#www.laurie-mather.co.uk

[jargonautical]

Contingency

IN MAINDER’S LATEST absence the shop neither caught fire, fell down, nor disappeared into an eldritch dimension - none of which was a surprise since he left it in very capable hands. If those capable hands didn’t exist he simply wouldn’t be travelling, certainly not on his customary month-long jaunts to London and further afield for collectors’ fairs and auctions and catching up with old friends from ‘back home’, as he calls it. He lets himself in at the back of the stockroom as usual, poking his head around the adjoining door to give Krzysztof the nod that he’s back, and continues up to the flat. 

On the top landing a little oak table with barley twist legs has the usual scattering of post waiting for his attention. Not much to show for his time away, maybe four or five items that Krzysztof decided he couldn’t deal with or that didn’t need dealing with at all. He suspects his assistant leaves a few random items for him to look at just so he doesn’t start to feel redundant. Today’s crop certainly bears out that theory. A couple of glossy cards offering broadband upgrades - he’s never even owned a computer. Discard. One limp brown envelope addressed to ‘The Occupier’, ditto. Safe to ignore. One official-looking letter addressed to him personally by name and franked by machine, that could be something. He opens the flat’s front door and, with the letter clamped between his teeth, wrestles his luggage inside and dumps it in the hall. Unpacking can wait. 

No heavyweight Basildon Bond this time, no embossed coat of arms or handwritten script - it’s come straight off some office printer, spelling mistakes and all, transplanted from screen to dreary, grey-tinted recycled A4 and shoved into a fragile white window envelope with the address so misaligned it’s a miracle it reached him at all. 

‘An opening has arisen for a consultant position which we feel would be well suited to your particular skill set’, it advises him, and his eyebrows rise a notch. ‘Please advice at your earliest convenience if such a contract would be mutually agreeable. If you could call our office to indicate whether you can be available for the upcoming schedule of project briefings [see below]. Kindly allow twenty minutes ahead of briefing start time to be processed by security.’ His face creases further into a you-cannot-be-serious grimace. Gods help him if the individual responsible turns out to speak the way they write - he’ll be hard pressed not to laugh in their face. It’s signed with an unreadable squiggle, cheap blue biro skipping over the terrible paper and tearing a notch at the final downstroke, and typed underneath is ‘Dr Bryan Patterson FRSA EdD MArc, Project Director, Warrington Institute.’. The ‘upcoming schedule’ is a solitary appointment slot for the next morning. 

Well now. At this short notice he could easily get away with being unavoidably busy. He could send his apologies in the same atrocious style as this invitation, a stilted mockery of polite corporate communication. The notion makes him laugh out loud, alone in his tiny kitchen; he drops the letter on the table and spends a few pleasant minutes brewing coffee while composing increasingly more ridiculous and convoluted responses in his head. ‘We regret that our availability at this time is unconfirmed, and request that a further schedule be considered.’, perhaps. No, an ‘alternatively convenient schedule’. Oh, that’s good. Or how about ‘We appreciate your consideration of our potential suitability for the role mentioned and will be in touch at the earliest opportunity.’. Nice. That has to be good for raising somebody’s blood pressure, and he has no doubt that whoever is responsible for this travesty will not only deserve it, they won’t even register how ruthlessly they’re being lampooned. 

The coffee pot squeaks and rattles just then, the heavy lid snapping up and down in a staccato plea for aid. He responds, deftly handing the pot off to the cork mat on the counter and pouring himself one perfect cup. These things matter, to Mainder; if you’re going to choose a vice - a visible and socially acceptable one, that is - you should at least put the effort into doing it properly. 

At last he sits down again with his steaming cup to peruse the letter one last time and shakes his head in resigned amusement. He’ll go along, of course he will. It’s exactly where he needs to be. 

..............................................................................................................................

 “You OK there, boss?”. Krzysztof peers around the door. The thumping and swearing from the stockroom started shortly after lunch, and he was more than half expecting to find his erratic employer trapped under a toppled shelf. 

“Fine. I’m fine.”. Mainder waves an irritable hand. “Just trying to recall where I put something, that’s all.”. 

