Uphill, Downhill, Over, Out: Criminal Conversation, #6

By Laura Lyndhurst

THE CONVERSATION CONTINUES ... YET NOBODY WANTS TO TALK

It's the end of an era. The passing of a patriarch signals changes in the lives of the Dukakis du Cain family members and friends. Time to move on, time to move out, as far as Alectrona's concerned, to leave behind a place that's finished and start over in a more congenial environment—yet there are a few accounts to be settled first.

For Greg too there's a goal achieved and another one to aim for, if only he can find the courage to try for it—because second-best isn't good enough, and failure is not an option.

Meanwhile, back in Broken Britain, Sig Markham faces further challenges within his dysfunctional family, as well as the consequences of a life not well-lived. There's music to be faced, but it's out of tune and the lyrics aren't encouraging.

The final chapter of the 'Criminal Conversation' series sees the characters looking towards a future shaped by the events of the past. How brave will their new world be?

 

215 pages approx.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Lyndhurst
• Release date: Aug 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224585878

Laura Lyndhurst

Laura Lyndhurst was born and grew up in North London, England, before marrying and travelling with her husband in the course of his career. When settled back in the UK she became a mature student and gained Bachelor's and Master's degrees in English and Literature before training and working as a teacher. She started writing in the last few years in the peace and quiet of rural Lincolnshire, and published her debut novel, Fairytales Don't Come True, in May 2020. This book forms the first of a trilogy, Criminal Conversation, of which the second is Degenerate, Regenerate and All That We Are Heir To the third. Innocent, Guilty, the first of another trilogy, continues the story told in these three books and leads on to The Future of Our House, which is followed by Uphill, Downhill, Over, Out as the sixth and final book to end the series. Laura also developed a taste for psychological suspense, which led to the writing and publication of You Know What You Did, to which What Else Did You Do? is the sequel. Laura has also published four small books of poems, October Poems, Thanksgiving Poems and Prose Pieces, Poet-Pourri and Social Climbing and Other Poems.

Book preview

Uphill, Downhill, Over, Out

Criminal Conversation, Volume 6

Laura Lyndhurst

Published by Laura Lyndhurst, 2023.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

UPHILL, DOWNHILL, OVER, OUT

First edition. August 30, 2023.

Copyright © 2023 Laura Lyndhurst.

ISBN: 979-8224585878

Written by Laura Lyndhurst.

' … humanity is always fundamentally the same.'

Walter Rauschenbusch

1: EMPRESS

Alectrona delivered the fatal dose, then discarded the syringe and cradled the dying head against her own, whispering endearments as the almost-blind eyes misted over and closed. She felt the heartbeat stop, then gave a final stroke of the muzzle and laid aside the body of the beast, dear to her and faithful unto death. He’d been suffering. She’d ended it.

Cerb, her guard and companion. Better by far than any human. He wasn’t the first of his lineage, but took his heredity from that cherished canine which Alectrona had acquired in her teens and trained herself as the final line of defence between her and those who’d try to take advantage of her. His descendants had succeeded him in his mistress’s service—a dynasty as great in its own way as was that of the Dukakis du Cain line over which it stood sentinel.

Security. Alectrona’s personal Achilles’ heel. It had always been a necessary evil, for the child of billionaires, and she’d done her best to keep herself safe with as little intrusion as was possible into her life. Since what she referred to as the Acton incident had occurred—if she referred to it at all, which she never did, except to herself when it couldn’t be avoided—it’d be fair to say that her personal safety had become something of an obsession with her, and with which she dealt through increasingly- extreme measures.

It'd rattled her more than she cared to admit, that attempted rape by the very person who’d been supposed to protect her, but who’d met his death in the jaws of Cerberus the First. Alectrona had kept it quiet, hushed it up, with only Tristan Markham—whose presence had been necessary in the aftermath of the event, as her legal advisor—aware of the details. He’d been sworn to secrecy and had kept his word, adding his goddaughter’s secret to those others he held for her family, and then taking them all with him to the grave.

