Stardrop

By Paul Mavin

Reduced by years of urban warfare and more recently the horrors of the selective global virus known as Stardrop, Florence Lindfores finds herself sitting in the office of a New York attorney on Christmas morning, staring in disbelief at an old leather case containing 482 letters written to her by a young Englishman 200 years before she was born. She is soon to discover however, that her curious gift was contrived more by the mischievous doings of angels, than the mysterious hand of God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Mavin
• Release date: Mar 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301172207

Book preview

Stardrop

Paul Mavin

Copyright © Paul Mavin 2012

Cover Image © Paul Mavin 2012

SmashwordsEdition

Paul Mavin has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights, reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author/publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

For my mother and father, who but for their love of dancing this book would never have been written. And for my wife Deirdre, who notices things that I don’t.

Table of Contents

Gaz73

Chapter1

Chapter2

Chapter3

Chapter4

Chapter5

Chapter6

Chapter7

Chapter8

Chapter9

Chapter10

Chapter11

Chapter12

Chapter13

Chapter14

Chapter15

Chapter16

Chapter17

Chapter18

Chapter19

Gaz79

Acknowledgements

Gaz73

Have you ever wondered where children go when the years have

measured their stride?

Leaving behind them their cellophane dreams, wrapped in bumps,

‘n scuffles ‘n cries.

They’re all hiding behind a scratch on the wall, their illianth in

which they must play.

And tomorrow… a yesterday walk ‘cross the backs …then on to

The Milky Way.

Chapter1

‘Ringerman and Sline. We got reservations.’

The solid American drawl flooded the lobby of The Orange Tree Hotel with a truck load of liquid fudge, coating the tired carpet with a temporary pile of respectability, while at the same time reducing the young receptionist to a sticky, inanimate mess behind the desk.

‘Thank you, Chantel,’ chirped a large, dapperly dressed man cruising effortlessly towards reception, intent on providing the benumbed girl with some much-needed support. ‘Good morning gentlemen, we have been expecting you. I trust you both had a pleasant flight.’

Mr Baz-Patel was the manager of The Orange Tree Hotel in Rhyme; a small traditionally run establishment situated in the centre of what had once been a bustling English market town, though long since greyed by decades of corrupt urban planning and more recently, the global collapse of tourism following the last pandemic. A large, well-rounded man with pale squashy skin and dark brown eyes, Mr Baz-Patel’s manner suggested punctiliously amiable rather than cuddly and warm, and with a slick of jet-black hair which left no margin whatsoever for casual disorder, he stood smiling behind the desk in stark contrast to the rather dog-eared state of his once fashionable hotel.

Today however, was a special day for him. Not only was it his fortieth birthday; an occasion boldly announced by way of a hurriedly worded banner strung across the lounge bar by some enthusiastic members of staff, generously proclaiming: Mr BAZ’s 40th - DRINKS ON THE HOUSE …but for the first time in over two years, Americans were here. And not just any old Americans - Stars.

He knew that from the moment they had walked into his lobby: tall, athletic, unnervingly good looking, and with that distinctive smell of cologne that had proliferated through the entire ground floor like an expensive refit.

‘My sister Indra lives in Cleveland,’ Mr Baz-Patel remarked, completing the formality of registration with consummate ease. ‘So I know how tiresome those transfers can be.’

‘It was okay,’ Ringerman replied, determined not to become bogged down with irritating small talk. ‘But now I guess we’d just like to get cleaned up as soon as possible, if you don’t mind.’

The American’s easy southern drawl - though not overtly unfriendly, was nevertheless a clear reminder that he was unaccustomed to being kept waiting. A gesture not lost on Mr Baz-Patel, who responded with appropriate zeal.

‘No problem gentlemen, if you would care to follow me.’ Mr Baz-Patel’s trained eye then settled on one item of luggage in particular. ‘Don’t trouble yourself with that case sir. I will have someone take it up to your room for you, it looks rather heavy.’