That something must be both important and urgent, judging by the state of him - hair sticking up at all angles, shirt smeared with dust and cobwebs, and the usual lurking twinkle in his eye banished by a grim focus. 

“Maybe I can help.”. 

Krzysztof comes fully into the room to find the tall shelves pulled away from the far wall, books and boxes on the floor in a haphazard pile to expedite the move. The newly cleared wall is a patchwork of brick and stone from different phases in this room’s history, and a neat hole in the brickwork at roughly chest-height is almost exactly the dimensions of the rusted lock box now resting on the shelf beside Mainder, showing all the signs of having been wrenched open by a man in too much of a hurry to remember where he put the key. 

“No, it’s done. Do you have a minute?”. 

“Sure.”. He darts back out to the shop to flip the sign on the door to ‘Gone To Lunch’. Mainder half turns as he reappears, eyes flitting between the door and the lock box and pursing his lips as if deciding how to begin. 

“So …”. He tails off, staring at the box with a far-away frown. “I thought it would all be okay, and - I don’t know, maybe it still will. But I don’t want to leave anything to chance. You understand?”. 

The cautious look of bafflement on Krzysztof’s face clearly signals that he absolutely does not, and Mainder backs up a little. “Okay. Right. You and Aggie, you’re happy here?”. 

“Sure. It beats picking fruit.”. That old flippancy, the one he and Aggie use at home between themselves, slips out before he can stop it and he hastens to clarify. “Seriously though, yes. Very happy. Aggie just got the flat nice, just the way she likes it, and we put the children’s names down for the school just last month. We were hoping to settle down here. Is something wrong?”. Alarm crosses his face, and it’s Mainder’s turn to reassure. 

“No, nothing. Nothing that affects you. It’s just, how can I put this, the possibility of my past life catching up with me, and I might need to disappear for a while. Possibly a long while. If that happens I need to be able to leave someone I trust in charge.”. 

“How long exactly are we talking about?”. 

“I can’t say. But if one morning I can’t be found, if I’m gone for more than one full moon without getting word to you somehow, I need you to know what’s up.”. 

One full moon … a strange way to specify a month, but Krzysztof doesn’t question his employer’s funny little ways anymore. 

“And what is ‘up’?”, he asks, though he isn’t sure he’s ready for an answer. If it turns out he’s been working for a criminal all this time, some tawdry front for something dreadful, he – actually, he doesn’t care. If Mainder needs his help, after everything he’s done for him and Aggie, he shall have it even if it means Krzysztof has to perjure his soul to do so. 

Mainder looks at him keenly, as if effortlessly reading the thoughts ticker-taping across Krzysztof’s honest forehead, and his usual spark of mischief reappears. 

“I wouldn’t dream of troubling you with the details, my friend. If it happens there’ll be a letter in this box for you, alright? It’ll explain everything.”. 

No less mystified, Krzysztof nonetheless nods firmly. This he can do. “You leave it to me, boss. If it comes to it I’ll take care of the place for you.”. 

“I know you will.”. 

This is accompanied by Mainder’s smile - the real thing, a warming of approval and confidence that’s honestly the main reason Krzysztof agreed to work for him in the first place, and furthermore the reason he’d never consider leaving. It’s like - as he once tried to describe the man to Aggie, before she’d met him herself for the first time - when he smiles at you like that it’s like sitting beside a comfortable fire in a safe place. Like that. 

To his surprise she hadn’t mocked his foolish words, just nodded in that way she has and murmured, “Ah, dusza.”. He let it slide, not having been raised in the same ways as her, but it wasn’t long before he’d come to realise she was probably on to something. There’s something not quite here-and-now about the man he calls ‘boss’. 

..............................................................................................................................

If anything, Krzysztof was too diffident. He flat-out loves working at Mainder’s, especially compared to the other jobs he’s had since they came to this country. Picking fruit is all very well, and it kept them fed and housed (barely) to begin with. He didn’t precisely hate waiting on tables either, though he could have done without the finger-snapping and the casual xenophobia from a small minority of customers. But this now, this suits him down to the ground. He gets to use the degree he studied so hard for back home, mineralogy and geology, writing neat little cards explaining the properties of the carved trinkets on the racks and the baskets of loose gemstones. The customers are easy to deal with. Most importantly of all though his treasured Aggie has finally lost the haunted look that she used to wear, anxiously counting up their combined pay packets and parceling notes and coins out into the row of jam-jars on the mantelpiece against future bills. Now what he brings home alone covers the essentials, and they can look ahead further than the next rent payment. 