She’d never told her parents, never burdened them with the information which would have grieved them. Her mother would have left the peace of the island which she so needed and flown straight to her daughter—which might have meant she wouldn’t have been present and killed in the earthquake which had occurred not much more than a month after the attack on Alectrona, and her father Miles wouldn’t have lived out the remainder of his days as a shell of the man he’d once been, having lost Katie, the love of his life.

It'd bothered Alectrona, the feeling that in attempting to spare her parents the pain they’d have felt on her behalf she’d ended her mother’s life and ruined her father’s. There was nothing she could have done about it though. She’d behaved as she’d thought best at the time, and she couldn’t go back and change things afterwards.

It hadn’t all been about her parents, of course. A good part of it had been not undergoing the pain of having to relive the incident through recounting it for them, of feeling their pity mingled with their love—not to mention the humiliation of having to admit that she, Alectrona Dukakis du Cain, had made a huge mistake over a small detail which had almost cost her dear.

Cerberus had been there for her, faithful and dear departed dog. Now she covered the corpse of his namesake on the bed where it lay, leaving the room and inclining her head to the man who waited outside, a signal that he might remove the body to do what was needful. She’d sprinkle the ashes herself, when they were brought to her, take them to the island and add the essence of this late-lamented to those of his forbears, to swirl around the air and the waters and add a ghoulish guard to those other measures already in place.

She poured herself a drink and repaired to the terrace of her penthouse apartment, seating herself and sipping her scotch, then selecting, lighting and smoking a Sobranie super-slim gold as she looked out over the expanse of urban sprawl which lay before her.

London. Scumbag city. Capital of Broken Britain. It had been a mess even before Alectrona was born and had changed much since, in no way for the better. Successive governments of every persuasion had all been as bad each other in the race to lay waste this once great nation, matters getting worse with each new regime. The poor get poorer, the rich get richer, Alectrona thought, paraphrasing the late, great Leonard Cohen, a favourite with her. It wasn’t enough that there were illegal immigrants living rough and existing through criminal means, preyed upon by Eastern European mafias to use for slave labour. Failing that, they were hunted down by the vigilante groups which had sprung up, manned in the main by down-and-out British citizens, neglected and abandoned by the country for which they’d worked and to which they’d paid tax, only to see the public purse emptied in the cause of helping those who they viewed as having no such claim on the state. Those supposed to be in charge had lost control, and now anarchy reigned.

Having those who ran the country doing so with eyes on their own enrichment, exploiting tax loopholes and salting away even more money for themselves—it hadn’t gone down well with the masses. Overworked and underpaid, striking for a decent wage while deciding whether to eat a meal or heat their homes, they’d cracked at last and chaos had descended in the form of riots, looting, and a general breakdown of order. Those who were meant to maintain peace and harmony had been discredited long ago, corruption being rife—and those who were supposed to uphold the law were found to have been breaking it in the most appalling ways. Now there were areas which were no-go places for them, if they valued their lives, as those same vigilantes who rooted out illegal migrants had organised themselves into local militias, keeping order by the strength of arms and dealing out summary justice to any that broke their rules.

It was time to get out. Time for Alectrona to leave. She’d moved the majority of her business interests elsewhere, and had nothing to keep her here apart from one or two concerns which she hoped to wind up soon. She’d continue to run things from the safety of the island. Her island. She owned it now, and it was secure, she’d made sure of that. It was her personal kingdom, the residents grateful for the benefits she’d thrown their way in return for their unswerving loyalty and assistance in keeping it a safe haven. Her ancestors were there, in the Dukakis du Cain mausoleum which Alectrona’s father Miles had built to house the mortal remains of her family which had originated on the island.

Miles had made it the work of what was left of his life to repair the island—and the village of Palliohorio in particular—after the earthquake which had killed Katie, the mother of Alectrona and Gregory. She’d been laid to rest there, her body joining those of the older generations who’d been exhumed to be housed together in the mausoleum. Miles himself was now to join her, worn out as he’d been with the task of rebuilding, and living thereafter without his wife. Putting the damaged island to rights had kept him from brooding too much on his loss—but once it was completed he’d declined to leave again, abandoning the maintenance of his business affairs to the more-than-capable hands of his daughter Alectrona, and the racing Team du Cain to those of his son Gregory—who’d matured into a man and steeled himself to take on the mantle of Team Principle, alongside driving for the team.

