that the fabulously wealthy occupy.
So Edward had broken his golden rule and gambled a great deal of money in a venture that just could not fail. A stockbroker ‘friend’ – whose judgement had never let him down and who was worth over £400 million – had given the project his seal of approval as well as money. In financial circles his word was considered to be the word of God. As if that wasn’t enough, Edward had also taken precautions against the vagaries than can beset these kind of high-yield dead certs.
And although he had just returned from Houston, Texas – where he had been handing out large cheques and banker’s drafts on his clientele’s behalf, the cheque for $1, 654,043.90 (or £1 million sterling, at the moment of transaction) torn from his own cheque book, was actually borrowed money. Being eminently aware of the scams and rip offs that abound in such ventures, Edward had secured the ‘gentleman’s agreement’ 0% interest loan from a long-standing client, for whom he had helped to make millions over the years. And just so that he couldn’t be tapped for that in the event of a balls-up, Edward had signed his business, assets and money over to his wife.
Officially, he was currently a pauper, who didn’t even own the clothes that he stood in – right now, he was breathing in oxygen that had been bought and paid for by his wife. He – officially an intruder – was polluting this fine crib with his every out-breath of carbon dioxide. In reality, he was the puppet-master and his wife was the puppet – dancing whichever way he pulled the strings.
She was a simpleton – an ‘O.K’ and ‘Hello’ obsessed airhead. He disliked her in a mild, vague sort of way; but she looked good and could cook, so she was useful at business functions and when he invited clients to dinner. They never had time to make love and neither one of them broached the subject, and so that was no problem. Above all, she could be trusted.
Edward yawned and stepped over to the solid oak raised bar area. He poured himself a generous measure of scotch. He added ice and water and drank it with one swift gulp. He would go upstairs, have a shower and get changed for the golf club. He’d probably play a game against Roger Willis, a smug super-rich bastard, who pretended not to care about his elevated status, but gave himself away with every gesture and movement. Although he smiled a lot, his eyes were narrow and mockingly malicious. ‘You are so, so wrong about so, so many things and on so, so, so many levels,’ Edward could read almost telepathically as it emanated from this man’s aura. When Edward was telling him about some great business deal he had just brokered, Roger would put his head on one side, holding it almost pityingly, and give a wicked little chuckle, or say something pithy like: ‘Macdonald’s are always recruiting, Edward!’
Edward agreed in principle with the Hindu Caste system, but people like Roger made it imperative to fulfil one’s destiny and rise to the very top. Although like Edward, his roots were firmly working class, Roger enunciated every elongated vowel and every consonant with a visceral whine, and hobnobbed with the landed gentry. He only associated with schmoozer slime like Edward in order to gloat – his crowning glory being the moment that Edward had asked if he could attend a bash that Roger was throwing in honour of a duke.
‘Oh no!’ Roger had exclaimed. ‘These people are very particular about who they socialise with. They would never forgive me! Perhaps you can go to the Harvester with my servants at Christmas. You will all be whooping it up on me – my shout!’
What a bitch. Tonight – on the course and in the bar – Edward would also have a smug smile on his lips. In mere weeks he would be at least twice as rich as bastard Willis.
Edward climbed the stairs. Matt Ridgeway’s pick-up truck was parked in the driveway. He was probably getting to grips with something mucky. Yes – as befitted his station in life – Matt was probably diving deep into something filthy this very minute.
It was only a faint noise that grew louder as Edward ascended. When he stood on the landing it was positively obscenely loud. An antiphonal exchange – first, a drawn out female moan of ecstasy – followed by a shorter, more urgent, male yell. It continued as Edward stood listening, growing faster and more urgent all the while, accompanied by the unmistakable frenetic creaking of bedsprings which are receiving a vigorous pummelling.
Then a frantic conversation.
‘Why did your husband hire me?’
Edward understood this question to have been posed by Matt Ridgeway.
‘Because you’re the best! Ooh yes – you are the best!’
Edward heard his wife reply.
‘What was that?’ Matt’s voice interrogated.
‘’Cause you’re the best! The best! The best!’ Edward’s wife confirmed, trying to leave no room for doubt.
‘I’m not the cheapest!’ Matt countered.
‘Oh no – you’re the best!’
‘Am I giving your husband value for money?’
‘Ooh, yes – he’ll be most terribly pleased! You are the best gardener there is!’
Explosively orgasmic screams from the pair of them took over from this interesting evaluation of Matt’s horticultural expertise, as they possibly made the point better than mere words.
As Edward stood, frozen in the moment, horrible realisations swarmed into his numbed brain, clanging like a bell of doom every time they hit home.
Clang! ‘I wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.’
Clang! ‘They’ve probably been at it for ages.’
Clang! ‘I was too busy to make love to my wife.’
Clang! ‘I didn’t think she was bright another to have an affair. Innocent and faithful!’
Clang! Wrong!
‘Thought she’d lost interest in sex!’
Clang! ‘Only with me!’
Clang! ‘Matt Ridgeway is a handsome man!’
Edward had opened the bedroom door in time to see Ridgeway’s muscular, well-formed backside being fondled and caressed by his wife’s hands; it was rising and falling so rapidly that it positively blurred in front of Edward’s bemused eyes. And the bed screeched as Matt pounded Edward’s wife against it, and she screeched, as she was pounded against the bed, with an intensity that broke down the barrier between pleasure and pain. And just when you thought it possibly couldn’t – the intensity – intensified. The bed springs and the mattress’ spring supports squeaked in a manner indicative of a group of gang banging gerbils whose collective climax was reaching fever pitch. Their human counterparts’ climax was equally alarming and they continued to yelp as their bodies gradually slowed until they were still.
Edward stared at them. He coughed involuntarily. His wife looked up and then she sat bolt upright, snatching the duvet up to conceal her maddeningly pert breasts with their cussed erect nipples.
‘Edward! You’re not supposed to be back until tomorrow morning!’
‘Evidently not.’
She was shocked. Matt slowly turned around, revealing a taut, muscular, testosterone-drenched body; one that Edward’s flabby, plumpish form could not possibly compete with.
Matt gave Edward a laddish grin as he relaxed up against the woven leather headboard, his big, sinewy arms creating a cradle for his head.
‘’Ello, Ed!’ he said. ‘Nice of you to call. But would you mind knocking next time?’
Clang!!!
‘I’ve signed everything over to the wife!’ Edward’s mind screamed at him.
CHAPTER TWO.
Edward felt as though he had just been castrated, and that it was he who was suffering the post-coital malaise that Ridgeway should now be afflicted with. That primitive emotion that his wife had failed to invoke within him for years – an unprecedented surge of jealousy – gave rise to the awful, hollow, infinite hurt of the one just spurned by his mate. This cruel, collapsing, multiple stabbing feeling that is a common outcome of somebody else’s sexual organs being introduced to your relationship.
But the sexual betrayal was dwarfed by a concern far closer to Edward’s heart. So if she wanted the gardener, then let her have him. It hurt, but there you go. She could move in with him, out of sight and out of mind, and all that. But Edward detected a far worse betrayal in Matt’s smug, relaxed greeting. After all, the lover doesn’t usually react in such a callous manner to the cuckolded husband walking in on him, when he’s shagging the arse off of his wife. One expects at least a shallow show of remorse, even if it is merely to try and prevent the husband from murdering him. Unless…
Edward decided to play it cool.
‘You want me to knock on the door of my own bedroom?’ he asked quietly.
His wife had the good grace to look mortified.
‘Edward – I am so sorry!’ she whimpered. ‘How dreadful it must be for you to walk in on us like this!’
‘Well, you know me, Jackie,’ said Edward brusquely, ‘I like to be brought up to speed on things.’
Jackie was forty years old and so gorgeous that most males, having reached puberty, lusted after her. They lusted after her strawberry-blonde, medium length hair, her athletic body born of thousands of kilometres of speed walking; and her delectably skittish and scatterbrained, cheeky, try anything once manner. She was a shallow, hard to pin down butterfly – her OCD was compelling – and men melted whenever her fickle gaze rested briefly upon them. This was how she had grabbed Edward in the early days – but years of being wedged up close to these qualities had bred an obligatory contempt.
‘It’s not your bedroom, Ed – it’s Jackie’s!’ grinned Matt.
‘You what!’
Edward suddenly became aware that he had moved several steps closer to Matt, and that he was standing in the classic, aggressive ape-like pose: tight fists at the end of rigid arms, his chin jutting out defiantly.
‘Hey, easy, Tiger!’ said a highly amused Matt.
Matt’s voice was high and gurgling, perpetually on the verge of hysterical laughter, as it often was when he was taking the piss out of another man. Which he often was.