Almost imperceptibly, Sline tilted his body sideways and grasping the handle of a large black case, raised it effortlessly to his side, effectively dissuading any further insistence by the obliging hotelier.

Once again Mr Baz-Patel read the signs perfectly and moving gracefully (for a man of his size) led them brusquely across the tired lobby towards the lift where an illuminated green arrow indicated that it was already on its way down.

‘Our Centenary lounge gentlemen and beyond that is the dining room.’ At which point Mr Baz-Patel broke into another beaming smile. ‘Hah! I see they’ve not yet taken it down. They will soon have me out of business, the daft lot.’

The Americans registered a mild interest in the location of the dining room, however, not sufficient enough to inquire exactly what it was that had not yet been taken down.

‘It’s my birthday you see. The big 4 - 0,’ continued Mr Baz-Patel, undeterred by their languid indifference, which he naturally put down to travel fatigue.

‘Congratulations,’ Ringerman said politely.

‘Thank-you sir. Mind you it is not something I would like to make a habit of, if you know what I mean?’

‘They come and go,’ Ringerman murmured with languid automation.

‘Ah! You will see,’ Mr Baz-Patel responded, cheerfully deriding his guest’s youthful cynicism.

‘I hit mine in thirty-nine, durin’ a trip to Nanjing. Ten million people and not one of them knew it was my birthday. Like I said, they come and go.’

The lift door hissed open and out stepped a tall vivacious woman, carrying a glass of champagne in one hand and a pampered white Poodle puff clutched under her other arm like some grotesque snuffling shoulder bag.

‘Happy Birthday Mr Baz!’ the woman shrieked, raising her glass theatrically, while at the same time finding it almost impossible to detach her eyes from the two Americans. ‘You look positively divine.’

‘Thank you for the compliment, Ms Whitney,’ Mr Baz-Patel replied, dismayed that the smell of cologne had been so ruthlessly trashed by this woman’s intrusive perfume. ‘And may I say that you are looking particularly divine yourself today.’

If the Americans had noticed Mr Baz-Patel’s charming slight, then their expressions said nothing. Unlike Ms Whitney, whose unconditional acceptance of the compliment threatened to engulf the entire party.

‘Oh, you are too precious by far you lovely, lovely man,’ she cooed, crinkling her nose affectionately at him, while still quite clearly dancing to the spell woven by the presence of these handsome new guests.

‘Scuse me mam,’ Ringerman said, stepping past her into the empty lift, followed immediately by Sline, who ignored the conversation as though it were the background drone on some daytime chat show.

‘You’re Americans!’ she exclaimed, her voice positively frothing excitement. ‘Oh, how wonderful.’ However, before she could elaborate on just how wonderful it was, Mr Baz-Patel smiled courteously, stepped smartly in alongside the two men, and set the lift in motion towards the sixth floor, leaving Ms Whitney and her fluffy Bubbles Choo-Choo whirling in a state of unrequited euphoria in the gloom of the fading lobby.

It was a quiet ride to the sixth floor with neither side remotely interested in conversation; not least Mr Baz-Patel, whose normal social expertise had been unexpectedly stalled by the undisguised reticence of these glum Americans.

I had almost forgotten what a strange lot they can be, he thought, still puzzling over Ringerman’s earlier statement. Nanjing in thirty-nine. That would make him ninety-eight years old. The lift docked effortlessly, and the door hissed open. No wonder they have still got problems. No one should look that good at such an age.

Next morning the dull clatter of breakfast was gradually drawing to a close, with only a handful of latecomers murmuring inaudibly behind hurried cups of coffee before leaving to take on the business of the day. At the far end of the dining room, away from any last-minute requests, stood Max Bajic, the hotel’s head waiter, haunching the waistband of his tired black trousers up under his jacket while flicking a gathering of crumbs from a recently vacated table with the back of his long, bony finger.

A man not renowned for either his tact or his charm he seemed less agreeable than ever this morning, having already reduced one of his waitresses to tears following some minor misdemeanour during breakfast, he had then proceeded to stalk the corner of the room like a grey harpy, defying anyone to test his humour further.

