Karmalitics E-Book

Duncan Abbott

• Herausgeber: M-Y Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 598

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

In his pacey, darkly humorous first novel, Duncan Abbott doesn't pull any punches. With a searing eye for satire and a great deal of comic ingenuity he proposes some startling new political ideas at a time when paucity of thought and poverty of ideals seem to be the norm.

Join our hero George King, a talented, popular and ethical MP, and his cadre of madcap idealists as they saunter amusingly through the sordid side of parliament changing the nation as they go!
Watch them improve the lives of millions, sweep away swathes of avarice and laugh in the face of adversity, while tearing down a sex, drugs and prostitution-based blackmail campaign that could bring down British politics as we know it.

Leseprobe

CHAPTER 1

There are times when life is moving along sweetly enough, yet deep down you still believe that there should be more meaning to your short existence. Very few understood why Rob did not glean any real satisfaction from earning a far higher than average salary, owning his house or having a career that was on an upward curve heading for the stars. But then, they did not know what made Rob tick; he was different from most people – not particularly materialistic, but he did appreciate the good things in life. He wanted everyone to have what he had, – and until they did he could not be entirely satisfied with what he had himself. Rob had a caring streak inside him that would put most people to shame – so it was not unusual to find him standing at the top of his staircase sporting a familiar, distinctly perplexed look upon his face.

“I’m trying to work out if that’s your ‘what’s it all about’ face, or a ‘why the hell aren’t we getting a proper shop in, so that we can eat normally’ look. I’m hoping that it’s the latter, ’cause there’s bugger all for breakfast in the kitchen,” griped his best friend and housemate Rick, feeling a shade too hung-over to enter into any hypothetical social-economic discussion at such an ungodly hour. “We’ll go shopping later. Right now, I need coffee,” replied Rob.

“Proper shopping or destitute shopping?” asked Rick, praying that Rob might finally be getting fed up with his real life exercise of trying to comprehend what life was like for the unemployed or poor. Rick had reluctantly agreed to go along with Rob’s eating cheaply and economically experiment, so long as it didn’t interfere with his drinking habits.

“Rob, it’s almost been a month now, isn’t that enough? I get the picture, it really isn’t very nice, but the reality is, there’s not a lot we can do about it. You’ve proved your point. Now can we get some decent food in for Christ’s sake!”

“See how I feel later,” was the most encouraging response Rob could muster.

Rick could have easily sneaked out to buy himself a takeaway or a treat, but he was a man of his word. He had promised he would support his soulmate and he acknowledged that he was partly responsible because he had initially come up with the idea during one of their conversations.

Over the years they had fantasized about an independent society that prioritised spiritual values above the seemingly monetary obsession that festered throughout the western world. They had spent the majority of their free nights devising their own separate society, one that could integrate perfectly alongside a failing capitalist system. They figured it would help the real economy recover or prosper. Yet they were realistic enough to appreciate that it was only a notion, their own DIY philosophy perhaps, based on the smatterings of Buddhism that they had read and appreciated, along with their vague understanding of true Christianity, minus the need to go to war in the name of religion. Rob negotiated his way down the stairs, passing lazily abandoned shoes, toilet rolls that were waiting to be taken to their work place, a few letters that were well past their to be opened date. He scuffed his slippers across the carpet, half-heartedly attempting to kick away some dirt that had been trodden in because Rick had annoyingly not bothered to wipe his feet or remove his shoes before attempting to make it to his bedroom while inebriated. He made it to the ground floor unscathed, to the arrival of more post that had scattered itself on the coconut mat that served as a draught excluder to the front door and a nowhere-near-used-enough foot wipe. Rob scooped up his daily heap of unwanted or unnecessary correspondence with its accompanying selection of pizza menus, supermarket “Special Offers” the obligatory “NO JOB TOO SMALL” leaflet, and the increasingly desperate “Landlords – We Have Tenants For Your Property”. He was undecided whether or not to keep any of it, but reasoned that the junk mail could at least come in handy for lighting his trusty open fire, so he would refrain from having it re-recycled for the time being. The chances were he would get it all back in a couple of weeks, albeit in another format, in any case, so why bother?