Braced for signs of trouble, it’s an odd sort of relief mingled with disappointment when the rest of the day continues in the usual prosaic pattern. The predictable afternoon rush of disinterested holidaymakers looking for something to do before they wander back to the B&Bs for dinner. The pre-closing checklist, flitting around the shop tidying the quick and easy areas like the bookshelves and the baskets of trinkets. Flipping the sign to ‘Closed’, counting the takings, stashing the next day’s float in the tiny safe behind the counter, and finally sweeping the floor, with a quick once-over to make sure everything is in order for the morning. The shelves are firmly back in their place in the back room when he goes through to empty the dustpan, all the mess swept up and no sign of ever having been disturbed. If he’d not seen the hole he’d never have known it was there, and that ancient lock box looked like a genuine antique. Strange. 

He flicks off the lights, locks the door behind him and heads home for his own day’s end ritual; dinner, a precious hour or so playing with the children before bedtime, and then curling up on the sofa with Aggie to watch TV.

[jargonautical]

A summons

THE LETTER IS waiting in the hall, crisp and clean and utterly blank. No stamp or frank in the top-right corner, so it must have been hand-delivered early this morning before he got moving. He carries it through with him to the tiny kitchen, tossing it on the table while he coaxes the stove to light and sets some coffee on to brew. Only after he’s taken his first appreciative sip does he sit down and pull the thick envelope towards him, extracting a pearl-handled penknife to slit the paper and extract the contents. 

A single sheet of heavyweight cream paper slides into his hand, crackling genteelly as he lays it flat. He frowns at the embossed heading and coat of arms, then at the two lines of elegantly handwritten script. 

Your presence is kindly requested at your earliest convenience on a matter of significant interest to both our principals. Failure to act could result in an opportunity lost. 

There’s no name, no salutation, and that along with the absence of an address on the envelope delivers a message of its own. They know who he is and where he can be found. And as for what he’s being invited to discuss - they know he knows that too. The letter ends with some unreadable scrawl of a signature, but that’s irrelevant. The embossed letter head announces in crisp square cut capitals that this comes via the private office of the Honourable Charles Ernest Warrington Vernon. 

“Well. Here we go.”, he muses out loud to the empty kitchen. Then he leans comfortably back in his chair, one hand still resting delicately on the paper, and finishes his coffee.

FASHIONABLY LATE, LINDEN lingers in the doorway for a moment of people-watching. You can always tell the ones who were born into status and wealth. Every overt signal of the power imbalance between them and the people around them, every benefit and opportunity, is accepted as just fundamentally how the universe is supposed to function. If sometimes they’re aware of their massive privilege, as the man they’re currently watching would like to think he is, it’s still mostly a performative affair; like making a point to smile and thank the server gliding past as he deftly claims a refill from her silver tray. More, that smooth charm, from overling to underling, is a fragile veneer over a deep well of entitlement. Break the compact, fail to be suitably grateful for the condescension, and the charm can vanish. They’ve seen it. Caused it too, they recall with a lopsided smile swiftly suppressed, and they push off the doorframe to go and greet their host. 

He turns as he registers their approach, arranging his features into a warm overling smile masking his mingled apprehension and relief. On paper Linden currently works for him, but he’s entirely aware where the power balance would lie if it came down to a challenge. He’s far from the only client with the correct combination of money and requirements. 

“It never gets old, you know, mission briefings in the back room of the fundraisers’ ball. Are they really so boring that you need to spice them up with covert operations?”. 

“You’ve attended enough by now, you tell me.”. He takes a sip of his own champagne to mask the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Have you reviewed the brief?”. 

“Only the outline. I thought it was very similar to the Ely project, apart from - well, you know. Is he serious?”. 

“Well, we shall see.”. He nods at the figure in sombre grey livery lurking pointedly in the entrance to a side corridor, a signal that their host is ready to see them now.

..............................................................................................................................