His work completed, Miles had lived a simple and quiet life, retired, missing Katie and thinking of her for almost all of his time. The family house on the hillside from which she’d fallen to her doom had been shored up with metal girders and other high-tech works of engineering, which would keep it standing long after the family was gone. He’d had company in the shape of the woman brought in to care for him, along with her little boy, for whom Miles had developed an affection which gave his days meaning.

When they weren’t around—and they couldn’t with reason be expected to keep him company twenty-four-seven—Miles tended to sit in an almost-permanent reverie, his thoughts by day flitting who knew where, while by night he gazed up at the stars from whence he fancied Katie and the other departed family members were looking down on him. Despite the fact that he’d rallied for a few months before the end, that was how he’d been found in the early hours one morning, on the terrace sofa which he’d shared with Katie in the past, his eyes open and a gentle smile on his otherwise still face.

A grand memorial service was to be held for him in London, with a guest list of the great and the good who’d known and admired this fair-minded man. Apart from being a major figure in Formula One racing, Miles—together with Katie, before her own death—had done much good in the charitable sector, even if they’d scaled down operations in later years. Miles had withdrawn from public life after his tragic loss, but the bequests had continued under the watchful eye of Alectrona. His funeral was to be held on the island, and it was for her journey to this service for which she now prepared. She was sorrowful, although her customary self-control meant she showed little if any sign of emotion.

She allowed herself to sigh, there being nobody around to hear her. She was ready to return to the family homeland—although she wished it wasn’t for such a morbid reason—and was tempted to stay on after the funerary rites had been performed. It was too soon as yet—she had things to do here, in London. When the right time came she’d be more than ready to take her place there, and if her twin brother Gregory should choose to stay too then she’d be glad.

She pictured them living close—yet not too close—in their separate wings of the family house. Gregory’s habit, of necessity, had been to travel around during the racing season, then split his time between the old family house in Canterbury and their island home during the winter. Why he still spent any time in the United Kingdom—or Disunited Kingdom, as it was called with good reason since Scotland and Wales and even Northern Ireland had gained their independence—was a mystery to his colleagues, given that there was no longer a British Grand Prix. Alectrona understood her twin’s sentimental attachment to the house where they’d been born, and his need to spend a few weeks there each winter. Now he’d decided to retire as a racer—although remaining as Team Principle—maybe he’d get on with it and decamp from these benighted shores, as she was on the verge of doing.

‘Madam.’

The quiet and respectful voice interrupted her thoughts. Alectrona looked around to see the woman who stood, head bowed and hands folded in subservient manner, waiting for permission to continue.

‘Yes, Janna?’

‘Will you require anything before you leave, Madam?’

Alectrona thought about it.

‘No. I don’t believe so.’

‘Yes, Madam. Will there be anything else, Madam?’

‘No, That’s all for now. Stay around in case I need you again.’

‘Thank you, Madam.’

The woman turned to go, and Alectrona watched her. Romanian, or Bulgarian, or from somewhere in Eastern Europe, she couldn’t remember, although Janna had been in service with her for some years. The ruling classes—the rich and powerful, of whom Alectrona was one—had moved to the provinces years ago, when law and order had failed in the cities, there to live protected on heavily-guarded and walled-off estates. When they couldn’t help but return to the capital, for business or other reasons, certain areas had been designated and suitably-fortified for their accommodation. Alectrona’s apartment block had been so specified, along with others in the vicinity, and rent was paid to her for eight of the lower floors by such dignitaries and oligarchs as used them. The two floors below her penthouse remained empty—of human occupants, at any rate—and formed a layer of insulation, as it were, between Alectrona and her tenants, which was how she’d always liked it.

Such a class of people couldn’t be expected to do the everyday humdrum housework required for themselves and their accommodation, so the bottom two floors of the block served to house the staff needed to clean, cook, do laundry and so forth for those upstairs who employed them. As the native lower-order residents of the city couldn’t be trusted—however well-vetted they might be—it’d been decided to find servants from the ranks of the illegal immigrants who overran the streets. Under threat of being beaten or killed by the native population, or forced into slavery as labourers or prostitutes by the various foreign mafias, these people saw working for such as Alectrona to be a luxurious form of employment, and competition to be taken on was fierce.