A stream of unflattering sunlight burst across the room sapping any remaining colour from the once luxurious Prussian blue carpet, while threatening to dissolve the swathes of balding velvet drapes which now hung in lengths of frail decline. This room, that he knew better than his own soulless little bedsit, now stretched out before him. A shabby, naked acquaintance, seeking only a morsel of his affection in return for a lifetime of devoted service.

‘What a fucken dump,’ he murmured venomously, his narrow grey eyes scraping across the open nerves of those unfortunate enough to have mistimed their glance in his direction.

Insult after insult squabbled to find form inside his head, until it seemed the mania that had gripped him would suddenly manifest in more violent ways.

‘Ah, Max. Could you spare a moment?’ Halfway down the dining room Mr Baz-Patel’s copious head peered out from behind an anonymous staff door, waiting patiently for his disgruntled employee to join him. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I know how busy you are this morning, but you don’t happen to know the whereabouts of Old Tunney Lane do you?’

‘Where?’ The word - packed with nerve gas and toxic waste, smacked into Mr Baz-Patel’s head like a treacherous dumb-dumb, exploding: Max is in a right fucken foul mood right now so don’t go pissing him off, okay?

‘I’m sure they said it was Tunney Lane,’ Mr Baz-Patel replied, hoping that his discreet tones would encourage a little more propriety from his belligerent employee. ‘Our American friends are over here on business and could use a little local knowledge of the area.’

‘They’re no friends of mine,’ the waiter muttered coldly under his breath.

Though never having quite got to the bottom of Max’s overt bitterness towards them, Mr Baz-Patel had - on several occasions in the past, been given cause to caution him for his aggressive treatment of visiting Americans. What is more, the subsequent fallout from one particularly ugly confrontation, involving an equally ill-natured matron from Boston and the intended re-routing of one primed and cocked champagne cork had it seemed, come perilously close to costing both of them their jobs.

‘Yes, well they were very complimentary about the service at dinner last night Max. First class I believe is what they said.’

‘First class pair of wankers if you ask me,’ Max muttered again with predictable venom.

Spurred on by a nervous tinkling of cups on saucers, and chairs being vacated at tables 2, 5 and 11, Mr Baz-Patel moved swiftly to regain control of the conversation.

‘Personal feelings aside Max. And well, as we agreed last night…’

You agreed you creeping bastard.

‘They are guests here, and if we can help them in any way to locate this Tunney......’

‘Only Tunney I know is by Mere Park. Tunney Havens - where they bung all the old’ns. Out on the ring, about four kilometres near as damn it. Right shit hole. Suit them down to the ground. That it then?’

‘Yes, yes …well thank you Max, most helpful.’ And with that Mr Baz-Patel withdrew from any more unpleasantries, clearly relieved that his resolute firmness had finally paid off.

When word had got around that Americans were expected at the hotel, it had caused quite a stir amongst most members of staff, who had greeted the news with a general sigh of relief. Not least because it was the first real indication that things were finally returning to normal in the wake of the collective paranoia that had recently gripped the country.

Relief, however, was not an emotion that Max Bajic was naturally acquainted with, especially when associated with Americans, for whom he carried a deep personal loathing. Not that there was anything remotely complicated about his feelings towards them, he quite simply despised every last one of them. From their big, loud patronizing gobs, right down to their arrogant corporate brains. It was an obsession that had burned itself into his psyche as permanently as any inherited gene. So, if they were to be blamed for having refused him entry into The States all those years ago, resulting in a succession of crummy dead-end jobs and as many broken relationships, then they might just as well carry the can for the whole bloody lot so far as he was concerned.

A naturally gifted bully, Max had always made the best of any lean spells between visiting Americans, to harass anyone who exposed the slightest weakness or dissent towards him. But then as these local pickings rarely measured a blip on his savage radar they were inevitably doomed to suffer pointlessly, merely fulfilling his insatiable lust to hurt. And so, by the time last evening’s dinner was about to start, the fate of Ringerman and Sline was already in no doubt, Max having prepared their ritual humiliation with the same cold professionalism as would any contract assassin. Each minor delay, oily comment, exquisitely weighted innuendo perfected during years of endless mind games, would be deployed against them throughout the entire duration of their stay.