Rob made his way to the back of the house into a much larger than average, well-appointed kitchen. This was his favourite room in the house, his pride and joy. Granite surfaces stretched the length of two long walls forming an L shape of sparkling ebony, broken only by a huge six-ring, double oven range, sporting the exact same colour finish as the stone it resided in. Set under a chandelier sat a chunky antique oak table accompanied by similarly rustic chairs. The ensemble could comfortably seat eight; Rob and Rick had served many a good meal to friends on it before it played host to games of Risk or Poker long into the night. It had witnessed alcohol or the odd drug-fuelled party, business meetings, economic and social philosophy discussions, the counselling of friends and the funniest of pranks. Its age was in stark contrast to the white state of the art cupboards that hugged the walls. Handle-free, they required the only gentlest of touches to reveal their contents. Nowadays however, these sleek storage cabinets contained the meanest of supplies. Where there was once an excess of food hall-bought delicacies, instead a smattering of value option supermarket essentials resided in their comparatively palatial surroundings. Although the kitchen in general looked stunning, the walls and ceiling were due a date with the paintbrush, a cracked floor tile needed replacing, a few bulbs had given their last breath of light. Robert insisted that it added character; besides, he had far more pressing and important matters to attend to before he could start to worry about redecorating. He dropped the letters onto the table, made his way to his designer kettle, flicking it on before spooning some coffee into his favourite mug. He took the last couple of slices of bread from their “Look how cheap I am” packaging and slid them into the toaster. He searched the oversized but sparsely filled fridge for something spreadable, pulling out a jar of marmalade containing barely enough to cover the toast. Returning to his table, he aimed the remote at the TV that had been strategically screwed into the wall out of harm’s way and watched it burst into life, straight onto the News Channel. He watched the newscasters miserably portraying the same old dressed up reports that he had been listening to for years. In short, Britain was in the middle of its worst ever recession. It was showing no sign of abatement. Unemployment had hit an all-time high and was heading towards the dreaded 20% of the total workforce being unable to find any form of legitimate work. The present government had practically given up working out how they could afford to pay pensions. The UK’s balance of payments had reached unsustainable proportions. It was no coincidence that the crime statistics had worsened. Youths were taking to the streets on a regular basis, venting their frustration at the complete lack of any prospects, ironically trying to destroy the only places where they stood any chance of gaining any work. Heating and water bills were on the rise again, even though the majority of people could barely afford to pay them now. The courts were experiencing record levels of cases of debt recovery, their waiting lists were ever increasing. However the good news was that the human race’s obsession with smart phones had enabled Green Telecom to record profits for the eighth year running.

Robert turned to his post. “Green Telecom” looked a bit weird when it was printed in big red letters; he definitely preferred the green logo, the one that signified that you were going to have thirty-odd quid taken out of your bank account and, since they were such nice people, they’d let you use your handset for another month. The red logo conveyed a different message. It played a more sombre tune along the lines of: “Pay us in the next seven days or we’ll cut you off from all your friends and family, make you grovel to remove the block on your handset and charge you an additional fee for the privilege of being reconnected. Oh, and we’ll still charge you while you aren’t actually using your phone”. He opened the red letter wishing he had opened the green one that was still lying on the stairs. He was advised in big bold letters that his bank had not settled this month’s account. There must have been an oversight, but there was not. He just did not have enough to pay it because of the allowance he had set himself. He would make a call and pay them; he needed his phone. Rob pushed the remaining letters to one side and stared out of the window opposite him into his bleak autumn garden. He counted his blessings that he had a very nice roof over his head that was paid for. His only financial concerns were the council tax, utility bills, food, his alcohol consumption and most importantly, his mobile phone bill.

He had savings accumulating in a building society account, and was being paid handsomely for the work he was currently involved with. But he was trying to survive on the going rate that the government deemed acceptable as unemployment benefit – or job seekers’ allowance as the spin doctors called it. He allowed himself a laugh at what he had become since his “wealthy days” as he liked to call them, chuckling at the irony of the post in front of him.

In his real life, Rob was one of the leading programmers of his generation. His first class IT degree had helped to secure a position as a Junior Programmer with a software house that specialised in payment systems for medium to large companies. It had taken him less than four years to reach Team Leader status. Rob was a complete natural when it came to designing computer systems that worked with ease and incorporated the rare feature of being ridiculously user friendly. They were foolproof, robust and could easily cope with integrated updates or bolted on pieces of software. Moreover, he also was blessed with the likeability factor. Rob was good looking, his slightly rugged looks backed up with an engaging personality that was equally comfortable talking football or economics with a chairman of a PLC and with the cleaner that swept toilet floors. These attributes had stood him apart from his more geeky counterparts at work; his employers were quick to take advantage, actively encouraging him to meet their clients at every opportunity. It was not too long before his reputation was second to none and the inevitable “come and work for us” calls were a regular feature of his working week. He refused the headhunters’ calls politely, confirming that he was more than happy with his current employer until a brighter than average recruitment consultant squeezed his pitch in before he could brush him off.

“Robert, I’ve got a major telecoms company that’ll pay you £1,000 per day for two years if you’ll design and oversee the implementation of their new payments system. Interested?” This simple yet very effective question struck a chord with him. He related to the straightforward brashness of this stranger on the end of his phone; there was no pussyfooting about, no ingratiating “Hello it’s great to be able to talk to you” or “Good news Robert, I have a wonderful opportunity for you, let’s meet for a coffee?”.

