Paved With Gold

By Al James

Who could resist London? A place to make a fortune. But the riots and the Occupy demonstrations of the dry summer of 2011 cast their shadow over the lives of four people. Adam gets caught up in it all and his life changes forever. Ileana has come from Romania to earn a living. Damien has already made his fortune, but it hasn’t brought him happiness and Lauren is trying to make her living as a photographer in the city. This powerful novel draws you swiftly into the inner lives and emotions of four very different characters and builds to a climax which is both moving and inevitable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291973426

Book preview

Paved With Gold

PAVED WITH GOLD

Al James

Other Books by this author

Also by Al James:

Learning How to Love

Absolutely Fine

The Fight of His Life

Available as paperbacks or eBooks from his website:

http://www.aljamesauthor.co.uk

And as co-editor with Jan Cooper:

Staying Alive

A collection of specifically written stories by Al and actual experiences of kidney dialysis patients and transplant donors – with all profits donated to Kidney Research UK

Available as paperback or eBook from their website:

http://www.thestayingalivebook.co.uk

Copyright

Copyright © Al James 2014

eBook Design by Rossendale Books: www.rossendalebooks.co.uk

eBook ISBN:  978-1-291-97342-6

All rights reserved, Copyright under the Berne Copyright Convention and Pan American Convention. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organisations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Quotations

‘Hearing of the great city of London, where the streets were said to be paved with gold, Dick Whittington set off to seek his

fortune in the big city.’

English folk story

‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song’

from Prothalamion by Edmund Spencer

Dedication

To the memory of my mother Dolly Cooper, irrepressible spirit, hard worker throughout her long life. A Londoner through and through, she died aged 97 in 2011, the year in which this book is set.

Acknowledgements

My wonderful wife Jan has been my first reader and constructive critic. Always prepared to offer me advice and guidance from the reader’s perspective, she is my muse and inspiration.

Halfway through writing this book, I sent a different manuscript to literary consultant Shelley Instone. Her advice was invaluable, and not just about the book in question. My writing since then has benefited from the many suggestions she made.

Vincent Walsh of Rossendale Books is my ever helpful and generous publisher, always responsive and flexible to my needs.

The River Thames, which runs through much of this novel, was a source of inspiration through my London childhood. Although I no longer live there, it is always the river in my imagination.

The Romanian town of Baia Mare in Maramures, the little known region north of Transylvania, is the setting for Ileana’s home town. In two unforgettable visits I discovered how friendly and accepting

its people are.

Chapter 1

Adam only had to join the crowd for his direction to be decided. Changing streams wasn’t an option; there was no other stream. With the box held tightly under his arm, he found himself driven down the stairs to the platforms as if a vortex was sucking everyone out of the city and onto the trains. The whistles were already blowing as he forced his way between the closing doors using the box like a battering ram.

Inside it was too-close-to-move crowded. With every jolt his box pressed against the round back of a grey haired woman. It was hot. Breathing in took effort and his heart was still pounding. Someone smelt of garlic. Body odour around him mingled with the familiar smell of stale cooked cheese on his own clothing. Cut-and-paste snippets of conversation surfaced as the train gathered speed through the tunnel and out into the light beyond the city.

Bloody stupid!

Madness.

Just theft!

He clung onto his box tightly.

There’d been hardly any warning. A few twitchy customers perhaps. More siren sounds than usual and Rocco’s anxious movements from the pizza bar counter up to the big window onto the street. Youths had been running up and down outside, but even that wasn’t necessarily unusual.

‘Something going on out there?’ a couple had asked him. He didn’t know. Probably nothing in particular. Summer madness perhaps, copy-cats after London. Rocco wasn’t so sure.

These bloody riots. Why they come ‘ere? he said to no one in particular. You seen the papers? What’s going on in London – surely is not coming here? Birmingham is a peaceful town. We don’t want no riots. Is not safe anymore.

As if to reinforce what he was saying, something heavy crashed into the front window.

Madre di Dio! Cosa succede?

The sound of sirens outside was sudden, dominating everything for a few seconds.

Get your stuff! We close now!

And catching an earlier train was good for Adam. Maybe he could call and see Rosie, whatever. Nothing wrong with finishing before dark.

Emerging into the main street he found himself in the centre of everything. Constant movement; running and shouting, glass smashing. Somewhere in the distance more sirens. Broken shop windows and jagged shards of glass weren’t stopping movement in and out. All at once he realised what was happening. They weren’t just going in and out, they were taking things like on the news items his parents had been watching. Rocco was right; they had come to Birmingham. 