Except that this time revenge was neither sweet nor his for the taking, as in the space of five bloodless seconds the poisoned chalice he had carried so confidently to their table, was suddenly plucked from him: refilled, freeze-dried, and then shoved straight back up his own scrawny little arse.

In response to the visible signs of frustration emanating from table 13, around which he had already set up an embarrassing no-go area. No matter how pissed off the Americans get, you hear. Max had set off on his slow, executioner’s walk across the dining room. Then, slouching over them like some hunched, domesticated Condor, he had offered them his profuse apologies for any undue delay, assuring them of his personal attention for the duration of their stay at The Orange Tree Hotel. (Master of the Universe. His universe)

It was at that precise moment however, between trademark sneer and an uncharacteristic – fatal lapse in concentration, which had brought his steely eyes into direct contact with the one called Sline, that the master of the universe took a lightening sucker punch, from which he was destined never to recover.

Like so many of this new generation of Stars, Sline was disturbingly charismatic, his bearing and stature marking him as being from another race - another species altogether. For anyone not used to being in his presence, it was almost impossible not to be affected by his haunting, transsexual looks, or chilled by the sight of such dangerous, cold perfection.

Not that this had ever cut much ice with Max, who cared little for their classic good looks and even less for the threat posed by some massive intellectual retaliation which thus far at least, had failed even to dent his remarkably thick skin.

Pretty faces, big brains, no fucken common sense whatsoever, was his considered opinion of them. Therein lying the Achilles chink in his otherwise formidable battle armour. For what had happened at table 13, along the path of a single penetrating look from Sline (naked) …was swift, catastrophic and as surely as any malevolent thought that had ever passed through Max’s nasty little mind, calculated to run straight to the core of his twisted psyche and kill the heart. Though not immediately, as that much guile and bitterness, takes a while to break down. But over the succeeding days, weeks and years, the fallout from that single crisis of confidence would gradually eat him away until - without purpose (insignificant) he would become indistinguishable from the swathes of balding velvet drapes that clung so hopelessly from the windows of his shabby little dining hall. Then, worthless as the years that had eroded him, he would shuffle endlessly between tables, unable to distinguish between the clatter of crockery around him and the rattle of blind obscenities forever imprisoned inside his dying head (worthless ...invisible)

Bastards!

Thirty-six hours after first setting foot in the lobby of The Orange Tree hotel, the Americans were gone; without fuss or ceremony and in the same anonymous black cab that had brought them there.

It would be true to say that their visit had not exactly been the resounding success that Mr Baz-Patel had hoped for, and that clear endorsement that business was well and truly on the up and up, had simply not materialized.

But if Mr Baz-Patel had been left somewhat perplexed by the unnaturally low profile his two enigmatic guests had maintained during their brief stay, then so too had the snoops and gossips of the old town, who had sought to monitor their every move since their arrival. Ringerman and Sline it seemed had arrived, conducted their business (whatever that business might have been) and then left without offering the slightest hint or reason for their visit: save perhaps a discreet inquiry concerning the whereabouts of Old Tunney Lane. A spark of information grudgingly passed between Max Bajic and Mr Baz-Patel, but then left to flicker and die on the dining room floor of The Orange Tree Hotel. And so, for a community steeped in rumour and tittle-tattle, the absence of a single embryo of hard evidence to work on had left them with no credible alternative, other than to make something up. Something - it had turned out, that would inevitably miss the mark by a giant leap of imagination …and not least, a couple of hundred years.