A very select handful of guests is enjoying a more intimate view of their benefactor’s residence, dotted about the room in twos and threes admiring the artwork and talking academic politics in hushed tones. It’s a grand setting, certainly. The room must be fifty feet long, with elegant panelling at the far end open to reveal yet more space beyond. Deep blue velvet, fringed and tasseled and draped, adorns the floor-to-ceiling windows running down the right of the room while a cheerful fire crackles in the massive marble fireplace on the left, presumably for the comfort of the frail figure huddled in one of the armchairs there. 

Time has not been kind to the honourable Charles. The receding hairline he once tried so vainly to ignore is ancient history, just a bare iron-grey fringe clinging on somewhere around the level of his ears. Dark pink lesions dot his scalp and forehead, and an unusual pallor gives him a drawn, weary look despite his many comforts. He stares into the fire, face settled into heavy jowls, with a petulant quirk to his mouth that recalls the spoilt child he used to be. 

“Finally.”, he snaps at the new arrivals. “The paperwork is on the desk.”. 

One crabbed hand swirls imperiously in the direction of the double doors and the study beyond. Linden receives the hint with unruffled good humour and retrieves the documents, offering them to the old man, but he waves again impatiently. 

“No, no - that’s your copy. I have no desire to read the blasted things ever again.”. 

Linden settles in the wing chair opposite the old man, leafing through the folder to check the contents while the Archchancellor fidgets irritably. Etiquette is a consideration here, in the private home of the Institute’s founder and most significant donor, and he hasn’t actually been offered a seat. But then neither has Linden, and Vernon didn’t comment. 

“This historian.”, Linden says thoughtfully, breaking the silence. “You expect him to be a problem?”. 

The old man wheezes, a painful parody of a laugh. “I expect him to try, certainly. He’ll hate not having the upper hand. Had it all his own way for far too long. Cooper tells me you’ll keep him under control - I should damn well hope so, considering your outrageous fee.”. 

“Forgive me, sir.”, Archchancellor Cooper interrupts. “Are you serious about bringing in this man? He may claim to be the local expert, but he’s hardly the sort of name that will enhance the project’s reputation.”. 

“He is considerably more than that - didn’t you read the briefing material my people put together?”. Charles gives him a sour look. “I’m deadly serious, believe me. Fifty years ago he stood in my study and told me I was wasting my time, damn him, and if there’s a way to cause trouble he’ll find it. Better we have him on the inside pissing out than on the outside pissing in. He’s essential.”. 

‘Essential’, in Cooper’s considered opinion, is exactly what the man is not. Vernon has some very odd ideas that he’s prepared to spend very generously to pursue, and that sort of obsession attracts exactly the type of lowlife charlatan willing to indulge - or even encourage - the old man’s delusions. 

It’s another matter entirely that that the university happily continues to cash Mr Vernon’s cheques, of course. Not the same thing at all. 

“Of course, sir. If you’re satisfied that you have the right man,”, and a significant glance at Linden clearly signals his opinion on that score, “might I recommend that you leave the negotiations to my people? I see no reason for you to be troubled with the details.”. 

“You’ll allow me the pleasure of bringing him to heel first.”, Charles shoots back, with a flash of bitter humour. “If I’m right, he’ll be appearing before you have a chance to summon him - if there’s one thing you can count on with these creatures, it’s their curiosity. Remember that!”, he adds jabbing a finger in Linden’s direction. 

Linden scans the blurred photo on top of the pile; a dark-haired man striding down a crowded street with his long coat billowing out behind him, gaze fixed straight ahead and apparently unaware of his surveillance. Their client seems utterly convinced, but it’s not possible. Fifty years ago the man in this picture probably wouldn’t even have been born.

. “Your other guest has arrived, sir.”, a deferential voice murmurs, and Charles begins the painful process of extracting himself from his chair. “As I thought. Show him up once I reach the study.”.

..............................................................................................................................

No shadows to lurk in this time; Charles can clearly see the nothing-man strolling across the room towards him. Still tall, still dark, still dressed head to toe in dusty black. Still approximately forty something years old even though more than fifty years have passed since their last meeting. It may be the nature of his kind not to age, to wear any face they take a liking to, but still it stings to see it. On the other hand his very presence here unchanged after so many years is a strange sort of comfort, a testament to the truth of his obsession and validation for the task ahead of him. In a moment of rare introspection Charles wonders what the creature sees, lightly fixed in time as he is. Does he see him as he was, or as he is now - the fractious old man his own mirror shows him, weaker and paler with every passing day? 