Another shop front smashed. He stared astonished as several youths no older than him in jogging bottoms and hoodies pushed forwards and across the low barrier. There were, girls too, and one smart girl in a dress lifted it thigh high to climb in. It was like he’d walked onto the set of a Hollywood movie. And as quickly as they’d gone in, they were coming out with arms full of boxes and packages. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

As Adam watched, a kid no older than twelve forced his way out of the shop. With several boxes balanced in front of him, he caught his foot; the top box detached itself from the pile and flew through the air towards him. Catching it was an instinctive reaction.  He held it in his arms not really knowing what to do as he watched the door of the boutique next to the computer shop being rammed open. Twenty or thirty people ran in through the wreckage and clothes were grabbed at random. No one seemed to be particularly hurrying and no police were in sight despite the continuous sound of sirens all around. For a moment he wondered whether to go in and get something for Rosie but that seemed like robbery. Clutching whatever he’d caught he hurried on down the ramp leading to the station and found himself swept into the stream of bodies.

The crush in the carriage was making it hotter. The woman in front of him tried to shift her position to escape his box, but there was nothing either of them could do to make things easier. Much as he wanted to he couldn’t even check to see what was in it. An iPad maybe; he couldn’t take his old fashioned desk computer to university with him. The thought of something like that being gifted to him was like, well, manna from heaven. He smiled to himself as the train slowed into Wolverhampton. At least he was by the doors. When they opened the air would cool him.

It seemed like almost everyone wanted to get off and he had to step out onto the platform. When he got back on, all the seats were still full, but there was space now in the area between the doors. Two girls about his age were standing opposite and talking excitedly. Both wore low waisted skinny jeans and one of them had a tight green top which made her breasts stand out. He kept glancing at her until she spotted him and stared back. Smiling made no difference. Embarrassed, he looked through the window instead. Outside it was getting dark. There were lights coming on everywhere and car headlights weaved through the streets. It felt exciting, like they were on unknown adventures. Like he would be when he went off to London.

Even now it was sometimes hard to believe. An economics degree: ‘Many of our students follow prosperous careers in the financial sector’ they’d said to him. ‘Prosperous careers’ meant investment banking, private equity, hedge-fund management. That was the dream; be successful, make a lot of money, buy a nice house for mum and dad.

‘You don’t want to worry about us son, we’re happy enough here,’ his dad said.

He didn’t think his dad really approved of his plans. But they were living in a three bedroom ex-council house in one of the poorest parts of town. How could they be happy? He could change all that. He would change all that. They had no idea what he was going to do; or how rich he would be. He’d buy a house for himself of course, with Rosie. One in London – definitely, the exciting centre of everything; maybe one in New York too, and a holiday home somewhere; Spain perhaps.

They were pulling into the next station. He watched the two girls gather up their bags of stuff. Green top saw him looking as she glanced round.

What you staring at? she shouted, as doors opened, but they were off the train before he could say anything. He smiled to himself; ‘Adam Jackson, are you staring again?’ It was what Rosie said too.

He couldn’t help it. She was good looking after all, why not? And tonight her parents would be out. It was enough to occupy his thoughts for the rest of the journey.

*

Loud laughter told Damien the alcohol was having its effect. Looking around the room at the faces, glowing with varying degrees of inebriation, he knew he’d made it possible. The big gamble had paid off, and paid up, handsomely. A leveraged buy-out at the bottom of the market and now sold for huge profit. He’d never made so much money. It should feel good. Suddenly there was an unexpected pressure on his back, breaking into his thoughts. David Sheen’s large hand had clamped down on his shoulder.

You must be pleased. Brilliant work. Another glass.

It wasn’t really a question. David was already walking across to the table where the bottles were laid out. He watched, took in how he was making his presence felt. An obvious joke, laughter to order, as he worked his way round those standing by the table, hands on backs, shoulders, arms, and right around the waist of Stella Street the young trainee whose smile looked uncomfortable. He admired the technique but had no urge to go across and join in, content to sit by himself.

David came back with a glass for both of them.

Bollinger eh? How much a bottle?

Thirty. It was a deal.

Set you back a bit then, this little spread.

Bonus covers it fifty times over.

He smiled. It didn’t feel right, but obviously it satisfied David, who laughed out loud. How much was his bonus?

Look old chap, better come across now. Always good to mingle you know. You’ve earned them a pretty penny, but can’t afford to be standoffish.

No, he said without smiling, before standing up and walking with David across to where everyone had gathered. As he did, the old feeling of inferiority rose briefly in him like a wave before rolling back into the dark sea that was always there inside him. He couldn’t help feeling once again how different he was to the public school confidence of people like David. 

