Stanley Kotep in: An Unexpected Turn of Events

By DC Clark

Stanley Kotep is just an ordinary man, an ordinary man with an extraordinary way of thinking. Working in a London-based computer games distribution company he believes he is destined for nothing more than a quiet life. That is until he receives a message inquiring as to whether he wants to know more about his sister. There is only one problem; Stanley doesn't have a sister!

Following the note's instructions; Stanley is lead on an incredible journey from Peckham to the United States and everywhere in between. Aided by an ancient order of knights, lead by the irrepressible Jancko Lazarus, Stanley finds himself on the run from the shadowy and deadly Organisation, a secret army of men in suits hell-bent on killing him.

Along the way he must discover the secrets of his past, and learn the extent of his true potential, in order that he might save his sister and modern society as he knows it!

• Language: English
• Publisher: DC Clark
• Release date: Jul 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301696840

Book preview

Stanley Kotep in:

An Unexpected

Turn of Events

By DC Clark

This book is dedicated to Joanna for her infinite patience, Nicholas for his advice and support and my family for providing inspiration through their insanity.

This book was written whilst under the heavy influence of music. It motivates every metaphor and accompanies every allegory. This work was a three-year labour of love. I became emotionally attached to my characters and for every word that I wrote down, there is an intro, a lyric or a chord that is fundamentally woven between the letters. The tracks I have chosen might not be to everyone’s tastes, the curse of being a closet emo, but it helped me visualise my novel as if I were watching a movie and maybe it could do the same for you. Who knows? Give it a go.

Afghan Hounds – We Gathered By The Hills

The Bronx – Three Dead Sisters

Iron Chic – Cutesy Monster Man

Japandroids – Continuous Thunder

Brand New – Okay I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don’t

Finch – What It Is To Burn

Cloud Nothings – Wasted Days

Dancing Years – Falling Wood

Deftones – Minerva

Foals – Inhaler

Great Lake Swimmers – Your Rocky Spine

Wye Oak – Civilian

Brand New – Voicemails/Sowing Season

Pulled Apart By Horses – Everything Dipped In Gold

Tubelord – Propeller

Billy Talent – Try Honesty

Gallows – Abandon Ship

CHAPTER ONE

A Peckham Cobbler

WHOUMPH

Stanley Kotep had been hanging in the air for what, to him, seemed like an entirely unreasonable length of time. The electromagnetic pulse hadn’t hit him but the force of the impact, as it had struck the stone floor, had sent him flying across the back room of the shoe repair shop. As he dangled there, in what Stanley could only assume was some form of suspended animation, he had time to, very reasonably and rationally, evaluate the situation that he found himself in. In the still air of the hidden room, the light from the numerous candles glinted and glittered, reflected by the cascade of dust motes that floated there. Beyond them, framed in the once-concealed doorway stood the man, tall and angular, who had fired the pulse at them.

Pulse? Was that the right word to describe it? Bubble? Blast? Belch?

A belch of bubbles? Stanley struggled to draw his focus back to the matter in hand, finding his mind becoming preoccupied with images of opera singers downing bottles of washing up liquid and burping out librettos. Concentration and attention span had always been two of Stanley’s biggest personality defects, as various people in his life had periodically reminded him. However, contrary to what these people thought, he wasn’t completely oblivious to these problems. It was more a case of his failure to be able to counteract them. Stanley knew when his mind was wandering, but before he could do anything, it had already rambled over the ridge of inanity and was beginning to ascend the peak of ridicule, leaving him very little chance of orientating his befuddled psyche back to where it should be.

Finally, he regained his train of thought. The matter in hand was that of the two very different individuals who had just entered his life; the man who had fired the pulse (bubble/blast/belch) at him and the elderly gentleman he had just met. From his current position, suspended three feet above the ground in a horizontal manner, he couldn’t see where the old guy, Jancko Lazarus, was but Stanley hoped that he was alright. He had seemed nice. In his direct line of vision stood the thin, grey-suited man his arm still outstretched, pointing the black tube-like weapon he had used to fire the pulse (bubble/blast/belch/WHOUMPH).

As Stanley looked at the man’s pale, harsh-looking face they locked eyes and the spell that had seemed to slow time down to a crawl was suddenly broken. With a bone-jarring thud, Stanley crashed to the floor and he let out a yelp of pain. Looking up, he saw the tall man leap from the doorway across the room with startling agility. The room itself was deceivingly long, at least forty feet, yet the man had covered almost a third of this with a single jump from a standing start. Stanley’s jaw dropped in astonishment and he stared in awe at the man, only realising too late the imminent danger he found himself in. Whilst the man was no longer pointing the weapon at him, he had a certain look on his face, one that could only be classified as unmitigated intent, which convinced Stanley that he was in serious trouble.