Those fifty years haven’t been wasted at his end, however. Clearing the debt attached to the estate swallowed up the first decade and most of the comfortable profits from his first practice, but that was only the beginning. Reviving the Vernon name and influence demanded enough expensive favours to keep him at a standstill for a decade more, but now? Now he stands as financially secure as any of his noble ancestors. 

“Well, here I am.”. Mainder smoothly claims the chair on the other side of the desk and makes himself comfortable, adding conversationally, “It’s a little strange to be meeting the same Vernon twice. You know how it is, you come and you go … anyway. What can I do for you?”. 

Bored already, his eyes flick to the private party going on through the huge double doors. A couple of young men uncomfortable in rented black-tie, one older chap in considerably better fitting and better-quality ditto, and an expensive-looking blonde in an expensive-looking dress, blood-red lips and nails echoing the wine she accepts with a dazzling smile from one of the youngsters. He winks at her just for the hell of it, and grins ruefully when she blanks him with well-bred disdain. 

“You didn’t come all this way to sit there and ignore me.”, Charles says sharply. “Does it surprise you to learn that I’m ready to make amends? As soon as they find the door I will have it repaired, no matter the cost. I’ve told my people to expect you, to save you the bother of trying to sneak in.”. 

“How very thoughtful of you.”, Mainder murmurs, eyes crinkling in amusement. 

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. I assume you intend to meddle.”. 

“I intend to observe.”, Mainder corrects him casually. “Thank you for making it easier. I don’t suppose for one second you’ve given any thought to the implications if your little project goes wrong?”. 

Charles chooses to skirt the question. “My people have everything in hand. Just show up and make yourself useful - or is that too much to ask?”. 

“Not at all.”. 

Charles almost sags with relief. Braced for a fight, expecting denial and anger and outright mischief, and yet it was so easy! He hates to think less of his grandfather, the disciplinarian terror of his childhood, but he feels just a little smug in that moment. Generations of cajoling, negotiating, even outright begging, when all that was needed was a little firmness. 

Mainder’s attention has wandered again, this time to the illustrious ancestors staring down from the walls. One in particular he keeps returning to with a lurking smile, an unattributed oil-on-board of a young woman in a dark red gown, pearls in her hair and lace at her throat, her merry dark eyes sparkling out at the viewer as if inviting them to share her triumph. ‘Margaret, Lady Vernon, c.1540’, says the nameplate set into the heavy gilt frame. The painting is beautifully done, even if the subject were less engaging; the delicate patterns and knots of the lace glow creamy-pale against the darker folds of the dress, picked out in individual strokes and dots as crisp as if the artist’s hand had only just placed them there.  He looks from the portrait to Charles, eyes suddenly tawny in the light. 

“A question in turn.”, he says curiously. “If you manage to get the door open, what will you do next?”. 

“That needn’t trouble you.”, Charles says dismissively. “Do your part and we will be even.”. 

“I suppose we will.”.

[jargonautical]

Who here likes books?

There’s a saying, isn’t there, about how a writer’s life is 50% hoping to be noticed and 50% living in fear of being seen. That’s where I’m currently sitting, directly on that line and vibrating gently with terror.

I wrote the book that had been haunting my waking brain for three years, in the hope that getting it out of my head and pinning it to a page would somehow help. Nobody would ever see it, I told myself. It was just for me. I’d get it done and that would be an end to it. I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to going back to ‘normal’. 

It doesn’t work like that. Now I’m trapped in a corner of my kitchen, fending off ideas for the sequel with a broom. Books want to be written, don’t they? And, as I’m discovering, they’re not shy about it.

Stories want to be told.

I’ll be using this blog to share a chapter at a time, once every week or so. If you like what you read, please let me know! All comments, feedback and suggestions are welcome.

The e-book is also available to buy, so if you want the whole thing all at once just visit www.laurie-mather.co.uk for the links to Kindle, Apple Books, Kobo and EPUB versions.