Chapter2

(A glimpse behind the scratch on the wall)

The clock on the old Norman church struck one. It sounded distant over the water, almost as if it had decided to speed off in the opposite direction to avoid disturbing the lake’s dreamy tranquillity. In the field separating the church and its small cemetery from this ancient pool, a gang of black and white Frisian cows moved lazily down the grassy slope to wallow knee-deep in the soothing mire at the water’s edge, swiping mechanical tails at the hoards of cocky bandit flies that had willingly escorted them there. There was a rhythm to their languid procession, a slow deliberate beat in perfect time with everything around them; for in these balmy conditions nothing moved unless it had to, and if it did the tendency was to keep it short and slow.

In a few more seconds this same dreamy idyll will be shattered by a more urgent call - a single word with a gravity all of its own, capable of attracting the attention of everyone and everything to it.

‘Help!’

Out in the middle of the lake, a boy stood precariously balanced on the damp planks running along the bottom of a small wooden rowing boat, staring anxiously into the water where two drenched heads had just broken the surface close by, sending shock waves into the side of the frail dinghy. One of the emerging swimmers appeared animated and from his deliberate actions, clearly alive. Whereas it soon became balefully obvious to the watching boy that the other was in a far worse state, if not completely lifeless.

Chapter3

Florence Lindfores looked back over her shoulder along the deserted street to admire the line her motorcycle tyres had just cut through the fresh fall of snow. A simple enough pleasure, but along with so many other things these days, one that seemed to have deserted her until now.

It was 8am on December 25th - Christmas Morning. A day once so special to her, the date now hung like an empty carcase with all the joy and mystery picked clean. And so with no particular reason that she could readily think of, why she should suddenly abandon this miserable excursion and take off into the morning, she uttered a few brief instructions to shut down the engine and deploy the stand which slid noiselessly from below the chassis, anchoring the bike firmly to the road. Climbing off, she stood to watch as a lone yellow cab hissed slowly towards her through a pall of frozen breath, she had involuntarily blown around it.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she murmured sarcastically after it, noticing the near-total destruction of her perfect tyre line in the virgin snow. Then turning quickly away, she climbed the short flight of stone steps to a large blue door which she proceeded to thump twice with her clenched gloved fist, ignoring the more formal bell push on the wall. As the muffled thud jarred the air both inside and outside of the building, her eyes moved belatedly to a modest brass plaque which confirmed that this was the address she was supposed to be at, at this ridiculous hour in the morning.

Lehman & Riis

Attorneys at Law

‘You’ve got just ten seconds and I’m out of here,’ she murmured impatiently. Then almost as if her muffled threat had matched the exact combination of the lock, a dull metallic clunk emanating from inside the heavy portal, caused half of the large door to swing slowly open. ‘Someone’s up then,’ she murmured again, stamping any remaining snow from her boots before walking into a large, dimly lit hallway, where the only audible sign of occupation was the funeral tick of a stern grandfather clock standing just inside the doorway.

You just never know what you’re gonna find tucked away behind these big old doors.

Her snow blank eyes quickly readjusted to notice several other curios and works of art dotted around the walls, including what appeared to be a rare piece of Shang jade sculpture sitting on a small plinth a short distance from where she was standing.

The door closed behind her with the same metallic click, masking perfectly, the sound of another door opening halfway down the hallway, through which stepped a sallow faced - potentially humourless young woman, whose hair had already submitted to the discipline of a severe bun.

As she approached - flat footed and expressionless, Florence couldn’t help but notice her eccentric response to the elements.

‘Good morning, Ms Lindfores.’ The young woman’s, voice was as crisp as the snow lying outside on the sidewalk.

Jees’s! You could get hypothermia in a dress like that.

‘Hi!’

‘I do hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long outside.’

Florence shook her head politely, content to play along with her grey formality - for the time being at least.

‘You wanna tell me where I can lose these?’ she asked, having already retracted her helmet into the collar of her long coat before reluctantly removing her gloves.

The young woman’s eyes flicked to a line of brass coat hooks just inside the doorway where two winter coats were already hanging.

Cold numbed your brain Lindfores?

‘Your gloves will be quite safe on the table. We are not expecting anyone else today.’