Trying to push himself up, he realised that the man was far too quick and athletic and he stood no chance of evading his attacker. That was, until he felt a strong hand grab his collar and pull him backwards, yanking him away just as the man in the grey suit landed on the very spot where he had been lying. Whoever had grabbed him was freakishly strong and they continued dragging Stanley backwards, his feet scrabbling helplessly for purchase on the dusty stone floor. Twisting his neck around he found, to his surprise, that it was Jancko Lazarus who had saved him. The short old Caribbean cobbler had a look of fearsome determination on his face as he pulled Stanley over towards the end of the room, to what appeared to be a bare brick wall.

Without even pausing, Jancko reached and grabbed a previously unseen length of rope, protruding through the mortar, and a secret door swung open. Shoving Stanley through the opening, the old man swiftly followed before pulling the other end of rope and enveloping them in complete darkness just as the tall man sprang for them once more. From the other side of the wall, Stanley heard a heavy thud as the man outside collided with the now closed door. Chuckling at the loud grunt, he was silenced by Jancko’s soft Trinidadian accent in his ear and a rough, sandpapery hand grabbing his.

Come on, boy. We don’t have much time.

###

The whole situation had started the day before at Gameplay, the computer games distribution company that Stanley Kotep had worked at for a number of years. Stanley had been hunched over his desk earnestly cutting up a sheet of paper with some scissors, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. He had actually been attempting to create his own jigsaw and it was proving to be an engrossing exercise. Stanley had spent the vast majority of the morning drawing an elaborate, yet undeniably poor, caricature of his boss driving a convertible sports car.

The abortive artwork wasn’t designed as an insult to JJ Whitaker, in fact Stanley quite liked the man, his irritable boss was just the unwitting beneficiary of Kotep’s spontaneous creativity. Probably, sub-consciously this had something to do with the non-stop interaction that occurred between the two. From the moment Stanley entered the office in the morning, JJ Whitaker would be badgering him for not doing something that needed to be done or for doing something that didn’t need to be done or even for not doing something that didn’t need to be done. Stanley was well aware that his manager didn’t like him and yet far from inspiring him to make an effort in his daily role and thus earning JJ Whitaker’s trust, it actually had quite a negative effect. The pressure of JJ’s constant haranguing seemed to, if anything, encourage Stanley’s bouts of daydreaming and adverse behaviour.

In fact, at that very moment, as Stanley had glanced up towards JJ’s office, he had seen his boss stood there sipping from a mug and glaring towards him with seething enmity. Attempting to inject some levity into the awkwardness of unexpected eye contact, Stanley had tried a smile. His response was that of JJ reaching towards the blinds and flicking them closed with an unnecessarily aggressive action. Sighing, Stanley had shaken his head and turned back to his makeshift jigsaw, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate on it now. Something was disturbing him but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Staring around the office, he had observed the majority of his colleagues engrossed in their tasks, taking calls, inputting data or filing paperwork in the vast banks of cabinets. His eyes had completed a full pan of the room before he finally figured out what it was that was putting him off so much. The phone on his desk was ringing.

Good morning Gameplay, your gateway to games. This is Katy Bryden speaking, how may I help you?

Before Stanley had been able to pick up the receiver, his colleague had reached over his shoulder and taken the call for him. This wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last, and Katy seemed to accept Stanley’s reticence with a weary humour. Before he could interject, Katy had interacted politely with the customer, tapped a few details into Stanley’s computer and finished off with a couple of clicks of the mouse.

I’ve sent your order to print. Next time, listen out for your phone, She had said sternly before relenting at the expression on his face and smiling. Now go and pick up your print and file it, you cheeky monkey.

Thanks Katy. I was just about to answer it though, I promise. He had grinned.

Sure you were, Hi colleague had laughed before pointing to the printer in the middle of the office where his prints were smoothly sliding out.

Joining in her laughter without fully understanding why, Stanley had made his way towards the printer whereupon he was almost bowled over by the rapidly advancing figure of JJ Whitaker.

###

JJ had never considered himself a bad person. Or a particularly vituperative or vindictive one. In fact, before he had started at Gameplay he would have liked to think of himself as a laidback kind of guy with an easy sense of humour. Gameplay was his first management role but in every other job he had ever held, he had always got on well with colleagues, junior and senior. There was something about Stanley however, that seemed to stir JJ up into a passive aggressive frenzy.