‘Look – it’s not easy telling you this – but I know that you’re the kind of guy who likes to be brought up to speed. Jackie and me have been at it hammer and tongs for a long time now – but things have got kinda serious between us. So we’ve decided to live together. The long and the short of it is – we have a good business, plenty of money, and a lovely home – and we want you out. Goodbye, Ed!’
Edward was going purple but he couldn’t move as a kind of rigor mortis had spread across his body. He was alive but he felt as though he was dead. Or perhaps he was one of the Undead: privy to two human vultures that have availed themselves of his worldly possessions.
‘I only signed everything over to Jackie to protect my assets. It wasn’t to give you…’
‘…Yes, a most benevolent gift,’ interrupted Matt. ‘We shall be just as careful. Now sod off, before I call the police!’
As Edward stared at him, he suddenly realised how easy it would be to kill Matt Ridgeway. A few steps forward and a right-hand upper cut into Matt’s chiselled jaw – protruding like a mountain of smug, grinning, self-satisfaction. Then, as Matt reeled, the masterstroke. This was where Ridgeway’s large but beautifully symmetrical nose came into play. Edward was not a fighting man and never had been. But a business associate, who was always battering anyone who crossed him, had informed Edward that a simple but effective way of killing your foe was to hit him with a hard back fist to the bridge of the nose to break the bone. Then follow it up with a palm wheel to send it up and backwards. Sufficient force in the right spot would drive the bone shards into the brain – death would soon follow. And seeing as Matt had such a monster of a nose – the bone would skewer his brain like a kebab.
Edward fought this instinct and only won because a rational voice in his head (Edward’s version of a conscience) pointed out to him: ‘Don’t kill him, you fool. They’ll lock you up and throw away the key! Never mind – you are about to be very rich. Then you can sue the crap out of them! Revenge will be far sweeter, I think you’ll find!’
‘What about my business?’ Edward asked.
‘Our business,’ Matt reminded him, putting his arm around Jackie’s slender shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, we can’t knock the brilliant job you’ve done and we won’t change a thing.’
‘What about my money?’
‘You have no money. Unless you’ve got a secret stash hidden away somewhere.’
Edward didn’t.
‘What about my cars?’
‘You don’t have any. It’s public transport or walking for you now. Time to hit your knees, Ed!’
Matt had been telling Edward to hit his knees from the first day he had worked for him, two years ago.
Matt was a recovering cocaine addict, and he attended Narcotics Anonymous meetings regularly. One of the methods that this group advised its members to employ to stay clean, was to pray to a ‘Higher Power’ whenever one felt the urge to ‘use’. This Higher Power could also be prayed to for serenity in difficult circumstances – as if the anxiety were not quelled, it could kick-start the member back into compulsive use of their drug of choice. However, the urge could be so insidious and powerful at these times; that the buzzword at Matt’s group was ‘Hit your knees!’ Only powerful prayer could combat such a powerful urge.
Matt had successfully employed this method for over three years now and had managed to remain three years clean of cocaine. And of this – he was proud, proud, proud! Ignoring the ‘Anonymous’ aspect of his group’s name, Matt would either enthral or bore the pants off anyone who would listen to his sordid tale of cocaine hell. What made it worse, was that he saw himself as some kind of spiritual guru – lecturing troubled souls on how living a less selfish life could have saved them such woe.
‘Hit your knees, Ed!’ he would say with a winning grin, should Edward happen to look stressed or be grumbling about business.
Trouble was, Matt did not practise what he preached. Yes, he was a bronzed, Bermuda shorts wearing, surfer-dude, who gave many a female eye a treat. But, woefully, he was also a selfish, arrogant, authoritarian, with, paradoxically a low self-esteem (which rivalled Death Valley in depth), that he only went for older women with money. He wanted to be protected, mothered, cosseted, and looked after. He wanted them to fear that he could walk out on them at any moment: the age gap and his insouciance giving him the upper hand and making them grateful for very little. And the fact that they were usually married or involved did not phase him on any level. On the contrary, this made them irresistible. He was a blood-sucking leech eagerly invited to hop onto many a blood supply. And his games meant that he could stay there indefinitely. Well, until he’d sucked them dry or they wanted to kill him, anyway.
Edward thought fast. He needed to get to a cash point – pronto. All of his plastic was in his wife’s name now and he needed to withdraw as much hard cash as was possible, before the bitch put a block on that as well. She may have already done so – but Edward thought there was a chance she may not have. He had withdrawn two hundred pounds in Leatherhead high street less than an hour ago. Edward started walking from the bedroom as casually as he could.
‘Don’t think I’ll hit my knees just yet, thank you, Matthew. You seem to be the only one privileged enough to do that around here.’
Matt burst into hysterical laughter.
‘Nice one, Ed!’ he gurgled. ‘Great to see your sense of humour is still intact. Because you’re gonna need a sense of humour from now on!’
Edward stole a glance at Jackie. She peered back at him guiltily. This would cause her some short-term neurotic pain; but the house, the business, the money, and Matt Ridgeway would soon put that right. Matt stood up, revealing his firm, powerful form, in all its naked glory. The part of him that Edward refused to look at, trespassed into Edward’s peripheral vision with boastful obscenity.
‘Your house keys and car keys please, Ed,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I shall escort you to the front door. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Ed. It’s just that the disease of light-fingeredness might overcome you. You might be gripped by the sin of envy and wish for my treasures to be your treasures. I want to save you from yourself, Ed!’
‘You’re very kind, Matthew,’ Edward replied politely.
Edward walked up the drive, suppressing the temptation to hoof it up there with eagle-speed. He must show dignity and not desperation. Dignity – that was the essential requirement when your life appears to have gone to the dogs. Edward surmised that if he showed desperation, his enemy’s suspicions would be aroused and they would be on the phone cancelling his plastic faster than a tabloid editor cancelling the contract of a journalist committed to the truth. Once Edward was out of sight – he would run like hell…
As he stood waiting for the security gates to complete their mechanised opening swing, Edward permitted himself one final backward glance. There stood his indefatigably des res. He had sweated and fretted and toiled and stressed for this six-bedroom beauty, with its acre of delightful gardens and its hard tennis court and its swimming pool. Edward thought of his fleet of cars. His Aston Martin Lagunda he could see. She was waiting nearby the front door, where he had left her less than half an hour ago. Matt had taken her keys, and just like Jackie, she would give herself to him. Like Jackie, she would purr with voracious satisfaction – satisfied, yet wanting more and more and more – when he was riding her good in the fast lane. Like Jackie, all of his possessions were now Matt Ridgeway’s whores – prostituting themselves to an Adonis chancer simply because he was an Adonis chancer.
Edward could see Matt and Jackie standing on the balcony of the master bedroom suite. They were watching him vacate the premises. Matt had his arm around Jackie’s waist, as they sipped champagne from crystal glasses. They were wearing silk dressing gowns – Matt was, of course, garbed in Edward’s silk dressing gown. Edward grappled with the identity crisis that was attempting to devour him. His possessions and his wife were his identity! Then who in hell was he now? Edward told himself to get a grip. He was conceding this battle in order to claim victory. He felt rather heroic as he shuffled through the security gates and a few dabs of rain made contact with his neck and forehead. Here he was – a man who owned nothing – not even the clothes on his back – walking out into the darkness…to win. The security gates closed and Edward left the secluded cul-de-sac, which had been the guardian of his soul for seven years.
Edward hurried across Leatherhead Common, hardly aware that dark clouds had now crowded the blue sky and that a moderate rainfall was gradually dampening his head and clothes. Aged 42, Edward cut a slightly overweight figure, with a ‘little boy lost’ look about his features. A friend of Jackie’s had described him as being ‘good-looking in a haunted sort of way’. This was accurate. Edward had a pleasant face, which was marred by the psychic scars of dignified suffering. Edward carried his cross with resigned fortitude. Arrogance was his ally. A bull-headed determination to be the best at whatever he did, made the boasts trip off his tongue like facts. They were unconquerable truisms that simply could not be argued with.
‘I know more about finance than anyone else in the world.’
‘Why aren’t you a billionaire, then?’
‘I shall be. It is my destiny.’
This arrogance, however, this veneer of self-belief; that was so childishly fatuous that it repulsed the majority of those who encountered it, did not change the fact that Edward was a deeply unhappy man. It did enable Edward to control his unhappiness though, by focusing on success and excellence. He hid most of his unhappiness from himself.
Even now, as he entered Leatherhead high street, he refused to believe that he was teetering on the edge of a precipice. He eyed a Barclays cash-point and made his way over to it. He produced his brown logo Jacquard bi-fold wallet and opened it, revealing a smorgasbord of debit and credit cards.