Gradually it felt like he was swallowed up in everything around him. The drink was having its effect and the darkness inside became dissipated for a while into the outside presentation of himself. It felt like a magic drug, which he supposed it was really, although it wouldn’t last. He’d probably had too many already but standing upright wasn’t yet a problem. His eyes fixed on Stella, aware suddenly that she was smiling at him.

You enjoying yourself? he said.

I am yes.

Six months now isn’t it?

Laughter, inane sounding, from beside her, where two colleagues looking more drunk than he felt were chortling at some private joke of their own. Stella ignored them and smiled, nodding in agreement with what he’d said. He sat down beside her. With her long hair let down for once he couldn’t help finding her even more attractive. She looked round at him once he was seated.

Seems to have gone quickly.

She smiled again and leaned towards him almost as if she was going to kiss him before swaying away again and taking a drink from the glass in front of her. Was that a come on? He wasn’t drunk enough to jump to the wrong conclusions, but with Stella he wouldn’t say no if the chance arose.

Her legs were crossed and her skirt high enough to reveal a shapely muscular thigh. The result of a regular work out perhaps, but before he had time to imagine her on the treadmill she leaned towards him again.

I’ve been meaning to ask you.

The look was smiling, inquisitive.

I’ve been meaning to ask you, she said again, about the MacCormack project. Is it going well?

Why did she say that? It wasn’t work he really wanted to talk about at all. He smiled back and took another drink from his own glass. She did likewise. Somewhere behind her a camera flashed.

Of course, I realise you may not be able to answer.

What was her accent? Certainly not London. Yorkshire maybe?

She crossed her legs again, inclining herself towards him as she did so, and at that moment a sharp kind of rapping sound interrupted both of them.

David Sheen was poised, ready, but not everyone had responded and a burst of raucous laughter from the table nearest the door suggested someone had just told a dirty joke. A wave of irritation crossed David’s face and impatiently he rapped on the table again, louder and more insistently. Quite quickly this time the laughter died back. He waited for complete calm like an experienced teacher eying an unruly class. Even the photographer, a slim blonde woman in black, stood to attention. Then, finally satisfied, he began.

I won’t take much of your time ladies and gentlemen. I just wanted on your behalf to thank Damien for this little celebration.  

David raised the glass in his hand towards where he was sitting next to Stella and pointedly spoke his name once more. Dutifully the room rose to its feet, said his name and took a drink. Applause followed. It continue for a short while before the big hand lifted to quell it. Once it was quiet he motioned for everyone to sit down again and continued.

As you all know, as Damien will have told you, bonuses will still hold up this year.

Loud cheering interrupted him again. Someone was thumping the table and there were whoops of excitement, but once more the controlling hand brought something resembling calm, although the mention of bonuses had excited everyone.

Even in a recession, maybe especially in a recession, for the brave speculator there is a living to be earned.

A bubble of excitement came back into the room and was only half quelled by the big hand.

Damien is an object lesson to us all. Here at Sheen and Rooster we are making cash cows work for us, showing just what can be done.

The cheering that erupted once more seemed to make him decide there was no real point in continuing. His arm lifted in a gesture resembling a royal wave before he sat down, clearly indicating that everyone could carry on.

*

Lauren worked through the photographs; a good set which should please the directors. The one of David Sheen’s regal wave made her laugh. Struggling to get a good shot of him making his speech was worth it for that. Was he a bit inebriated by then she wondered? Probably, but no doubt years of experience meant he could carry it easily and still look in control. She clicked back through the other shots. The posed ones were fine, with the corporate smiles well in place. One or two didn’t quite have the definition her clear eye demanded, but there were still plenty of good ones. No wonder they were happy; large bonuses seemed to be on offer. ‘Wish I could get some of it,’ she muttered to herself.

The one they all seemed to be crediting for the success of whatever it was they were celebrating was in quite a few of the photos. It struck her that he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much as the others. The smile seemed forced, like he wasn’t really comfortable with where he was; strange. But she shrugged it off. Not her business to go into that. She chose the ones for printing ready to take into them. Top prices, definitely; they could afford it after all. Not a sting, just a fair price. She was good enough. Determinedly she pushed a few stray strands of blonde back behind her ear.

The prints completed, she closed the door of the room which served as her studio and went out into the living room with its views across the city. On a clear day she could see the towers of Canary Wharf, where, out of sight somewhere below, she knew the river ran in the great loop round Millwall and the old docklands where life had begun for her.

Paul wasn’t back yet. It was no longer a surprise. More and more he was staying out late. ‘Working’ he always said, but she was beginning to wonder. Was there someone else? The angry reaction when she asked didn’t allay the doubts.