He had first encountered Stanley’s peculiar nature on the day he started at Gameplay, eighteen long months ago. Being shown around the office by his new Sales Director, he had been introduced to the dark haired young man and had been astounded to observe him attempting to extricate his computer monitor from where it had somehow been firmly wedged into a wastepaper bin. JJ had taken a step back, expecting the director to discipline the unruly employee, and yet his new boss had simply let out a gale of laughter and clapped Stanley on the back before helping him free the trapped item of computer equipment.

If JJ had thought that this might possibly be an isolated example of the absurd nature of Stanley Kotep, then he was swiftly proved wrong. Stanley’s job description was relatively straightforward. The sum total of work that was expected of employees in his department was to take orders by phone, check on a computer to see if they were in stock and then to send the order electronically down to the warehouse. JJ Whitaker didn’t believe that he had ever seen Stanley Kotep complete this process, but he had been told by other members of the staff that, on occasion, he did actually carry out the job that he was paid to do. However, it wasn’t just his general ineptitude that marked Stanley out as a particularly useless worker, it was the extravagant calamities that seemed to follow him around like an exceptionally pungent aroma. As far as JJ could tell, these incidents were generally created by Stanley’s lack of concentration and composure and also by his lateral, and often bizarre, logical process. The man seemed to operate on a completely different plane to everyone else. To JJ, someone who believed in the merits of a tidy mind and a good work ethic, this was simply unacceptable.

After three weeks witnessing the catalogue of occurrences created and exacerbated by Stanley Kotep, and after following the correct process of a verbal warning followed by a written one, JJ Whitaker had visited his Sales Director in order to obtain the permission necessary to dismiss Kotep. It was at this point where things had started to become distinctly odd. Leaning back in his chair and sighing, JJ’s boss had proceeded to explain that, whilst he understood the position that JJ was in, Stanley Kotep would not be dismissed. Severely perplexed, JJ had pushed the Director on the subject, listing incident after incident in which Stanley had shown himself to be a serious liability and demanding explanations as to why these examples weren’t sufficient. Infuriatingly, his boss had batted off his questions with a casual shrug and an instruction to cease his insistences. So, it was at this stage where JJ had gradually allowed his frustration to twist and mutate into a form of obsession.

Unable to sack the younger man, JJ had subsequently spent his days attempting to uncover every single mistake Stanley had ever made. This wasn’t hard; mistakes seemed to follow Kotep around as rats did the Pied Piper. Cataloguing these errors in great and somewhat disturbing detail, JJ would then demand a meeting with his superiors and present them with an in-depth analysis as to why Kotep’s employment should cease with immediate effect. Every single time, however, JJ was met with a chorus of sidelong glances and gestures of mute helplessness and the answer he received was exactly the same as the very first one.

JJ found himself possessed by an overwhelming sense of fury when he considered Stanley, a point emphasised as he had found himself staring out at his colleague from between his office blinds. As he had stood there stewing, JJ knew that what annoyed him most about the whole situation was that, as utterly infuriating as JJ found Kotep, he could never bring himself to truly hate the man. Stanley was boneheaded, idiotic, idle and oblique to the point of autism but he wasn’t a bad person. Beneath all of his inner turmoil and repressed desires, JJ was still, above all, a decent person and he could tell that whilst Stanley had some serious issues, nothing he did was ever done with any malicious intent. JJ’s anger was directed at the space around Stanley; the people who put up with him, smiled at his absurd calamities, the bosses who justified his employment, they were the reason that circumstances had escalated to the extent that they were at now. Their actions, their accommodation, only enabled and encouraged Stanley’s behaviour. Without telling someone that what they are doing is wrong, then how are they to ever learn that it is? JJ seemed to be the only one aware of this, yet his voice was lost in the clamour of acceptance from the rest of the world.

Flicking his blinds open again had seen Katy Bryden, a bright young woman who had been at Gameplay a fraction of the time that Stanley had, lean over and answer Kotep’s phone whilst the man himself continued to fiddle around with scraps of paper on his desk. Upon seeing this, something within JJ had finally snapped. The years of bottling up his frustrations and behaving like a responsible manager, always following the correct procedure, spilled over into something approaching manic rage. JJ flung open his office door and made a beeline for Stanley’s desk, with every intention of socking the young man on the jaw.