‘We’ll start with the Barclays debit card and then work our way through the whole damn lot,’ Edward muttered to himself. He slid his card through the slot, punched in his pin number, selected to withdraw the maximum amount of £300, and tentatively awaited the cash point’s decision.
It didn’t take long. The machine decided to keep the card. The words on the screen were yet another stab in Edward’s bleeding heart: ‘Card suspended – transaction cancelled. Contact issuing bank.’
The cash machine’s pronouncement was cold and to the point, not taking into account the fact that it was aiding and abetting a total injustice.
Edward let out a strangled cry, as he pulled a Nat West debit card from his wallet. It slid from his fingers as the cash machine greedily sucked it in, with the same force that a gorilla sucking a banana from one’s fingers might use. Yes, freely given, but it would have taken it anyway. The cash machine decided that it was keeping this one as well. What was Edward going to do? The cash machine didn’t give a flying toss. If Edward threw himself under a train – or drowned himself in the river Mole – or died of hypothermia tonight – that wasn’t the cash machine’s problem. Edward went to another cash point, after decrying the first one as ‘crap’ and a ‘shitheaded bastard’. But the second one belonged to the same class of lowlife as the first. Edward dashed from one cash point to another, losing every single debit and credit card in the process. This chaos ended with the final humiliation of Edward entering Lidl and attempting to buy a bottle of scotch and £200 pounds in cash back, with his last remaining debit card. The shop assistant informed Edward, ‘I’m sorry, but you are not authorised to be using this card. I’ve been told to retain it, so that it can be returned to the bank and destroyed.’
She was pretty and had a friendly face, but she was indifferent to Edward’s plight. Edward was experiencing an alienation – a loneliness that he had never known existed. The world was no longer a benevolent horn of plenty. The little luxuries that Edward had so dispassionately taken for granted – now denied him – were growing more precious with every passing moment. This was a high level threat to the very basics of existence. What was more, Edward could really have done with a good slug of whisky right now.
‘Take me back to yours!’ he wanted to cry out to the young shop assistant. ‘Make love to me, feed me, keep me warm! But most of all – hold me tight and tell me that everything is going to be alright!’
But detecting the desperation in Edward – she found his pleading eyes distasteful. She thought that he must be some kind of con man. So she quickly called, ‘Next please!’
She had averted her eyes: Edward had no business being there, so he left.
Out on the street, Edward considered his options. The notion of being a hero had lost a great deal of its sheen. Edward was starting to feel alarmed. Of course, he had been alarmed since he had discovered his wife in bed with the gardener. But this was alarm upgraded. The inability to access money, and in particular, the last encounter, had given him his first taste of being a down and out. He felt like a loser – a tramp – an untouchable. That girl wouldn’t have wiped her shoes on his face…
Still, Edward rallied with the cheering prospect of going to London and securing a loan from Malcolm Owen-Lloyd – his stockbroker ‘friend’. It would be merely a sizeable, short-term loan, just to see him through until he rightfully reclaimed his life. Alternatively, he could tap up the client who had loaned him the money to invest in the Automobile Accident Prediction Unit. After all, he was about to be disgustingly rich. Meanwhile, though, he was deeply enraged.
‘You can screw with my wife – but if you screw with my wallet…’ Edward growled, calling his home phone number on his mobile. There were a few rings before a lazy drawl answered.
‘Yeah, hi – what’s up?’
‘Ridgeway, you bastard – hand me over to my wife. She has no right to deny me access to my money!’
‘Is that you, Ed?’ Matt sounded astonished. But we’ve just called Virgin to cancel the contract. You should be cut off! Cor, just can’t get the staff, eh, Ed?’
A steaming hot shade of red was poured into Edward and filled him to the brim.
‘You’ve done what!’
‘Hit your knees, Ed! Hit your kn…’
The line went dead. Those fuckwits at Virgin had finally got around to pulling the plug on Edward’s final line of communication with the world.
‘You bastard, Ridgeway! I’ll kill you! Do you hear that! Kill you!’
Several passers-by looked at him warily before hurrying on. Edward sunk to his knees. He wanted to go back to his house and kill Matt and Jackie. Matt he would kill by hitting him over the head with a hammer. Jackie – he would strangle…slowly. He would tell her exactly what he thought of her as she screamed, begged, and perished. Edward’s eyes were illuminated by evil and he gave a wicked chuckle and rubbed his hands together, as he lived his revenge fantasy to the max. His hands re-enacted the strangling of his mind’s eye – and they wrung the life out of Jackie’s neck. Some people, who casually knew of him to be a respectable citizen of Leatherhead, stared at him with bewilderment.
When Edward had come down a little, he again worked through his options. He would still go to London – there must be a train bound for Waterloo due any minute. He took his wallet out again and did a quick inventory of his finances. He was worth exactly £211 pounds and 23 pence – roughly the value of a mediocre night out. Edward decided that he wasn’t going to pay for a train ticket.
He raised himself into an upright position and stared at the ugly trench-like walls that encased the town centre like a fortress. Thanks to this wall, Leatherhead high street had been voted one of the UK’s worst. Edward, however, had always rather liked it. It had given him a sense of security. Now he wanted to escape, as it made him feel like a convict imprisoned by Fate.
Edward made his way to the British Rail station, ignoring the man at the ticket counter, and went straight to platform one. He tapped his foot impatiently, looking every bit the hotshot businessman. He dearly hoped that he was still the hotshot businessman, but he was beginning to have doubts.
CHAPTER THREE.
It was approaching 4pm and Edward was sitting in the first class carriage of a train bound for Waterloo. The ticket inspector would be doing his rounds. Sure enough, he came into view, punching the tickets of the good and honest people of the next carriage. Edward decided that he was going to have a migraine.
He had never even contemplated such a fraud before, well, in such ridiculous circumstances as these he hadn’t, anyway. Naturally, as a man who had achieved in finance, there were times when he had not been entirely honest. But that wasn’t dishonesty – that was business. An experience he had once had was the inspiration for this foul play. He had sat on a train opposite to a woman suffering with a migraine. She had put her head in her hands and started moaning pitifully.
‘What on earth is wrong with you?’ Edward had said, casting her a sharp glare from behind his Financial Times.
‘I’m having a migraine!’ she had moaned.
‘Oh!’ Edward had replied, wishing that she’d do it far more quietly.
The point was that the ticket inspector had come along soon after. And despite the fact that he looked rather suspicious, he was gallant enough to not ask to see her ticket. She had looked respectable, and so did Edward. Respectable looking people can pull off this kind of thing far better than your average plebeian hoi polloi.
‘Ooh oh!’ groaned Edward, clutching his head. ‘No! No! I can’t bear it!’
A kindly looking couple in their sixties, sitting adjacent to Edward, looked at him with concern.
‘Are you all right, chap?’ asked the man.
‘I’m having a migraine!’ wailed Edward.
‘Oh, dear!’ said the man’s wife. ‘How ghastly for you!’
‘“Ghastly” doesn’t even begin to describe it!’ said Edward bleakly.
‘Tickets, please!’
Edward looked shiftily out of the corner of one eye. The ticket inspector had entered the carriage. Edward’s heart started pounding.
‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ asked the nice lady.
Edward looked at her. She had placed her hand onto his. Even though he was play acting: fraudulently exploiting a debilitating condition just to avoid paying for a ticket, the lady’s tenderness brought home to him just how rotten he actually was feeling. The touch of her hand sent nurturing tingles throughout his entire body. He wanted her to take care of him – and the nice man too. He wanted them to adopt him – take him home with them – put him to bed in a cosy room. The nice lady could stroke his hair and speak soothingly to him. She could spoon-feed him with jelly and custard and the nice man could read him Hans Christian Anderson fairy stories and take him fishing when he felt well enough. He would hand over all responsibility to them.
‘I have some paracetamol here – would that help?’ said the man, producing the said packet.
‘It might,’ said Edward weakly.
‘Yes – and you must have some orange juice to wash them down with,’ said the lady.
She removed her hand as she dived into a bag by her feet. Edward winced; having her hand on his hand was a nice feeling, and he didn’t want it to stop.
‘There we go!’ said the lady triumphantly, holding up a carton of orange juice. She took the straw from its cellophane wrapping and pierced it into the carton.
‘Would you mind giving me two paracetamols please, Henry?’ she said.
‘Certainly, my dear,’ replied the man.
‘Now,’ said the lady gently, ‘if you can open your mouth a little – so that I can pop them in one at a time.’
Edward complied: the ticket inspector was getting really close now. He was a big bearded brute.
‘That’s right,’ said the lady. ‘Now have a good slurp of orange juice to wash it down before you get the nasty taste in your mouth. Is it gone?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Edward.