Did she detect a hint of sarcasm in her voice? Probably not. Probably just her being paranoid again as usual; conceding that if she had been asked to come in at this ungodly hour on Christmas Day, she would also be feeling pretty darned pissed off as well.

‘The Roden, is it an original?’ Florence asked, motioning towards a delicately crafted watercolour of a single oak tree hanging on the wall.

‘Of course,’ the young woman replied matter-of-factly. ‘If you would care to follow me, Mr Hartman is expecting you.’ With that, she turned and walked briskly back across the hallway towards a broad staircase which appeared to curve endlessly up to the first floor.

As she followed the pale yellow, gossamer dress up the polished wooden staircase onto a broad landing off which stood five anonymous oak doors, a thought suddenly struck her. The nameplate out front had said nothing about any Hartman. So I guess whatever I’m here for is lower down the food chain, and messes Lehman and Riis are still tucked up in their cosy little beds this cold and frosty morning.

With a sureness of stride that told Florence she had journeyed this route many times before, the young woman passed the first three doors without hesitation before stopping outside a less obvious portal secreted at the far end of the landing next to the washroom. Then wrapping her icicle fingers around a large brass doorknob, she proceeded to turn it sharply anticlockwise. When it refused to open, her lips pursed in an expression of mild irritation, followed by a hesitant push which still failed to make any impression on the stubborn door.

‘Couldn’t you just rip them off when they do that.’ Florence remarked, attempting to ease some of the young woman’s obvious embarrassment.

A second energetic twist, more or less along the same lines Florence had suggested, finally broke the seal releasing a warm aromatic blast into the corridor, instantly turning the young woman’s formal expression into a dreamy, seasonal glow.

I warned you not to make this trip Lindfores, she mused, remembering the mysterious envelope that had been handed to her by some fresh-faced kid outside Bellini’s restaurant during that first snowstorm, almost a week ago now. The handwritten note inside had simply requested that she attend the offices of Lehman & Riis, Attorneys at Law, 85 Old Row, Williamsburg, Brooklyn at 8:00 am on December 25th, where Mr Leonard Hartman would be pleased to receive her to discuss matters of the utmost importance.

It had almost ended up in the incinerator, as why would she want to ride halfway across town at that hour on Christmas morning, to meet some legal stiff neck she didn’t even know?

Then again, why not? Her last two Christmases had turned out shit, so what had she got to lose, except perhaps a few hours sleep? But then as she hardly slept these days anyway, what the hell did that matter either? She just hoped for his sake that it was as important as he had led her to believe it was.

As if suddenly reactivated by a coded signal the young woman quickly rallied her wits, and standing to one side, allowed Florence to enter the room where she was greeted by a young man with pale olive skin and wearing a formal, grey business suit.

‘Good morning, Miss Lindfores. Thank you for coming here in such hazardous conditions. My name is David Shalowitz, and this is Leonard Hartman, our senior partner.’

Florence glanced across the room to where an older, rather distinguished looking gentleman stood gazing out of the window at something down on the street. She noticed that he too was formally dressed but unlike his young associate, it could hardly have looked less out of place in this room which was already beginning to absorb her attention faster than a dry sponge.

‘He forgot to mention that I am also his grandfather,’ said the older man, who continued to look out through the window as if gauging the precise moment to turn to meet her. ‘A pretty face, and all of a sudden I become a senior partner.’

‘Thanks grandfather,’ said the young man laconically.

‘Still got the Zent I see,’ Mr Hartman remarked, finally turning away from the window and walking across the room to shake her hand. ‘What’s that, three years now? It’s an ugly old cuss and as heavy as hell, but it’s still about the best road bike around. A brave choice young lady.’

Yeh! And you would know of course, Florence thought, imagining this neatly dressed paragon of justice, sat astride her terrifying, Zent Friza Ballistic.

‘Grandfather takes a month out every Fall to ride his Zent up to see my parents in Montreal. My mother goes crazy with him for not taking the skyway instead.’

‘I’ve done it all my life and I’m darned if I’m going to stop now,’ said the old lawyer with a show of mock indignation.

‘Look, if this is about a