As his office door had swung outwards, it struck the wall behind with an alarming bang and, unable to stop himself, JJ had looked round in concern, hoping that he had not left any damage. Fortunately, the only evidence was a small scuff of the eggshell paintwork but as he had returned his gaze to Kotep, JJ couldn’t help but help but catch a glimpse of his reflection in the window of a darkened office opposite. He struggled to repress a shudder at the man he had become. By rights, JJ should have been a handsome man; tall and well built, with blue eyes and the kind of sandy blonde hair usually reserved for the modern matinee idols of Hollywood. But there was something slightly off key about every one of JJ’s features, and while he used to capture admiring glances from passing ladies, now all he received were pitying stares. He no longer seemed as tall, his spine curved from the past few years spent hunched over his desk. His formerly athletic physique was now smudged and bloated by the regular diet of lager and takeaway curries. The blue eyes no longer sparkled and instead swam in a pool of dilated conjunctival vessels, the evidence of a dependence on alcohol and a lack of sleep. His hair was now a dull blond and greasy with it, giving JJ the appearance of a man who was washed out and washed up.

This mirror image had served to provoke two differing reactions within JJ. Firstly, it had further enraged him by drawing to his attention to the state that Stanley Kotep had driven him to, his general decline a by-product of the withering obsession. The second emotion, however, had simply discombobulated him. Whilst his anger had not dimmed, it seemed as though the compass with which he directed it lost any sense of direction, the needle flicking around the face wildly. How could he possibly blame somebody else for his own lack of motivation and ambition? The aimless existence as a middle manager at a medium sized and moderately successful company was nothing to do with Kotep. Gameplay was meant to be a stepping-stone on his path to a career in high-end business management. But JJ had stuttered and stalled, losing focus and purpose before finally settling for a life dedicated to dismissing one idiotic employee. It had cost him his relationship, his girlfriend no longer seeing any prospects in the bitter worker drone that he had become.

So, JJ Whitaker’s fury had been a wild one. One that was indiscriminate, and could either end up developing into a fully fledged assault or, conversely, could just as easily peter out into a tame stare or half-arsed comment. His internal struggle defining which of the two angers it was that gripped him meant that, as he had stalked down the central aisle between the rows of desks, he had almost missed his intended victim, as Kotep made his way over to the photocopier situated in the centre of the room. JJ’s shoulder had collided with Stanley’s, sending the other man swaying over the nearest desk, before Kotep managed to regain his balance and turned to smile at his manager. JJ had carried on a couple of steps before realising that he had overshot and spinning around, flustered and sweating, he began to remonstrate with his cheerful employee.

Kotep, He had begun, before realising that he actually had no idea what he was going to say or do.

JJ, Stanley had responded happily before turning to the copier to retrieve his prints.

Mr Whitaker, JJ had attempted an impotent correction before, realising how facile it made him seem, adding superciliously. Actually, just call me JJ.

I...uh...I did, Stanley Kotep had looked confused and JJ winced at how petty he had come across.

Yes…well…that’s all by-the-by, He had continued self-importantly, hoping a short blast of pomposity could adequately cover his shortcomings. I happened to be looking out of the window of my office and noticed that you failed to take a call. Not only that, but you allowed your colleague, Miss Bryden, to take the call for you instead.

Really? When? Kotep had looked even more confused than before.

Just now, With gritted teeth, JJ had tried to keep his voice low and even, but a slight quaver betrayed his anger. Whilst you were fiddling with those bits of paper on your desk. That’s why you’re currently picking up the order confirmation that Katy kindly printed off for you.

Oh, right I see, Stanley had glanced down at the sheets of paper in his hand and a smile of comprehension broke across his features. Well, you see, it’s really quite easy to explain. What happened was that I was constructing this rather ingenious jigsaw. I think you’d quite like it actually. Come over and I’ll show you.

JJ had been about to unleash the dogs of hell upon Kotep. He was on the verge of bellowing his years of frustration into the younger man’s face, informing him at full volume of the exact consequences of his high jinks and ineptitude. At that point, he was the closest he had ever been to sacking the man, listing all of his numerous and many-faceted faults, before sealing it with a hefty rabbit punch to the stomach. In fact, for a man who had never even been involved in a physical confrontation in his adult life, JJ was the closest he had ever been, fists clenched and the last remaining muscles bunched under the sweaty polyester of his work shirt.

JJ Whitaker had been so close. At the edge, on the cusp, on the verge.

Ready to rumble, as they said.

That was, until the man in the motorcycle helmet had interrupted.

Ranrry Rorrep? A muffled voice had enquired from below the lowered visor.

Both Kotep and JJ had turned to the new arrival inquisitively with the same question, phrased ever so slightly differently.

Excuse me? Stanley had asked brightly.

What? Was the barked question from JJ.