‘Ready for the next one?’
‘Yes.’
The lady put the second tablet on Edward’s tongue and then slipped the straw into Edward’s mouth. He sucked up some juice and swallowed the paracetamol.
‘All gone?’ asked the lady, smiling with compassion.
Edward nodded.
‘You poor, poor man!’ said the lady, stroking Edward’s forehead. ‘You must be in agony. My best friend suffers migraines and the pain has been so appalling it has made her weep.’
Edward now fully understood the meaning of the song ‘Try A Little Tenderness’, the lyrics of which had previously been lost on him. Even more amazing, Henry didn’t seem to mind his wife touching up and nursing a total stranger. Instead, he regarded Edward with a paternal concern.
‘Tickets please, ladies and gentlemen!’
The ticket inspector loomed large over them.
‘Yes, certainly.’
Henry produced two tickets from his coat pocket and handed them to the ticket inspector.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, studying them for a moment before punching them and handing them back. He stared at the moaning Edward being caressed by the lady and paused, uncertain whether or not he should enquire if all was well. But that wasn’t his forte…
‘Can I see your ticket please, sir?’
‘I can’t see anything but black spots and white flashing lights!’ said a panicky Edward to the lady.
‘Oh dear,’ she sympathised. ‘How frightfully awful for you.’
The ticket inspector tapped Edward on the shoulder. Edward turned and looked blindly all around.
‘What was that?’
‘Your ticket please, sir.’
‘Do you mind?’ scolded the lady. ‘This man is very ill, and it is not appropriate to ask to see his ticket when he is in such pain.’
The ticket inspector could detect that he was going to face tough opposition in his quest to view Edward’s ticket. But he had encountered too many people trying to pull a fast one. He was sick of fare-dodgers yanking his chain. He really wanted to see this man’s ticket. He stiffened and puffed himself out like a gamecock about to do battle.
‘I’m sorry, madam – but it is my job to ensure that every passenger has a valid ticket for their journey.’
‘Well, I’m sure he has – but as you can see he is suffering with a hideous migraine and he cannot be bothered with searching his person for a ticket, to satisfy a bloodthirsty, wolverine, jobs-worth like you!’
Ooh, and she had teeth! Edward felt very safe and looked after.
‘Look, if he doesn’t produce a valid ticket, immediately – then, he is pulling a fast one – and I shall issue a fine, immediately!’
The ticket inspector’s hackles were raised. He didn’t like his authority being undermined.
‘No – you look!’
Mild-mannered, paternal Henry suddenly looked extremely stern.
‘My brother is an MEP. Now I don’t understand the ins and outs, but I am sure that your harassment of this poor man breaks some European Council Directive. And if you don’t leave him alone, I shall be forced to call him – and you shall spend the rest of your life eating straw in some fleapit of a continental prison – for contravening this dear man’s human rights!’
That did it. The ticket inspector moved away, muttering: ‘Weirdos on their way back from a suburban orgy!’
‘And I suggest that instead of your obstreperous surliness that you fetch a damp towel to wrap around this poor man’s head!’ the lady called after him. ‘Make yourself useful for a change!’
Although no damp towel was forthcoming, Edward was certainly glad of the couple’s fortuitous presence on that journey. He kept a low profile, with his eyes half-shut, emitting pitiful moans every time Goliath passed, glowering at him. The couple sat back, casting Edward protective glances at regular intervals. Edward felt as though he had two Guardian Angels watching over him.
When the train was pulling into Waterloo Station, the lady leaned across and gently touched Edward’s hand. He opened his eyes.
‘Will you be all right?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, I feel much better, thank you,’ Edward replied.
‘Good.’
She patted his hand.
Standing on the platform, Edward watched the couple retreating with their luggage, and felt alone again. So to instil himself with some much needed Dutch Courage, Edward walked to the nearest station bar and ordered himself a large whisky. He felt that circumstances dictated such an investment. And it was a worthy investment, which would yield a high return, whereas a train ticket was dead in the water. Putting the glass down, less than five seconds after putting it to his lips, Edward felt the cheering warmth of the whisky starting to work its magic in his stomach. One more large scotch and he could sail forth and secure the loan from Malcolm. What if he said ‘No’? If that were the case, Edward would have to eke his £200 out very conservatively. Edward shook himself. ‘If you think like a tramp, then that is what you will become!’ he rebuked himself. Of course Malcolm wouldn’t say ‘No’! A small, short-term loan of say £10,000 was peanuts to him. He wouldn’t say ‘No’! Even if he did, Edward knew plenty of others he could approach. He waved to a young barman.
‘A large scotch for the road!’ he said severely.
The young barman served Edward with his scotch. He was a student with a huge student loan and a member of the Socialist Worker Party, taboot. He didn’t like Edward’s type at all.
Edward drunk it with one aggressive gulp and slammed the glass down on the bar.
Sneering at the barman, and charged with electric soup alacrity, he left the bar with kick-ass briskness.
Edward Noble stared through the bay window at his enormous, perfectly manicured lawn, and nodded approvingly. There wasn’t an identifiable weed in the rose border and the privet hedge was trimmed to perfection.
Perfection.
Edward stared at his creation – and the perfection that surged from it was comparable to the magic mirror that oozed back pure flattery to Snow White’s stepmother. Edward’s garden was the fairest of them all (well the fairest of them all, in his income bracket, anyway).
The key to the perfection of all of Edward’s creations was his philosophy of human existence. His decision to hire the services of local landscape gardener, Mathew Ridgeway, had been, naturally, an impeccable one. Mathew was not the cheapest landscape gardener in Leatherhead. On no – he was the best. Edward believed that everyone had the abilities that they were eminently tailored to – designed for even – their station in life.
If a man had no higher calling than to sweep the nation’s streets and roads, then he had better pick up a broom and be quick about it. And if he wasn’t whistling a merry tune whilst he was doing it, then Edward Noble wanted to know why. He detested idlemongers, wastrels, cadgers, layabouts, malingerers, and socialists.
‘Work, work, work, and more work.’ was his motto.
‘If you have your health, but you don’t have your wealth – then you have less than
nothing,’ was not something that Edward had actually ever voiced out loud. This did not, however, prevent him from believing implicitly in this maxim.
Time, being the finite, teasing, capricious, and fickle little minx that it is, made Edward an impatient, pernickety, pompous, solemn perfectionist – perpetually pitched against a deadline. He was the joyless soul that is permanently in mortal danger of being devoured by Time.
‘Time waits for no man,’ they say.
‘I kick time up the arse,’ said Edward Noble.
His business was finance – the high end of finance. He was a player in the big league of Independent Financial Advisor-dom. His £2 million pile in the leafiest cul-de-sac in Leatherhead, stood as testament to that. Edward Noble Independent Financial Advisors Ltd was ranked as the 80th largest in the UK IFA industry. His elite clients – some already wealthy – some just comfortable – and some taking a big chance with their life savings – were nearly all considerably wealthier thanks to him. They were also, of course, duly grateful. Edward accepted the thanks and the praise showered upon him with dignified caution. Of course he was up there with the best. Of course those who sought his advice had prospered. He had a Higher Calling. He had spent his life meticulously cramming his brain with the complexities of Life Assurance, Savings Plans, Annuities, Financial Tax Planning and Structuring, Shares, Securities, Investments, and the like. He had forged enviable contacts and his towering knowledge of world-wide stock markets went above and beyond the call of duty. His wife had long ago accepted that she must not infringe too much on his time, as the lion’s share of it was allocated to researching and analysing financial information.
His success at second-guessing markets was stunning, but Edward had no crystal ball. A few of his clients had lost big, but not for some considerable time. Edward had an extensive network of contacts whose word he trusted, and his multiple methods of checking the validity of anyone requiring investment, meant that his clients were taking a considered gamble. However, this element of gambling explained why Edward had put very little of his own money on the line. Up until now, he had preferred ‘safe’ investments, and as such, his money was tied up in various PEPs, ISAs, and building society accounts. He had seldom invested in companies or products that he had rightly advised clients were ‘virtually a licence to print money’.
Edward was a control freak. If he didn’t have total control over his environment, he came out in a cold sweat. So therefore, a healthy £500 commission from a lump-sum investment of £10,000 was better than investing £10,000 himself and losing the lot. Edward told his wife exactly what she must do at all times, as he had superior intelligence to her. This meant that she enjoyed a far better quality of life than she would have done had she relied upon her own dull senses.
He had told her what to do recently – the result of which would make him very rich. The fringe benefit for his wife was that the allowance he paid her could be increased accordingly. This of course was based upon the understanding that she didn’t squander it on wasteful extravagances.
