It was lucky the rest of the office had all gone home.
“Happy birthday,” whispered Cynthia.
Some time later, Trevor and Cynthia were sitting in a pub in Camden Town. Trevor had a pint of bitter in front of him and Cynthia a small glass of white wine.
“I often can’t get out of bed in the morning,” Trevor confided to Cynthia.
“That must be terrible,” she replied soothingly.
“I sometimes think that God has laid his curse upon me!” Being on his third pint Trevor was in confessional mode.
“You shouldn’t say such things!” exclaimed Cynthia. “Besides, you got that promotion only last week.”
“Yes! ‘He’ really wants me to suffer! Head of Camden Planning! I ask you! The worst job in the world!”
Trevor heaved such a deep sigh it seemed to have started in his trousers. “They’ll blame me for everything. They’ll blame me for planning permissions granted. They’ll blame me for planning permissions refused. No one ever says, ‘Well granted!’ or ‘Well rejected!’ They just complain, complain, complain!”
“But your decisions affect everybody! You save the environment! You look after conservation areas! It’s important work, Trevor!” said Cynthia.
But Trevor didn’t seem to have heard her. “God is punishing me for something, but I don’t know for what!” He looked up at the ceiling of the pub, and cried, “What have I done wrong, God?”
As he did so, he noticed bits of chewing gum and silver paper stuck to the ceiling.
That’s my life, he thought. A lot of people have worked terribly hard to produce something pointless and ugly.
“And you’ve got a lovely home,” said Cynthia. “It’s really nice.”
“It’s not a ‘home’, it’s a flat,” replied Trevor.
“Well, a flat can be a home, can’t it?” Cynthia sounded uncertain.
“A ‘home’ is a house with a garden and children running around it and the smell of hot bread coming from the kitchen,” said Trevor.
“Well… you could have that if you wanted,” Cynthia murmured softly. But Trevor was still staring at the ceiling.
“I wonder how they get those egg-cups made out of silver paper to stay up?” he muttered, and he didn’t even notice as Cynthia reached out her hand for his.
Chapter Five
In his iron fortress, surrounded by slaves and minions, the Evil Emperor stared at the latest message from his servants in the West. There was trouble. His plans were being challenged by something called a ‘Residents’ Association’. What was a ‘Residents’ Association’? He had never heard of such a thing. He would have to look it up in the English–Russian Dictionary.
‘Skulking’ that was a great word! He’d found that in the English–Russian Dictionary. He wished he could ‘skulk’ more. He felt like ‘skulking’ now. He wanted to ‘skulk’ around his vast iron fortress, and see what his slaves and minions were up to, for he trusted no one.
The Evil Emperor (for that was how he liked to think of himself) lived in a world where it was unsafe to trust anybody or anything. ‘Strike first!’ was his motto. Strike before anyone realises you know that they’re plotting against you. And one thing was always certain – people were always plotting against you.
This ‘Residents’ Association’, for example, what could it be but a plot against him? It was clearly some sort of criminal gang devoted to taking over his territory. It could be that filthy creep, Ivan Morozov, his one-time partner.
Morozov was always looking for ways to do him down. He was forever scheming to take over the gambling cartels in Romania and the Ukraine.
“Pah!” The Evil Emperor spat at the imaginary Morozov. Morozov was too soft. He could never handle the rough side of the business.
Any business had its rough side, and in his particular business if that meant taking vital organs out of someone’s body and replacing them with their own credit cards, so be it.
Or the rough side of business might involve kidnapping someone’s mother and photographing her performing undignified acts with animals. That was just the way of the world. It was nothing to get upset about, like Morozov did. He was pathetic.
Or maybe this ‘Residents’ Association’ was an off-shoot of the Zolkin Operation? That would be serious.
The Evil Emperor scowled. That was another great word: ‘scowl’. He’d looked it up in the English–Russian Dictionary, and it fitted what he was doing now perfectly. Ah! The English language was a wonderful thing! You could always find just the right word. He only wished he could speak the language.
The Evil Emperor ‘scowled’ again. (You can never have too much of a good thing, he reminded himself.) If the Zolkin Operation were behind the ‘Residents’ Association’ he would have to act swiftly. Boris Zolkin was as ruthless as he was cunning. If Boris was preparing to push his way into the UK business, then a short, sharp response was vital. It would have to convince Boris Zolkin that the Evil Emperor was even more ruthless than he was. It would have to be a deadly blow to Zolkin’s ambitions in the UK. It would have to teach him never to meddle again in the Evil Emperor’s affairs.
There was no question about it.
The ‘Residents’ Association’ (whatever it was) would have to be destroyed.
Actually the Evil Emperor didn’t live in ‘an iron fortress’. That was just the way he liked to think of his house. It was, in fact, made of wood, and it was painted a cheerful bright blue. It had wooden pillars all around it and although it was large and rambling, it was actually a very pretty house. It had been constructed in the 19th century for a wealthy landowner.
Grigori Koslov, for such was the name of the Evil Emperor, had bought it some years ago as a wreck. He had restored it with taste, and yet had managed to kit it out with all the latest stuff. It had central heating, satellite dishes, and broadband. It had a sauna, an indoor swimming pool, and a gym.
In addition the windows were fitted with bullet-proof glass and the whole building had been made fire-safe and bomb-proof. Grigori had also constructed a five-metre-high electric fence around the property. In addition three American pit bull terriers ran loose in the grounds. Grigori had researched the most dangerous breeds of dog, and discovered that the pit bull has a bite that can go through both muscle and bone. He immediately had the dogs imported from the US.
As he explained to his wife, it wasn’t that he was paranoid. He just had a lot of business contacts who would like to see him impaled on an iron spike.
Chapter Six
Malcolm Thomas finished his lecture on the distribution of early Celtic fish hooks 6,000–5,000 BC. He packed his notes neatly into his bag. He nodded to the six students who had unexpectedly turned up to the lecture, and then wandered over to the porters’ lodge.
His pigeon hole was surprisingly full.
The first thing he took out was a mailing from the Medieval Academy of America. He always liked getting their letters, because they had such an impressive logo. It made the study of history seem respectable again. Most people, when you told them you were a Professor of History, would look blank and say things like: “Are people still doing History?” or “I thought we already knew it all.”
But you had to take the Medieval Academy of America’s logo seriously. It gave the subject weight.
Then there were a dozen bills, all from the university, and addressed to “Prof. Michael Thomas, Department of History”.
“You’d think they could get my name right by now,” Malcolm murmured as he stuffed them into his bag.
The university had a new Managing Director, whose greatest achievement had been to change his title from ‘The Principal’ to ‘The Managing Director’.