The visitor had responded by lifting his visor, revealing a flushed, chubby and acne-pocked face.

Sorry gents, I always do that. I’m new to this game, you see? I’m looking for a Stanley Kotep. I assume it’s a mister, although you never know nowadays do you?

The jovial Cockney accent belied a native of East London and his tight-fitting and bulging leathers had indicated that the man was, in all likelihood, a motorcycle courier.

I’m Stanley Kotep and I’m definitely a mister, Kotep had laughed and JJ cringed visibly.

Kushti pal, sign here would you? The courier had said, producing a clipboard in one hand. In the other he held a manila envelope.

Stanley had grabbed the clipboard eagerly and signed with a flamboyant scrawl.

For me?! Oh, I never get post, this is so exciting! He had grinned at JJ, who responded by turning to the courier.

Are we done here? Some of us need to get back to work.

Charming! Snorted the chubby motorcyclist, before adding sarcastically. I’ll be on my way then. Some of us have work to do, you know?!

JJ had turned after the man, searching for the perfect riposte, something that would put the courier firmly in his place. But at that point, as so often was the case nowadays, his brain failed him. He had never been the quickest witted as a young man, but any socially adept teenager learns the basic trade of the diss and counter-diss. This technique was then honed over the years, usually using a standard formulaic format that involved the invocation of ‘your mum’ at some point or another. JJ’s brain was blunted however, his spirit dulled, and he had merely stood there in the middle of the office, arm raised and mouth half-open, desperately searching for the final retort as the courier closed the security door heavily behind him.

"So, by work do you mean fried chicken and by do do you mean eat?" JJ had yelled limply to the empty office before turning around quickly, heartened to find that none of his staff members appeared to have noticed his embarrassing denouement.

Kotep had actually been excitedly engaged in tearing open the envelope he had received, and so JJ seized upon this opportunity to further berate his colleague.

Right, that will do then, He had approached Kotep’s desk. I think it’s high time you got back to work.

Infuriatingly, Stanley Kotep hadn’t paid him the blindest bit of attention, he was completely engrossed in the contents of the package and a frown had creased his brow, something JJ didn’t think he had ever seen. In fact, JJ wasn’t sure that he had ever witnessed Stanley more focussed and serious than he had been at that moment, the younger man biting on a thumbnail distractedly as he had studied a square of paper in his hand. Unable to contain his curiosity, JJ had inched closer and stared over Kotep’s shoulder.

In Stanley Kotep’s hand had been two photographs, with a brightly coloured note stapled to the second. The two photos were of different people and, indeed, they looked to be taken by different cameras at completely different times. The first had been a Polaroid picture of Stanley, clearly oblivious as he opened the entrance door of the Gameplay building. How he had remained unaware was quite astounding, given that the photo was taken from under three feet away and Polaroids are notorious for lacking the ability to zoom in or out on the subject. The second photo had been different altogether, taken on what seemed to be an analogue SLR camera, sometime in the mid eighties. It was in colour and showed a pretty young girl, with a serious face and dark hair, dressed in a stern and unfussy school uniform.

The note pinned to it had been printed on an old typewriter by the looks of it, the lettering slightly out of alignment.

If you want to know what happened to your sister, come to the address on the back of the photo.

JJ had looked with genuine interest at his colleague, as Kotep had spluttered, in complete and utter bafflement.

Sister? But I don’t have a sister!

###

The address on the back of the photo was one of, oddly enough, a shoe repair shop in South London. Double-checking both photos and the envelope again to make sure he wasn’t missing something obvious, Stanley had quickly decided what he was going to do. Turning to his boss, he had pointed to the photo in his hand before attempting an apologetic half-smile.

Sorry, Stanley had said, as if just the one word was necessary explanation, before turning back to his desk and grabbing his black overcoat from the back of his chair.

The final piston in the overworked and underused engine room of JJ Whitaker’s brain had clearly blown. Even Stanley, in his world of distracted inattentiveness, had expected some kind of reaction. Instead, his manager had just stood there, not angry or upset or, indeed, anything. It was as if he was a robot who had simply been switched off at the plug. JJ had stood there staring blankly into space, his mouth gently opening and closing, like the last desperate death throes of a fish on land. Pausing a second, as if to say something, Stanley had decided better of it. It was more prudent to get out there and then, embark upon the unravelling of the mystery and deal with the consequences later, rather than to say something that might have provoked his manager into forcibly stopping his exit.