Edward was rich (he was worth several million when you took his business and assets into account) but not nearly so rich as he should be. So he had taken certain steps.
Golden steps leading to the dizzying heights that the fabulously wealthy occupy.
So Edward had broken his golden rule and gambled a great deal of money in a venture that just could not fail. A stockbroker ‘friend’ – whose judgement had never let him down and who was worth over £400 million – had given the project his seal of approval as well as money. In financial circles his word was considered to be the word of God. As if that wasn’t enough, Edward had also taken precautions against the vagaries than can beset these kind of high-yield dead certs.
And although he had just returned from Houston, Texas – where he had been handing out large cheques and banker’s drafts on his clientele’s behalf, the cheque for $1, 654,043.90 (or £1 million sterling, at the moment of transaction) torn from his own cheque book, was actually borrowed money. Being eminently aware of the scams and rip offs that abound in such ventures, Edward had secured the ‘gentleman’s agreement’ 0% interest loan from a long-standing client, for whom he had helped to make millions over the years. And just so that he couldn’t be tapped for that in the event of a balls-up, Edward had signed his business, assets and money over to his wife.
Officially, he was currently a pauper, who didn’t even own the clothes that he stood in – right now, he was breathing in oxygen that had been bought and paid for by his wife. He – officially an intruder – was polluting this fine crib with his every out-breath of carbon dioxide. In reality, he was the puppet-master and his wife was the puppet – dancing whichever way he pulled the strings.
She was a simpleton – an ‘O.K’ and ‘Hello’ obsessed airhead. He disliked her in a mild, vague sort of way; but she looked good and could cook, so she was useful at business functions and when he invited clients to dinner. They never had time to make love and neither one of them broached the subject, and so that was no problem. Above all, she could be trusted.
Edward yawned and stepped over to the solid oak raised bar area. He poured himself a generous measure of scotch. He added ice and water and drank it with one swift gulp. He would go upstairs, have a shower and get changed for the golf club. He’d probably play a game against Roger Willis, a smug super-rich bastard, who pretended not to care about his elevated status, but gave himself away with every gesture and movement. Although he smiled a lot, his eyes were narrow and mockingly malicious. ‘You are so, so wrong about so, so many things and on so, so, so many levels,’ Edward could read almost telepathically as it emanated from this man’s aura. When Edward was telling him about some great business deal he had just brokered, Roger would put his head on one side, holding it almost pityingly, and give a wicked little chuckle, or say something pithy like: ‘Macdonald’s are always recruiting, Edward!’
Edward agreed in principle with the Hindu Caste system, but people like Roger made it imperative to fulfil one’s destiny and rise to the very top. Although like Edward, his roots were firmly working class, Roger enunciated every elongated vowel and every consonant with a visceral whine, and hobnobbed with the landed gentry. He only associated with schmoozer slime like Edward in order to gloat – his crowning glory being the moment that Edward had asked if he could attend a bash that Roger was throwing in honour of a duke.
‘Oh no!’ Roger had exclaimed. ‘These people are very particular about who they socialise with. They would never forgive me! Perhaps you can go to the Harvester with my servants at Christmas. You will all be whooping it up on me – my shout!’
What a bitch. Tonight – on the course and in the bar – Edward would also have a smug smile on his lips. In mere weeks he would be at least twice as rich as bastard Willis.
Edward climbed the stairs. Matt Ridgeway’s pick-up truck was parked in the driveway. He was probably getting to grips with something mucky. Yes – as befitted his station in life – Matt was probably diving deep into something filthy this very minute.
It was only a faint noise that grew louder as Edward ascended. When he stood on the landing it was positively obscenely loud. An antiphonal exchange – first, a drawn out female moan of ecstasy – followed by a shorter, more urgent, male yell. It continued as Edward stood listening, growing faster and more urgent all the while, accompanied by the unmistakable frenetic creaking of bedsprings which are receiving a vigorous pummelling.
Then a frantic conversation.
‘Why did your husband hire me?’
Edward understood this question to have been posed by Matt Ridgeway.
‘Because you’re the best! Ooh yes – you are the best!’
Edward heard his wife reply.
‘What was that?’ Matt’s voice interrogated.
‘’Cause you’re the best! The best! The best!’ Edward’s wife confirmed, trying to leave no room for doubt.
‘I’m not the cheapest!’ Matt countered.
‘Oh no – you’re the best!’
‘Am I giving your husband value for money?’
‘Ooh, yes – he’ll be most terribly pleased! You are the best gardener there is!’
Explosively orgasmic screams from the pair of them took over from this interesting evaluation of Matt’s horticultural expertise, as they possibly made the point better than mere words.
As Edward stood, frozen in the moment, horrible realisations swarmed into his numbed brain, clanging like a bell of doom every time they hit home.
Clang! ‘I wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.’
Clang! ‘They’ve probably been at it for ages.’
Clang! ‘I was too busy to make love to my wife.’
Clang! ‘I didn’t think she was bright another to have an affair. Innocent and faithful!’
Clang! Wrong!
‘Thought she’d lost interest in sex!’
Clang! ‘Only with me!’
Clang! ‘Matt Ridgeway is a handsome man!’
Edward had opened the bedroom door in time to see Ridgeway’s muscular, well-formed backside being fondled and caressed by his wife’s hands; it was rising and falling so rapidly that it positively blurred in front of Edward’s bemused eyes. And the bed screeched as Matt pounded Edward’s wife against it, and she screeched, as she was pounded against the bed, with an intensity that broke down the barrier between pleasure and pain. And just when you thought it possibly couldn’t – the intensity – intensified. The bed springs and the mattress’ spring supports squeaked in a manner indicative of a group of gang banging gerbils whose collective climax was reaching fever pitch. Their human counterparts’ climax was equally alarming and they continued to yelp as their bodies gradually slowed until they were still.
Edward stared at them. He coughed involuntarily. His wife looked up and then she sat bolt upright, snatching the duvet up to conceal her maddeningly pert breasts with their cussed erect nipples.
‘Edward! You’re not supposed to be back until tomorrow morning!’
‘Evidently not.’
She was shocked. Matt slowly turned around, revealing a taut, muscular, testosterone-drenched body; one that Edward’s flabby, plumpish form could not possibly compete with.
Matt gave Edward a laddish grin as he relaxed up against the woven leather headboard, his big, sinewy arms creating a cradle for his head.
‘’Ello, Ed!’ he said. ‘Nice of you to call. But would you mind knocking next time?’
Clang!!!
‘I’ve signed everything over to the wife!’ Edward’s mind screamed at him.
CHAPTER TWO.
Edward felt as though he had just been castrated, and that it was he who was suffering the post-coital malaise that Ridgeway should now be afflicted with. That primitive emotion that his wife had failed to invoke within him for years – an unprecedented surge of jealousy – gave rise to the awful, hollow, infinite hurt of the one just spurned by his mate. This cruel, collapsing, multiple stabbing feeling that is a common outcome of somebody else’s sexual organs being introduced to your relationship.
But the sexual betrayal was dwarfed by a concern far closer to Edward’s heart. So if she wanted the gardener, then let her have him. It hurt, but there you go. She could move in with him, out of sight and out of mind, and all that. But Edward detected a far worse betrayal in Matt’s smug, relaxed greeting. After all, the lover doesn’t usually react in such a callous manner to the cuckolded husband walking in on him, when he’s shagging the arse off of his wife. One expects at least a shallow show of remorse, even if it is merely to try and prevent the husband from murdering him. Unless…
Edward decided to play it cool.
‘You want me to knock on the door of my own bedroom?’ he asked quietly.
His wife had the good grace to look mortified.
‘Edward – I am so sorry!’ she whimpered. ‘How dreadful it must be for you to walk in on us like this!’
‘Well, you know me, Jackie,’ said Edward brusquely, ‘I like to be brought up to speed on things.’
Jackie was forty years old and so gorgeous that most males, having reached puberty, lusted after her. They lusted after her strawberry-blonde, medium length hair, her athletic body born of thousands of kilometres of speed walking; and her delectably skittish and scatterbrained, cheeky, try anything once manner. She was a shallow, hard to pin down butterfly – her OCD was compelling – and men melted whenever her fickle gaze rested briefly upon them. This was how she had grabbed Edward in the early days – but years of being wedged up close to these qualities had bred an obligatory contempt.
‘It’s not your bedroom, Ed – it’s Jackie’s!’ grinned Matt.
‘You what!’
Edward suddenly became aware that he had moved several steps closer to Matt, and that he was standing in the classic, aggressive ape-like pose: tight fists at the end of rigid arms, his chin jutting out defiantly.
‘Hey, easy, Tiger!’ said a highly amused Matt.