They had a roof over their heads and food in their mouths, and were allowed out for fresh air and exercise each day. They received no money, as the terms of their employment required them to remain within the Protected Zone, where there was nowhere to spend it and nothing to spend it on. All the requirements of the employers to whom they tended—food, cleaning materials, clothing and the rest—were ordered online and delivered to the gates of the zone, where diligent searches were made to ensure that no bombs or other destructive devices—and no persons with malicious intent—were allowed to pierce the protective shell which had been raised around the area. It wasn’t a foolproof system, but so far it was holding. It was only a matter of time, however.

Which was why the need to leave it all behind was upon her.

Alectrona raised her head and gave a low whistle, then heard the approach of the two dogs, slow rather than at the high speed of their youth. She reached downwards to caress the faithful canines who’d appeared and taken their places by her side. Each raised his muzzle to meet her hand when bidden, obedient to her every command as always.

‘Hey, Bear, hey Russ, good boys. Lie down now.’

They sank to the floor with gratitude. Alectrona stroked the tops of their heads while thinking back to the aged Cerb she’d just delivered from his pain. He’d been over fifteen years old, a good age for any dog, and he’d been a faithful servant to Alectrona for all that time. She’d acquired him after the death of her first dog, Cerberus, whose heirs had been in place not too long after his passing—three dogs rather than one, named Cerb, Bear and Russ by Alectrona in an atypical playful mood. It’d become the norm down the years that whenever one dog passed another was brought in to take his place, and his name. Cerb’s replacement would have to be acquired soon, although the two still with her constituted one reason for Alectrona’s problem with quitting the UK for good.

Would it be fair to move them? Maybe it’d be better to let them end their days where they’d been used to living. While not as old as Cerb they had their own health issues, and Alectrona hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to bring in the vet to smooth their passing. If it happened, so be it. Their mistress, as faithful to them as they were to her, would never wish to prolong their lives if they were suffering—as much as she wouldn’t wish to prolong her own. Many years until that time, she hoped, but you could never be sure.

Or would that be the best thing? Alectrona had the means to make a move for the dogs as comfortable as possible, sedated travel by private plane, to end their days in the green and pleasant land which was her Greek island, ambling free along the cliffs rather than stuck at the top of a London tower block.

Her eyebrows came together in grappling with the problem, and she wondered at the level of indulgence she was showing them. They weren’t on top of their game anymore, and Alectrona needed younger, sleeker and speedier models.

I’m getting soft with age, she thought, and I can’t afford to play games with my personal safety. She’d taken on a new, all-female security team, after the unfortunate affair of Acton—all vetted to within an inch of their lives, employed on twenty-four-seven, fifty-two weeks-of-the-year contracts. Shifts were rotated, at a moment’s notice at times, just in case. So far it had worked, and Alectrona had hopes of keeping it that way—but she’d never take her eye off the ball again as she’d done with Acton. She’d always been an indoor type, leaving the outdoor stuff to Gregory and keeping her own exercise to the minimum necessary to maintain a healthy level of fitness, having her own private gym and pool within the building. A mistake, which she’d rectified after that appalling attack by the recruitment of a personal trainer, a woman with whom she’d worked-out and developed self-defence skills.

Dogs were preferable to people in her view, however, and three dogs were better than one. She reached down and stroked them again, observing how their eyes fixed on her with what she was pleased to think of as devotion. For that alone they deserved a peaceful old age.

That settled it. Greece it would be, and she’d arrange it when she returned in a few weeks’ time for the memorial service. For now they’d remain in the care of Sharon and Sue, joint heads of security and trained dog handlers, which didn’t please Alectrona. They were her dogs, answerable to her alone, and she didn’t like having others gain any kind of control over them. At least if relocated to Greece they’d be surrounded by her own people, a community she could trust without fail—and she’d be there soon, continuing her teaching of the heir she had in place, learning the ropes of the business at her side and running it with her until obliged to take the reins alone, from the safe haven which she’d created for them. So yes, it was almost—but not quite—time to bring that about.