The journey to Peckham had been reasonably straightforward. Whilst the warehouse and distribution centre for Gameplay were based on a faceless industrial estate on the outskirts of one of London’s plethora of satellite towns, the sales and administration offices were situated on the first floor of an old Royal College of Surgeons building in High Holborn, right in the depths of central London. From Holborn tube station, it was a five minute hop to Bond Street on the Central Line where he had changed and took the Jubilee Line to Canada Water, whereupon he had taken the over ground service to Peckham Rye. In less than forty minutes he had been stood outside the entrance to Peckham Rye train station, studying the address on the back of the photo and trying to work out where exactly it was in relation to where he had emerged.

Stanley’s sense of direction in the vast metropolis was by no means lacking, after years of living in the city he had developed a Londoner’s natural ease with the complex transport system. Like a homing pigeon it became second nature, he would automatically know if a tube service ran to a certain area or which bus might be quicker than another. That said, there was a vast difference between having a working knowledge of the transport links and navigating yourself around one of the numerous hives of boroughs that made up the great city. Eventually, after much deliberation, Stanley had given up and asked a nearby newspaper vendor who informed him that it was less a five minute walk to the cobbler’s shop.

Lazarus Shoe Repairs was located on that kind of back street that if you didn’t know were there, you would never find it. It couldn’t do much in passing trade; the only access to it was by a narrow one-way street that led to a larger road parallel to Peckham High Street. It was sandwiched between a carpet shop that looked as though it may have just gone out of business and an ironmonger’s that could, quite feasibly, have been deliberately camouflaged in the thick coat of grime and dirt that coated the exterior. If an estate agent were to attempt to sell any of the properties on the obscure back street, they might be tempted to refer to the road as cobbled in an attempt to gentrify the area, when in reality it was just a hazardous jumble of stone and concrete.

Arriving at his destination, Stanley had checked the address one more time, just to confirm that he actually had the correct location. The whole situation was odd, even for him. Why would the mysterious photographer choose such a remote location to meet? As quickly as he had asked himself the question, however, Stanley dismissed it. The meeting place was incidental; it wasn’t the important matter in hand. It was like the cone that held an ice cream. It could be made from wafer or cardboard, or even plastic, but it wouldn’t affect your choice of ice cream. If you wanted pistachio then you would have it, regardless of the container it was served up in. Or mint, Stanley considered. It would definitely be pistachio or mint. Maybe pistachio on a hotter day, at the beach for instance? Or mint after a meal? Mint ice cream after a meal felt almost natural. Stanley supposed it was to do with the abundance of after dinner mints offered in restaurants. So began the endless and debilitating debate with his own conscious that Stanley constantly endured. Once he found his mind veering off at a tangent, it was often very hard to steer it back to more pressing and current issues, and so he employed a technique that he had discovered worked when he desperately needed to concentrate.

Closing his eyes, Stanley had conjured up a picture in his imagination. The image was that of a post-post-modernist painting. It was the sort that would have hung in the Tate during the late eighties, and consisted of a mess of squiggles and shapes that construed no meaning other than that of utter chaos. Stanley’s particular mental image resembled a tangled mess of vines and garden creepers; yet it was etched in black upon a white background. Breathing evenly and steadily, Stanley focussed on the picture in his head and slowly the vines began to untangle themselves from one another, ever so slowly receding from the image. Eventually, once the last of the garden weeds had retreated leaving a pure white background, Stanley could open his eyes and focus upon the present situation.

Immediately, he had known where he was and what he needed to do, regardless of the fact that it had taken him twenty seconds to identify this. For years he had found it simply impossible to rein in his rampant sub-conscious when it went on a metaphorical rampage, storming from one subject to another with little regard for the value of any. Stanley had no idea when or where he had learned the concentration technique, but it worked and it made his life easier so he was happy to just go with it. At secondary school, his teachers and indeed his aunt and uncle had been certain that he suffered from either ADHD or Asperger’s Syndrome such were the severity of his symptoms. Stanley knew this wasn’t the case however, and if he had to diagnose himself he would suggest a strong case of daydreamitits with occasional bouts of detachment from reality.

The door to the shop had opened with a creak of ancient wood and a screech of metal hinges that begged to be oiled, followed by the mournful chime of a lonely bell. Stanley had stepped inside and immediately felt an assault on his senses. Struggling to adjust his eyes to the light he had peered through the gloom and called out.

Hello?

Taking a deep breath, he had immediately been struck by the rich, overpowering musk of new leather.

Can I help you? A deep baritone had rung from the darkened recesses of the shop.