Matt’s voice was high and gurgling, perpetually on the verge of hysterical laughter, as it often was when he was taking the piss out of another man. Which he often was.
‘Look – it’s not easy telling you this – but I know that you’re the kind of guy who likes to be brought up to speed. Jackie and me have been at it hammer and tongs for a long time now – but things have got kinda serious between us. So we’ve decided to live together. The long and the short of it is – we have a good business, plenty of money, and a lovely home – and we want you out. Goodbye, Ed!’
Edward was going purple but he couldn’t move as a kind of rigor mortis had spread across his body. He was alive but he felt as though he was dead. Or perhaps he was one of the Undead: privy to two human vultures that have availed themselves of his worldly possessions.
‘I only signed everything over to Jackie to protect my assets. It wasn’t to give you…’
‘…Yes, a most benevolent gift,’ interrupted Matt. ‘We shall be just as careful. Now sod off, before I call the police!’
As Edward stared at him, he suddenly realised how easy it would be to kill Matt Ridgeway. A few steps forward and a right-hand upper cut into Matt’s chiselled jaw – protruding like a mountain of smug, grinning, self-satisfaction. Then, as Matt reeled, the masterstroke. This was where Ridgeway’s large but beautifully symmetrical nose came into play. Edward was not a fighting man and never had been. But a business associate, who was always battering anyone who crossed him, had informed Edward that a simple but effective way of killing your foe was to hit him with a hard back fist to the bridge of the nose to break the bone. Then follow it up with a palm wheel to send it up and backwards. Sufficient force in the right spot would drive the bone shards into the brain – death would soon follow. And seeing as Matt had such a monster of a nose – the bone would skewer his brain like a kebab.
Edward fought this instinct and only won because a rational voice in his head (Edward’s version of a conscience) pointed out to him: ‘Don’t kill him, you fool. They’ll lock you up and throw away the key! Never mind – you are about to be very rich. Then you can sue the crap out of them! Revenge will be far sweeter, I think you’ll find!’
‘What about my business?’ Edward asked.
‘Our business,’ Matt reminded him, putting his arm around Jackie’s slender shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, we can’t knock the brilliant job you’ve done and we won’t change a thing.’
‘What about my money?’
‘You have no money. Unless you’ve got a secret stash hidden away somewhere.’
Edward didn’t.
‘What about my cars?’
‘You don’t have any. It’s public transport or walking for you now. Time to hit your knees, Ed!’
Matt had been telling Edward to hit his knees from the first day he had worked for him, two years ago.
Matt was a recovering cocaine addict, and he attended Narcotics Anonymous meetings regularly. One of the methods that this group advised its members to employ to stay clean, was to pray to a ‘Higher Power’ whenever one felt the urge to ‘use’. This Higher Power could also be prayed to for serenity in difficult circumstances – as if the anxiety were not quelled, it could kick-start the member back into compulsive use of their drug of choice. However, the urge could be so insidious and powerful at these times; that the buzzword at Matt’s group was ‘Hit your knees!’ Only powerful prayer could combat such a powerful urge.
Matt had successfully employed this method for over three years now and had managed to remain three years clean of cocaine. And of this – he was proud, proud, proud! Ignoring the ‘Anonymous’ aspect of his group’s name, Matt would either enthral or bore the pants off anyone who would listen to his sordid tale of cocaine hell. What made it worse, was that he saw himself as some kind of spiritual guru – lecturing troubled souls on how living a less selfish life could have saved them such woe.
‘Hit your knees, Ed!’ he would say with a winning grin, should Edward happen to look stressed or be grumbling about business.
Trouble was, Matt did not practise what he preached. Yes, he was a bronzed, Bermuda shorts wearing, surfer-dude, who gave many a female eye a treat. But, woefully, he was also a selfish, arrogant, authoritarian, with, paradoxically a low self-esteem (which rivalled Death Valley in depth), that he only went for older women with money. He wanted to be protected, mothered, cosseted, and looked after. He wanted them to fear that he could walk out on them at any moment: the age gap and his insouciance giving him the upper hand and making them grateful for very little. And the fact that they were usually married or involved did not phase him on any level. On the contrary, this made them irresistible. He was a blood-sucking leech eagerly invited to hop onto many a blood supply. And his games meant that he could stay there indefinitely. Well, until he’d sucked them dry or they wanted to kill him, anyway.
Edward thought fast. He needed to get to a cash point – pronto. All of his plastic was in his wife’s name now and he needed to withdraw as much hard cash as was possible, before the bitch put a block on that as well. She may have already done so – but Edward thought there was a chance she may not have. He had withdrawn two hundred pounds in Leatherhead high street less than an hour ago. Edward started walking from the bedroom as casually as he could.
‘Don’t think I’ll hit my knees just yet, thank you, Matthew. You seem to be the only one privileged enough to do that around here.’
Matt burst into hysterical laughter.
‘Nice one, Ed!’ he gurgled. ‘Great to see your sense of humour is still intact. Because you’re gonna need a sense of humour from now on!’
Edward stole a glance at Jackie. She peered back at him guiltily. This would cause her some short-term neurotic pain; but the house, the business, the money, and Matt Ridgeway would soon put that right. Matt stood up, revealing his firm, powerful form, in all its naked glory. The part of him that Edward refused to look at, trespassed into Edward’s peripheral vision with boastful obscenity.
‘Your house keys and car keys please, Ed,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I shall escort you to the front door. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Ed. It’s just that the disease of light-fingeredness might overcome you. You might be gripped by the sin of envy and wish for my treasures to be your treasures. I want to save you from yourself, Ed!’
‘You’re very kind, Matthew,’ Edward replied politely.
Edward walked up the drive, suppressing the temptation to hoof it up there with eagle-speed. He must show dignity and not desperation. Dignity – that was the essential requirement when your life appears to have gone to the dogs. Edward surmised that if he showed desperation, his enemy’s suspicions would be aroused and they would be on the phone cancelling his plastic faster than a tabloid editor cancelling the contract of a journalist committed to the truth. Once Edward was out of sight – he would run like hell…
As he stood waiting for the security gates to complete their mechanised opening swing, Edward permitted himself one final backward glance. There stood his indefatigably des res. He had sweated and fretted and toiled and stressed for this six-bedroom beauty, with its acre of delightful gardens and its hard tennis court and its swimming pool. Edward thought of his fleet of cars. His Aston Martin Lagunda he could see. She was waiting nearby the front door, where he had left her less than half an hour ago. Matt had taken her keys, and just like Jackie, she would give herself to him. Like Jackie, she would purr with voracious satisfaction – satisfied, yet wanting more and more and more – when he was riding her good in the fast lane. Like Jackie, all of his possessions were now Matt Ridgeway’s whores – prostituting themselves to an Adonis chancer simply because he was an Adonis chancer.
Edward could see Matt and Jackie standing on the balcony of the master bedroom suite. They were watching him vacate the premises. Matt had his arm around Jackie’s waist, as they sipped champagne from crystal glasses. They were wearing silk dressing gowns – Matt was, of course, garbed in Edward’s silk dressing gown. Edward grappled with the identity crisis that was attempting to devour him. His possessions and his wife were his identity! Then who in hell was he now? Edward told himself to get a grip. He was conceding this battle in order to claim victory. He felt rather heroic as he shuffled through the security gates and a few dabs of rain made contact with his neck and forehead. Here he was – a man who owned nothing – not even the clothes on his back – walking out into the darkness…to win. The security gates closed and Edward left the secluded cul-de-sac, which had been the guardian of his soul for seven years.
Edward hurried across Leatherhead Common, hardly aware that dark clouds had now crowded the blue sky and that a moderate rainfall was gradually dampening his head and clothes. Aged 42, Edward cut a slightly overweight figure, with a ‘little boy lost’ look about his features. A friend of Jackie’s had described him as being ‘good-looking in a haunted sort of way’. This was accurate. Edward had a pleasant face, which was marred by the psychic scars of dignified suffering. Edward carried his cross with resigned fortitude. Arrogance was his ally. A bull-headed determination to be the best at whatever he did, made the boasts trip off his tongue like facts. They were unconquerable truisms that simply could not be argued with.
‘I know more about finance than anyone else in the world.’
‘Why aren’t you a billionaire, then?’
‘I shall be. It is my destiny.’
This arrogance, however, this veneer of self-belief; that was so childishly fatuous that it repulsed the majority of those who encountered it, did not change the fact that Edward was a deeply unhappy man. It did enable Edward to control his unhappiness though, by focusing on success and excellence. He hid most of his unhappiness from himself.