What the fuck, don’t you trust me?

Well you’re often late, and I never know when you’ll be back now.

I’ve said, haven’t I? Work. We need the money for the rent on this place – and your studio!

He’d never actually hit her, but recently she’d felt the threat not all that far beneath the surface. His way of talking to her at times already felt violent. And they weren’t that short of money.

My income pays for it, she said, as calmly as she could.

All he did was snort, which meant he knew she was right, but wasn’t prepared to admit it. She hadn’t said anything more, and the issue had gone under the surface, but something wasn’t right, she was sure of that.

Lol, he called her. Laugh out loud; lot of laughs; she couldn’t remember which one was the translation for all those text and facebook messages, but maybe that was what she really was to him. Just a joke. It was hard not to believe they wouldn’t be splitting up in time. The fear involved in thinking about being single again was gone. There had to be something better for her.

The television was on in the background. The news was full once more with the riots. Smashed shop fronts, youths running about everywhere and fires too, with a huge warehouse in Croydon razed to the ground. She watched in horrified fascination. People were climbing out of shops with armfuls of stuff; some had piles of clothes over their arms and others were carrying boxes of goods and passing things to their mates. It was almost like a mad street party. And it was spreading beyond London. Birmingham too, and some northern cities seemed to be affected. Was it just mindless vandalism and plain opportunistic theft, or was there, as some commentators seemed to be suggesting, a social motive; the have-nots taking their share of the action. It was difficult not to believe there had to be something of that sort involved but what she was watching didn’t look like any kind of co-ordinated political action.

Footsteps outside, followed by a key turning in the door told her Paul was back. He walked into the living room and straight through to the kitchen without saying anything.

Not going to say hello then? she said.

There was no response. She waited. A minute or so later he came back in and sat down at the other end of the sofa, leaving a gap between them.

You alright? she said.

There was a kind of grunting noise, but no meaningful words.

Paul?

Bloody riots. Ignorant thugs.

It had been quiet for a while in the street below them, but as he said it the sound of a siren coming closer penetrated above the noise of the television.

It’s hard to understand it, she said, cautiously.

It’s just vandalism, bloody vandalism, wrecking people’s lives.

I don’t understand, she said again.

People’s businesses, just destroyed . . . look!

He was pointing at the television, where video footage of the burnt out warehouse was being shown again.

Someone’s business that is, years of work, just gone.

She stood and made her way to the kitchen. From there she could see across the road to where a police van, probably the source of the siren, had stopped outside the block of flats opposite. There was some kind of scuffle on the pavement by the van, and after a while two young men were pushed into the back of it. Suddenly Paul was behind her.

What’s that? he said.

Someone getting arrested I think.

Rioters?

Don’t know. Probably.

As she spoke, the sound of the siren came again and the van drove off at some speed. She turned to face him, and as she did so he put his arms around her.

Wondered when you would.

Would what?

Notice me.

She was aware of the smell of alcohol as he kissed her.

Winds me up, that’s all.

Obviously.

Well . . .

She put her hand up to his mouth before he could say anymore.

Don’t. Calm yourself down.

His arms were still around her. She could feel him relaxing and took her hand down again. He was looking at her, and something resembling a smile began to form on his face. It was a look she recognised. She let her eyes smile back, pacified for now.

Well we could . . . . he said.

We could, if you don’t keep on.

She looked down, pulled a few blond strands across her face and looked up again, consciously posing, before taking his hand and leading him through to the bedroom.

*

‘What’s that?’

As soon as Rosie let him through the door she noticed the box.

‘One of the new iPads I think.’

‘Where d’you get it?’

‘Present.’

‘Your mum and dad?’

‘Manna from heaven.’

‘And you’re an Israelite I suppose.’

Adam grinned, pleased with himself, and started unpacking the box.

‘Fell out of the sky.’

‘You what?’ she said looking at him as if he was daft. The box was open now and carefully he took out the iPad, wrapped in cellophane. As he looked at it admiringly he could feel an almost irresistible urge to stroke it.

‘How much did that set you back?’

‘Well,’ he said, looking up grinning once more and pausing for effect, ‘actually  . . . nothing.’

‘Nothing!’

‘Like I said, it fell out of the sky.’

‘For Christ sake, Adam, stop talking crap!’ she said, hitting him playfully and laughing. He responded, and it wasn’t long before they were in a kind of clinch.

‘Your mum and dad are out are they?’

‘House is ours, like I said.’

The message was clear. Rosie’s face had that unmistakeable inviting look as she led him out of the living room door and up the stairs.