Yet Stanley had been lost in memories, transported to another time that just about clung on to the wispy, tendril edges of his memory. It was the same whenever he thought about his parents, he preferred for the memories to gradually ebb away rather than to be reminded of the loss. But this one just hadn’t quit. Flashes of a trip to America; a ranch in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, his parents happy, eating and laughing with their friends, the young Stanley exploring the ranch and coming across the stables, becoming entranced, spending hours running his fingers over the intricately embroidered saddles that hung from the hitching posts…

Can I help you? The voice had called out again and this time Stanley’s eyes, adjusting to the murk of the poorly lit room, could make out the shape of a stocky figure emerging from the shadows.

Still mired in the past, Stanley had been unable to stop himself from asking with a hopeful lilt.

Have you got any saddles?

###

JJ Whitaker had looked up from his spreadsheet with a sigh and rubbed his red eyes. It was coming to a point where, even when Kotep wasn’t there, he couldn’t stop obsessing over him. He had just been filling in the weekly timesheets and was unsurprised to find that he had subconsciously entered Stanley Kotep’s name into every shift, each day, for the next two weeks. Why had he allowed his employee to just walk out of the office with no explanation? Helpless and impotent, he had stood there, knowing that what, for other people, could be a serious disciplinary matter would be little more than a slap on the wrist for Kotep. At least he could have said something, give the impression of a modicum of control rather than remaining mute and flaccid.

Slowly, JJ had stretched his neck and then, in one sudden movement, slammed his forehead down onto his desk. It made quite a noise and JJ hadn’t been surprised to find that he was a little stunned when he had raised his head again. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he let it go? At times, JJ worried that he was gay, given the amount of time that he spent thinking about Kotep. He could swiftly dismiss this notion however, as on the whole these thoughts tended to centre on different methods of torturing Stanley to within an inch of his life, as opposed to any repressed sexual desires.

Yet, the motivation behind these thoughts could not be ignored. Despite their heterosexual nature, the unashamed and barely concealed loathing perforated every aspect of his life and had undoubtedly cost him his relationship with Becca. When they had met, JJ was just finishing a university course in Business Management, and they had spent the following, blissful summer tentatively flirting with one another. Then, once he was gainfully employed, he had asked Becca out. It had seemed perfect, he could not imagine a better match, every date they had was ideal. He now had the money to treat her to the nicest restaurants, weekends away, gigs for the up-and-coming, coolest bands. JJ knew other people, his friends included, had looked upon him and Becca with envy. They were attractive, intelligent and cool and JJ was looking forward to spending the rest of his life in a state of similar contentment.

Then, just when it seemed his life could not get any better, JJ got a call from Gameplay, who were, in effect, headhunting him for a role in their main offices in London. Whilst this wasn’t necessarily the logical career trajectory for JJ, the money was much better and he would be able to afford the rent on an apartment in a desirable and hip district such as Camden or Dalston. Becca was always going on about living in these areas, with their zeitgeist bars and café culture and although it never bothered him, JJ would have moved there in a second if he thought it would impress her. So, he did and she was suitably impressed. Her reaction had helped to make JJ’s mind up; he was going to ask Becca to marry him. He had bought the ring, booked the best table at the trendiest new Argentinian steakhouse in Clapham Junction. They had sat and talked and laughed over two delicious courses and the best part of two bottles of Chilean Merlot. Becca had looked even more stunning than usual by the flickering candlelight and they had talked animatedly about Becca’s dreams of becoming a fashion designer, opening a boutique once she had managed to borrow enough money from her pliable and genial old father. Then, once he was certain that the time was right and the moment was perfect, he had taken a deep breath, feeling his confidence bolstered by the alcohol in his bloodstream, and asked the question. Becca had looked back at him, a perfect gift from above with her blonde hair cut fashionably into a bob and her green eyes catching turquoise in the candlelight, and replied.

No.

JJ had spoken the words mournfully out loud, the only audience his empty office, as he recalled the most painful and awkward moment of his life.

The worst thing about it had been that Becca hadn’t even bothered to feign inner turmoil; the sheer terror of getting married had forced her to blurt the honest answer into his unsuspecting face. The very next day, JJ had met Stanley Kotep, shaking the bungling idiot’s hand as he was shown around his new workplace, shortly to discover what his new colleague was really like. His relationship with Becca had lasted a further six months after he joined Gameplay. She began to stay over at his flat less and less and pointedly never invited him to stay at hers. Then, one day she stopped returning his calls and refused to let him in if he tried to see her. A week later he received a brief text message.