Even now, as he entered Leatherhead high street, he refused to believe that he was teetering on the edge of a precipice. He eyed a Barclays cash-point and made his way over to it. He produced his brown logo Jacquard bi-fold wallet and opened it, revealing a smorgasbord of debit and credit cards.
‘We’ll start with the Barclays debit card and then work our way through the whole damn lot,’ Edward muttered to himself. He slid his card through the slot, punched in his pin number, selected to withdraw the maximum amount of £300, and tentatively awaited the cash point’s decision.
It didn’t take long. The machine decided to keep the card. The words on the screen were yet another stab in Edward’s bleeding heart: ‘Card suspended – transaction cancelled. Contact issuing bank.’
The cash machine’s pronouncement was cold and to the point, not taking into account the fact that it was aiding and abetting a total injustice.
Edward let out a strangled cry, as he pulled a Nat West debit card from his wallet. It slid from his fingers as the cash machine greedily sucked it in, with the same force that a gorilla sucking a banana from one’s fingers might use. Yes, freely given, but it would have taken it anyway. The cash machine decided that it was keeping this one as well. What was Edward going to do? The cash machine didn’t give a flying toss. If Edward threw himself under a train – or drowned himself in the river Mole – or died of hypothermia tonight – that wasn’t the cash machine’s problem. Edward went to another cash point, after decrying the first one as ‘crap’ and a ‘shitheaded bastard’. But the second one belonged to the same class of lowlife as the first. Edward dashed from one cash point to another, losing every single debit and credit card in the process. This chaos ended with the final humiliation of Edward entering Lidl and attempting to buy a bottle of scotch and £200 pounds in cash back, with his last remaining debit card. The shop assistant informed Edward, ‘I’m sorry, but you are not authorised to be using this card. I’ve been told to retain it, so that it can be returned to the bank and destroyed.’
She was pretty and had a friendly face, but she was indifferent to Edward’s plight. Edward was experiencing an alienation – a loneliness that he had never known existed. The world was no longer a benevolent horn of plenty. The little luxuries that Edward had so dispassionately taken for granted – now denied him – were growing more precious with every passing moment. This was a high level threat to the very basics of existence. What was more, Edward could really have done with a good slug of whisky right now.
‘Take me back to yours!’ he wanted to cry out to the young shop assistant. ‘Make love to me, feed me, keep me warm! But most of all – hold me tight and tell me that everything is going to be alright!’
But detecting the desperation in Edward – she found his pleading eyes distasteful. She thought that he must be some kind of con man. So she quickly called, ‘Next please!’
She had averted her eyes: Edward had no business being there, so he left.
Out on the street, Edward considered his options. The notion of being a hero had lost a great deal of its sheen. Edward was starting to feel alarmed. Of course, he had been alarmed since he had discovered his wife in bed with the gardener. But this was alarm upgraded. The inability to access money, and in particular, the last encounter, had given him his first taste of being a down and out. He felt like a loser – a tramp – an untouchable. That girl wouldn’t have wiped her shoes on his face…
Still, Edward rallied with the cheering prospect of going to London and securing a loan from Malcolm Owen-Lloyd – his stockbroker ‘friend’. It would be merely a sizeable, short-term loan, just to see him through until he rightfully reclaimed his life. Alternatively, he could tap up the client who had loaned him the money to invest in the Automobile Accident Prediction Unit. After all, he was about to be disgustingly rich. Meanwhile, though, he was deeply enraged.
‘You can screw with my wife – but if you screw with my wallet…’ Edward growled, calling his home phone number on his mobile. There were a few rings before a lazy drawl answered.
‘Yeah, hi – what’s up?’
‘Ridgeway, you bastard – hand me over to my wife. She has no right to deny me access to my money!’
‘Is that you, Ed?’ Matt sounded astonished. But we’ve just called Virgin to cancel the contract. You should be cut off! Cor, just can’t get the staff, eh, Ed?’
A steaming hot shade of red was poured into Edward and filled him to the brim.
‘You’ve done what!’
‘Hit your knees, Ed! Hit your kn…’
The line went dead. Those fuckwits at Virgin had finally got around to pulling the plug on Edward’s final line of communication with the world.
‘You bastard, Ridgeway! I’ll kill you! Do you hear that! Kill you!’
Several passers-by looked at him warily before hurrying on. Edward sunk to his knees. He wanted to go back to his house and kill Matt and Jackie. Matt he would kill by hitting him over the head with a hammer. Jackie – he would strangle…slowly. He would tell her exactly what he thought of her as she screamed, begged, and perished. Edward’s eyes were illuminated by evil and he gave a wicked chuckle and rubbed his hands together, as he lived his revenge fantasy to the max. His hands re-enacted the strangling of his mind’s eye – and they wrung the life out of Jackie’s neck. Some people, who casually knew of him to be a respectable citizen of Leatherhead, stared at him with bewilderment.
When Edward had come down a little, he again worked through his options. He would still go to London – there must be a train bound for Waterloo due any minute. He took his wallet out again and did a quick inventory of his finances. He was worth exactly £211 pounds and 23 pence – roughly the value of a mediocre night out. Edward decided that he wasn’t going to pay for a train ticket.
He raised himself into an upright position and stared at the ugly trench-like walls that encased the town centre like a fortress. Thanks to this wall, Leatherhead high street had been voted one of the UK’s worst. Edward, however, had always rather liked it. It had given him a sense of security. Now he wanted to escape, as it made him feel like a convict imprisoned by Fate.
Edward made his way to the British Rail station, ignoring the man at the ticket counter, and went straight to platform one. He tapped his foot impatiently, looking every bit the hotshot businessman. He dearly hoped that he was still the hotshot businessman, but he was beginning to have doubts.
CHAPTER THREE.
It was approaching 4pm and Edward was sitting in the first class carriage of a train bound for Waterloo. The ticket inspector would be doing his rounds. Sure enough, he came into view, punching the tickets of the good and honest people of the next carriage. Edward decided that he was going to have a migraine.
He had never even contemplated such a fraud before, well, in such ridiculous circumstances as these he hadn’t, anyway. Naturally, as a man who had achieved in finance, there were times when he had not been entirely honest. But that wasn’t dishonesty – that was business. An experience he had once had was the inspiration for this foul play. He had sat on a train opposite to a woman suffering with a migraine. She had put her head in her hands and started moaning pitifully.
‘What on earth is wrong with you?’ Edward had said, casting her a sharp glare from behind his Financial Times.
‘I’m having a migraine!’ she had moaned.
‘Oh!’ Edward had replied, wishing that she’d do it far more quietly.
The point was that the ticket inspector had come along soon after. And despite the fact that he looked rather suspicious, he was gallant enough to not ask to see her ticket. She had looked respectable, and so did Edward. Respectable looking people can pull off this kind of thing far better than your average plebeian hoi polloi.
‘Ooh oh!’ groaned Edward, clutching his head. ‘No! No! I can’t bear it!’
A kindly looking couple in their sixties, sitting adjacent to Edward, looked at him with concern.
‘Are you all right, chap?’ asked the man.
‘I’m having a migraine!’ wailed Edward.
‘Oh, dear!’ said the man’s wife. ‘How ghastly for you!’
‘“Ghastly” doesn’t even begin to describe it!’ said Edward bleakly.
‘Tickets, please!’
Edward looked shiftily out of the corner of one eye. The ticket inspector had entered the carriage. Edward’s heart started pounding.
‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ asked the nice lady.
Edward looked at her. She had placed her hand onto his. Even though he was play acting: fraudulently exploiting a debilitating condition just to avoid paying for a ticket, the lady’s tenderness brought home to him just how rotten he actually was feeling. The touch of her hand sent nurturing tingles throughout his entire body. He wanted her to take care of him – and the nice man too. He wanted them to adopt him – take him home with them – put him to bed in a cosy room. The nice lady could stroke his hair and speak soothingly to him. She could spoon-feed him with jelly and custard and the nice man could read him Hans Christian Anderson fairy stories and take him fishing when he felt well enough. He would hand over all responsibility to them.
‘I have some paracetamol here – would that help?’ said the man, producing the said packet.
‘It might,’ said Edward weakly.
‘Yes – and you must have some orange juice to wash them down with,’ said the lady.
She removed her hand as she dived into a bag by her feet. Edward winced; having her hand on his hand was a nice feeling, and he didn’t want it to stop.
‘There we go!’ said the lady triumphantly, holding up a carton of orange juice. She took the straw from its cellophane wrapping and pierced it into the carton.
‘Would you mind giving me two paracetamols please, Henry?’ she said.
‘Certainly, my dear,’ replied the man.
‘Now,’ said the lady gently, ‘if you can open your mouth a little – so that I can pop them in one at a time.’
Edward complied: the ticket inspector was getting really close now. He was a big bearded brute.