As they entered the darkness of her bedroom he was struck by the smell of perfume, so different from his own bedroom. Rosie bent over to switch on a bedside light, which revealed the bed with some kind of fluffy toy placed neatly on top of the pillows. She moved it to the side and sat down on the bed, motioning him to join her. The excitement was growing in him as she eased his body towards her and began kissing him. Sex between them had happened a couple of times before, but being inside her bedroom, invited in, felt altogether different.

She seemed confident, like she knew what she wanted, and he let her guide him, holding back the urge to take her clothes off and speed things up. By the time they were on the bed together and naked, he was ready, more than ready. She managed the condom thing, and then he couldn’t hold back any longer. Not long after she came too with excited noises and breathing before going quiet. Moving to the side of her, he lay still. At some point, aware of her hand finding his, he wondered if he’d fallen asleep for a moment, which surprised him. Then she was talking, saying they’d better get up. He didn’t mind, certainly didn’t want her mum and dad finding him in her bed, so he waited for her to move and then rolled out of the bed himself.

‘The bathroom’s next door,’ she said.

Without any clothes on and feeling self-conscious now, he stepped towards the door and round the corner into the bathroom.

When he got back she was still naked, just inside the door and waiting to follow him in. He watched the back of her body in the dim light as she went, then got his clothes together and quickly dressed. When she got back he was just fastening the zip of his jeans. The smell of perfume was strong again, like she’d sprayed herself, and the roundness of her breasts drew his eyes towards them, exciting him once more. He couldn’t help watching her dress, intrigued by the strange process of putting on a bra.

‘You’re staring again,’ she said, with both arms contorted behind her back doing up the bra clasp.

‘D’you blame me?’

‘Not if you’re admiring me.’

She finished dressing, took his hands and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. It felt like ‘that’s it for today’ as she led him back downstairs.

In the living room his new iPad was on the table. He began to put it back into the box, ready for the short walk back to his own home.

‘You didn’t tell me where that came from,’ she said.

‘Didn’t I?’

‘You know you didn’t.’

He felt good, aware of a satisfied smile on his face.

‘Well . . . this evening, after work, I was walking down New Street and some guy sort of threw it in the air towards me . . . . and I kind of caught it. Be great for uni, just what I need.’

‘You what?’ she said. Her reaction seemed shocked, not what he expected.

‘What’s up? Thought you’d be pleased for me.’ 

‘Where did this guy get it from?’

‘Some shop of course. There were loads of guys there. He couldn’t carry it all, so he offloaded.’

Her look was anxious suddenly. He’d more or less got it back in the box, ready to take home.

‘What’s up?’

‘You were in those riots?’

‘What riots?’

‘Well there was trouble in Birmingham tonight. Like in London; Tottenham and all that. Mum and dad were watching it on the news before they went out. You were there?’

‘Well not exactly. But when I came out of work, yes, lots of people were running around. . .’

‘That’s where that came from?’ she said pointing at the box.

‘It would only have been picked up by someone else. There were no police around. No one saw me. And I’ll make good use of it. . . no one saw me,’ he said again.

‘It’s stolen goods. . .’

‘OK, OK, don’t keep on.’

She looked at him and then away.

‘I just don’t want you getting into trouble. That’s all.’

He didn’t know what to say. He picked up the box and put it under his arm.

‘Better be going.’

‘Yeah.’

She walked towards the front door and he followed her.

‘Bye,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow maybe.’

She nodded, sort of smiled, and shut the door behind him. As he set off he was aware once more of the stale smell of cheese on his clothing.

Chapter 2

Big Issue! Big Issue!

Big Issue, Big Issue; she said it so often it began to make no sense; big issue, tissue, atishoo, wish you  . . . would buy one. Ileana tried to sound as English as possible, but even though she spoke the language well now, the accent was still there, and people seemed to know she was a foreigner. ‘I’d buy one if you were English’ someone had said to her. She didn’t really believe that, but the point was made, she was a foreigner and the English didn’t seem to like foreigners.

After several weeks she still wasn’t sure of the best way to get a good response. Occasionally she lapsed into wheedling like a beggar; ‘Big Issue, Big Issue please!’ she’d say, holding a copy in her outstretched hand, a bit like illustrations of beggars she’d seen in bible stories. She knew from experience that some of the other sellers spoke like that, but it didn’t impress her. More often she said, ‘Would you like to buy a Big Issue?’ That was what they recommended at the Big Issue office where she bought her copies. ‘Be polite, it’s the best way to get a sale’ they said. But in the end it didn’t seem to make much difference. Hardly anyone actually said no; most avoided eye contact. Only a few bothered to look at her as she stood in the drizzle outside the sliding doors of the shopping