Srry. Cnt do ths nymore. Luv u. Lets stay m8s x

At first he thought he would get over it. He was a good-looking charismatic guy with a decent job. Surely, he would be able to find someone else and begin to get on with his life. This, unfortunately, didn’t happen. Firstly, he had vastly underestimated how much in love he was with Becca. After they had split he would spend hours listening to albums by every single one of the bands whose gigs they had been to see together, all the time forcing mountains of pizza, ice cream and alcohol down his throat. JJ hadn’t had any meaningful relationships since. Or any meaningless flings come to think of it. The nearest JJ got to a bond with a woman was when the randy old pensioner over the road peered round her net curtains and gave him a coy wink. God bless Mrs MacGuire…

Mr Whitaker?

JJ’s depressing reverie had been interrupted by a heavily accented, almost robotic, voice. He had looked up to find two men in his office. This odd situation became even stranger given that JJ became certain that he hadn’t heard the door to his office open. Switching back into work-mode, JJ swivelled his chair to face them full on, raising his brow and pressing the tips of his fingers together, elbows placed firmly on the desktop, before asking.

Yes gentlemen, how may I help you?

It was only then that JJ had noticed how distinctively the men were dressed; matching immaculately cut grey Italian designer suits, white shirts and black ties. Too fashionable for civil servants or police officers, yet too uniform to be a couple of solicitors. The one who had spoken was very tall while the other was smaller with more of a bullish physique; both were exceedingly pale, with blonde hair and had distinctly unmemorable faces. They looked like a pair of fascist new-romantics.

Not so much how you can help us, Mr Whitaker, The taller man had intoned smoothly More a case of how we can help you.

There had been a long pause, drawn out almost theatrically.

I believe you have a slight Kotep problem.

THE BOY

It was an idyllic day in middle England and a warm and gentle eddying breeze sent white puffs of cloud scudding across the azure expanse of sky. The sun was warm and bright, but not unyielding, and in a small woodland clearing, the sort that could be found anywhere across the Home Counties, the trees provided a cool and refreshing shade. There was, however, something slightly different about this glade. It was ever so minutely more serene, the boughs bent against each other at delightful angles, as if engaging in a bout of gentle sparring. Pink purslane carpeted the floor luxuriantly, like a rug made for the richest of Persian princes. A small brook bubbled through the centre of the dell and, with a happy gurgle, disappeared under a gnarled root. Right in the middle of this scene sat a young boy; he wore black jeans and a black t-shirt, he had a shock of dark hair and his handsome face was set with a fierce intensity. The boy held something in his hands and his eyes, hungry with curiosity, flickered over the item.

The boy was sat cross-legged and the vibrant undergrowth grew upwards covering his small knees. If an observer were to look in upon the scene it would appear as if the trunk of the child’s body was protruding from a sea of pink, a dark island in the sea of floral tranquillity. The Legend of Camelot proclaimed the title, as the boy ran his grubby fingers over the cover. His eyes devoured the text eagerly and, every now and again, one hand would leave the book to push an errant lock of hair from his forehead before returning swiftly to the book, as if unable to bear being parted from it.

The boy was so engrossed in the book that he didn’t hear the noise to begin with. If one was to stand in the clearing and stare out into the trees, it was not quite so quaint and picturesque as it first appeared, a gloomy tangle of branches and roots where the forest extended and grew wild. From within this lattice of overgrown trees and wild brambles there came a cracking sound, quiet at first but gradually getting louder. In the woods, a faint shape gradually became clearer and more visible, the tall shadow of a man wrestling with the unforgiving undergrowth. Eventually, the cacophony that accompanied the man alerted even the boy sat in the clearing and he looked up in alarm. The boy tensed and sat up but he did not move to run off, even though the man's approach appeared to make him nervous. In the woods, the tall man stumbled and pulled he up on the nearest tree, he had nearly reached the clearing and the boy was now standing.

The man stepped into the open expanse and wiped a gloved hand across his sweaty brow. He had gaunt, pale features that seemed to be drawn across his skull as if stretched by some unspeakable hardship, like he hadn’t slept for months on end. A patchy, gingerish beard grew sparsely across his jaw and his brown hair lay lankly in a side parting. He was dressed normally enough in black casual trousers and a black sweatshirt but over this he seemed to have some sort of protective vest on. Various tools and implements were stored in the small compartments on the vest and he also carried a rucksack. The man staggered into the copse leaning himself upon a rusty sword, the blade dented and nocked from years of use. The boy with the book looked up quickly and his young face seemed to light up with a bright intensity.

Dad!

The man cast off all vestiges of weariness upon the utterance of those words, he straightened up, his shoulders set and he bounced on his heels like a prizefighter steeling himself for one last round.

Complete silence seemed