A sigh escaped her lips as she picked up her phone and summoned her pilot to ready her personal helicopter on the rooftop launch-pad for the journey to the airport. Yes. More to do before she left this hell-hole for good. She sat, lost in her thoughts for she didn’t know how long, until her phone rang. She picked up and listened, answered with a brief ‘Yes.’

It was time. Gregory was to meet her at the airfield, along with his companion. Alectrona cast an eye at her costume in the mirror—a simple Chanel suit, black, as befitted the sad season—and strode over to the lift. She paused, then raised her voice.

‘Are you ready, darling? The helicopter’s waiting.’

He came, also clad in the appropriate black, dark and handsome, like his forefathers before him.

‘Ready, Mother.’

Edward Arkadios, her son.

Together they entered the lift, and ascended to the roof.

2: WINNER

Bleary-eyed and brooding, Greg leaned over the balcony of the penthouse suite, observing the Sheridan circuit spread out below him and the activity in which the persons present were engaged. The teams were packing up, clearing the circuit of everything they needed to take back to their respective team HQs. All was being packed onto lorries ready for the drive to Larne and the ferry journey back to the British mainland, then onwards to wherever was home for all those concerned.

It was still early and, apart from those working hard below, not that many were stirring. Greg was, up, about and ready to leave at any time now. He hadn’t had enough sleep, being rudely-awoken just a few hours ago by the bad news, but he’d gone straight into action and made all the necessary arrangements.

He ran his hand through his beard, streaked with grey as it now was, and considered the track, all that had happened here and its impact upon him. The posthumous presentation of the World Championship to Josh, such a short time after his friend and partner’s tragic death and funeral, had left Greg waking up the morning afterwards somewhat the worse for wear. They’d all toasted Josh rather too well, telling their remembrances that they’d been too shattered to tell at his funeral. This wasn’t somebody who’d passed away as the natural end to a long life, after all, but the victim of a horrific accident.

They’d all had a little time to come to terms with his death by then, and Josh’s memory had been crowned with the rightful laurels of his achievements, so it’d felt more appropriate to share their experiences of their late friend and colleague. The stories, and the drinking, had gone on long into the night—and then there’d been the phone call, the shrill ringtone smashing through Greg’s dreams, that brutal awakening to bring the news of another death, another victim, this time of an act of nature, and to somebody even closer to Greg.

The news of the death of his mother Katie had sent Greg back to Greece and to his father Miles, who’d been on the way there when the fatal earthquake had struck. When the loss of his wife had proved too much for Miles, Greg had been obliged to step up and run the racing team which had been his father’s life. Academically-challenged as he was, his assumption of the mantle as Principle of Team du Cain had been painful for him. Various suggestions for solutions were made, including that of selling-on the team. It was a desirable asset, given what a success Miles had made of it, as somebody pointed out to Greg at a board meeting.

‘You could name your price, make a real killing,’ the man had stated—then stopped as numberless sets of eyes turned and bored into him at the asinine lack of tact in his comments, made to a man who’d recently lost both mother and best friend in the most tragic circumstances.

Greg had ignored it. The team had been set up by his father to give his son a purpose in life, and was close to his heart. Miles was already heartbroken over the loss of Katie, and no way was Greg going to add to his burden of grief. No, he’d keep it and find some way to run it. Tristan Markham had been there for him without being asked, providing experts in business, finance and technical ability, which took Greg a long way towards keeping the team up, running and viable.

Something was still missing. A feeling for racing was needed, a heart that beat to the rhythms of the track and, although such a one pounded in Greg’s own chest, he was too close to the whole package, too taken up with the practical issues of running things and racing himself to have enough left over—which was where dear old Mandy Sheridan came in, bless her. So aged now that it was a wonder she was still with them—running on petrol fumes, they all agreed—she came onboard with a will to inject what was needed by way of instinct. Greg had to go to her, infirm and housebound as she was, or talk via video call—but she’d held out long enough