‘That’s right,’ said the lady. ‘Now have a good slurp of orange juice to wash it down before you get the nasty taste in your mouth. Is it gone?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Edward.
‘Ready for the next one?’
‘Yes.’
The lady put the second tablet on Edward’s tongue and then slipped the straw into Edward’s mouth. He sucked up some juice and swallowed the paracetamol.
‘All gone?’ asked the lady, smiling with compassion.
Edward nodded.
‘You poor, poor man!’ said the lady, stroking Edward’s forehead. ‘You must be in agony. My best friend suffers migraines and the pain has been so appalling it has made her weep.’
Edward now fully understood the meaning of the song ‘Try A Little Tenderness’, the lyrics of which had previously been lost on him. Even more amazing, Henry didn’t seem to mind his wife touching up and nursing a total stranger. Instead, he regarded Edward with a paternal concern.
‘Tickets please, ladies and gentlemen!’
The ticket inspector loomed large over them.
‘Yes, certainly.’
Henry produced two tickets from his coat pocket and handed them to the ticket inspector.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, studying them for a moment before punching them and handing them back. He stared at the moaning Edward being caressed by the lady and paused, uncertain whether or not he should enquire if all was well. But that wasn’t his forte…
‘Can I see your ticket please, sir?’
‘I can’t see anything but black spots and white flashing lights!’ said a panicky Edward to the lady.
‘Oh dear,’ she sympathised. ‘How frightfully awful for you.’
The ticket inspector tapped Edward on the shoulder. Edward turned and looked blindly all around.
‘What was that?’
‘Your ticket please, sir.’
‘Do you mind?’ scolded the lady. ‘This man is very ill, and it is not appropriate to ask to see his ticket when he is in such pain.’
The ticket inspector could detect that he was going to face tough opposition in his quest to view Edward’s ticket. But he had encountered too many people trying to pull a fast one. He was sick of fare-dodgers yanking his chain. He really wanted to see this man’s ticket. He stiffened and puffed himself out like a gamecock about to do battle.
‘I’m sorry, madam – but it is my job to ensure that every passenger has a valid ticket for their journey.’
‘Well, I’m sure he has – but as you can see he is suffering with a hideous migraine and he cannot be bothered with searching his person for a ticket, to satisfy a bloodthirsty, wolverine, jobs-worth like you!’
Ooh, and she had teeth! Edward felt very safe and looked after.
‘Look, if he doesn’t produce a valid ticket, immediately – then, he is pulling a fast one – and I shall issue a fine, immediately!’
The ticket inspector’s hackles were raised. He didn’t like his authority being undermined.
‘No – you look!’
Mild-mannered, paternal Henry suddenly looked extremely stern.
‘My brother is an MEP. Now I don’t understand the ins and outs, but I am sure that your harassment of this poor man breaks some European Council Directive. And if you don’t leave him alone, I shall be forced to call him – and you shall spend the rest of your life eating straw in some fleapit of a continental prison – for contravening this dear man’s human rights!’
That did it. The ticket inspector moved away, muttering: ‘Weirdos on their way back from a suburban orgy!’
‘And I suggest that instead of your obstreperous surliness that you fetch a damp towel to wrap around this poor man’s head!’ the lady called after him. ‘Make yourself useful for a change!’
Although no damp towel was forthcoming, Edward was certainly glad of the couple’s fortuitous presence on that journey. He kept a low profile, with his eyes half-shut, emitting pitiful moans every time Goliath passed, glowering at him. The couple sat back, casting Edward protective glances at regular intervals. Edward felt as though he had two Guardian Angels watching over him.
When the train was pulling into Waterloo Station, the lady leaned across and gently touched Edward’s hand. He opened his eyes.
‘Will you be all right?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, I feel much better, thank you,’ Edward replied.
‘Good.’
She patted his hand.
Standing on the platform, Edward watched the couple retreating with their luggage, and felt alone again. So to instil himself with some much needed Dutch Courage, Edward walked to the nearest station bar and ordered himself a large whisky. He felt that circumstances dictated such an investment. And it was a worthy investment, which would yield a high return, whereas a train ticket was dead in the water. Putting the glass down, less than five seconds after putting it to his lips, Edward felt the cheering warmth of the whisky starting to work its magic in his stomach. One more large scotch and he could sail forth and secure the loan from Malcolm. What if he said ‘No’? If that were the case, Edward would have to eke his £200 out very conservatively. Edward shook himself. ‘If you think like a tramp, then that is what you will become!’ he rebuked himself. Of course Malcolm wouldn’t say ‘No’! A small, short-term loan of say £10,000 was peanuts to him. He wouldn’t say ‘No’! Even if he did, Edward knew plenty of others he could approach. He waved to a young barman.
‘A large scotch for the road!’ he said severely.
The young barman served Edward with his scotch. He was a student with a huge student loan and a member of the Socialist Worker Party, taboot. He didn’t like Edward’s type at all.
Edward drunk it with one aggressive gulp and slammed the glass down on the bar.
Sneering at the barman, and charged with electric soup alacrity, he left the bar with kick-ass briskness.
Introducing my novel 'Serendipity'
‘Serendipity’ is a 75,000-word novel for adults, in the satirical adventure genre, with an appeal for most adult age groups. It tells the story of Edward Noble, an IFA, who is a staid and arrogant control freak. Edward goes from being highly successful to down and out within 24 hours. Every attempt he makes to escape his fate leads to yet another door being slammed shut in his face. Then he learns to trust in serendipity and his life takes a dramatic turn.
The novel contains plenty of dark humour; with a satirical edge. Edward has an edge-of-your seat siege to deal with. It is an adventure story and a thriller that starts in Surrey, travels to the high and low spots of London, before Edward is flung into an intriguing new life in Berkshire by chance. This is a novel about chance and about how one’s choices can affect chance. It reveals how spiritual renewal can result from chaos and adversity. Although the more unpleasant side of human nature is explored, there is ultimately an optimistic slant to my novel.
It is contemporary fiction – following one man’s own personal credit crunch.
The work has the satirical edge of Tom Sharpe, there's some Iain Banks bizarreness, and a vein of Paulo Coelho spirituality that develops during the narrative. Readers who like satire and thrillers and a little walk on the wild side will be attracted to this work. It stands out from the crowd by being a hybrid mix of genres. It is sharp and funny and perceptive, the protagonist epitomizes disengaged, selfish individualism. Then there is the crime thriller element. It's also a touching fable - Noble is forced to find himself when he loses everything. The story would appeal to those who love these genres - it could be read as thriller, satire, spiritual enlightenment - or as all three in one for those who enjoy a genre mash-up!
So I hope this may appeal to some of you avid readers out there! It is available from Amazon Kindle.
Writing 'Serendipity' was a revelation to me. It took quite a bit of research, but it was the most joyous writing experience I have ever had. I re-read it when time had elapsed, and I was moved, amused and like, 'Did I really write that?' There was wisdom and insight in there that didn't appear to be my own. I was present in the moment when I was writing and miracles occurred as a result. Maybe, I venture, serendipity, entered into the proceedings?
Serendipity
The novel contains plenty of dark humour; with a satirical edge. Edward has an edge-of-your seat siege to deal with. It is an adventure story and a thriller that starts in Surrey, travels to the high and low spots of London, before Edward is flung into an intriguing new life in Berkshire by chance. This is a novel about chance and about how one’s choices can affect chance. It reveals how spiritual renewal can result from chaos and adversity. Although the more unpleasant side of human nature is explored, there is ultimately an optimistic slant to my novel.
It is contemporary fiction – following one man’s own personal credit crunch.
The work has the satirical edge of Tom Sharpe, there's some Iain Banks bizarreness, and a vein of Paulo Coelho spirituality that develops during the narrative. Readers who like satire and thrillers and a little walk on the wild side will be attracted to this work. It stands out from the crowd by being a hybrid mix of genres. It is sharp and funny and perceptive, the protagonist epitomizes disengaged, selfish individualism. Then there is the crime thriller element. It's also a touching fable - Noble is forced to find himself when he loses everything. The story would appeal to those who love these genres - it could be read as thriller, satire, spiritual enlightenment - or as all three in one for those who enjoy a genre mash-up!
So I hope this may appeal to some of you avid readers out there! It is available from Amazon Kindle.
Writing 'Serendipity' was a revelation to me. It took quite a bit of research, but it was the most joyous writing experience I have ever had. I re-read it when time had elapsed, and I was moved, amused and like, 'Did I really write that?' There was wisdom and insight in there that didn't appear to be my own. I was present in the moment when I was writing and miracles occurred as a result. Maybe, I venture, serendipity, entered into the proceedings?
Serendipity