This no nonsense call completely stopped him in his tracks. “I might be,” he heard himself say.

Within two months, Robert found himself at the helm of the largest project he had ever encountered with a staff of over thirty programmers, testers, project managers and analysts reporting to him directly about every aspect of the new system that he had designed. The project ran smoothly enough for one so large, enabling him to report that everything was on time and on budget at his weekly meetings with his employers. One problem that did threaten to derail his personal time management was the constant liaison with the future users of his system. Robert prided himself on how “user friendly” his creations were, so it was imperative that he ensured that the current employers would understand how and why it worked. This very time consuming exercise had a knock-on effect, restricting his availability to give an opinion or permission that was constantly required in other areas, usually at short notice, all of which were imperative in order to keep his project running on time. Eventually, Robert decided to dispense with the daily user meetings and replace them with a weekly update meeting. Instead, he created and loaded a “false worker”. It was a working program that once activated, gave him full access to the system at any level. He decided for security reasons that only he would have the access code for the non-existent employee and that the fewer who knew of his invisible android the better. His previous meetings with the users had enabled him to compile a list of every single action or process that was necessary for his system to work successfully – all he had to do was to use his anonymous little worker to try out different ways of running and printing reports, statements, letters, chasing accounts, giving credit (they never returned any monies owed), taking payments and setting up and collecting direct debits until he was satisfied that the entire system could be used effectively by anyone with half a brain, given the correct level of training. Eventually he was happy that his system was ready for the implementation and final testing stage. He was confident that his collections system would solve all of Green Telecom’s problems. His solution was simple. Green Telecom’s system asked three questions of the account holder’s bank:

Am I talking to the account holder’s bank? (Confirm password)

Are there enough funds in the bank account to settle this months (and any arrears) bill?

Have you made payment?

If all three questions answered, “Yes”, the customer got to use their handset for another month before the process was repeated. Rob ensured that this section of the software was stringently tested. This was after all, the most crucial part of the system. It had to be completely secure, hack-proof, bulletproof, crash-proof, everything proof.

Naturally when they were testing this part of the software, they couldn’t access real bank accounts, it was then that Robert came up with the idea of introducing his virtual administrator to act as the bank. He programmed the software to say YES, YES, YES or YES and NO randomly to all the different permutations available.

If there was a NO a text was sent to the account holder advising that they would attempt to collect the payment in a week, if this failed then the “Red” letter would be issued giving the contract rebel five days to pay or have their account suspended.

Rob’s inbuilt administrator was an integral part of his software; it saved his overall budget a small fortune. He had not needed to hire any of the test engineers that he had budgeted for, preferring to use the in-house programmers to put the system through its paces. He would definitely be using it again.

The reality was that it was pretty much the same as most of the other software available, much of which Robert at some stage had had a hand in writing or overseeing himself. Green Telecom had previously written their own software, which had a habit of crashing on a daily basis which created a very long winded process to establish who had paid and who hadn’t. Robert’s solution would work effortlessly, save them countless man-hours, enable them to focus on improving their customer services department, bring them up to speed with the competition and quite drastically increase their profits. The job was completed ahead of time and, incredibly, under budget. It was a job well done. Robert’s name was being spoken of in the highest of IT circles, so it wasn’t long before the same recruitment consultant called him up again with another question.

“Hi, Robert, London Water need their payments systems rewriting. Interested?”

Their systems took less than a year to complete and were a total success. With his reputation endorsed and heightened, Rob’s next contract was arranged and in place with the minimum of fuss. He took a two week break in the Maldives before he started working on Capital Electric’s payment systems, replacing old manual work processes with pretty, computer based touch screen technology. Robert was now firmly ensconced in the higher echelon of information technology software development. His systems were nominated for and won awards. He was a regular speaker at computer software conferences and constantly featured in the computing press. The world was seemingly his oyster, as meteoric was his rise to geek of the year, his downfall was just as spectacular, but so much swifter. Yet it would strangely turn out to be the massive blessing he had been seeking.

CHAPTER 2

The one thing that Robert and most of the other children who attended the same school had in common, were the fondest memories of a dinner lady called Mavis Davis. She reminded him of his nan. She was much more than a dinner lady however. Apart from being a forward thinking Head Chef at his nearby junior school, Mavis doubled and sometimes trebled up as a substitute mum to some, or a source of amusement to others. She would not hesitate to act as a disciplinarian to the persistently rowdy kids if they overstepped the mark. Mavis simply loved children. It didn’t seem to matter how busy her schedule was, she would always manage to find time for her littl’uns. It was no surprise that Mavis was recognised universally as the most popular member of the school’s staff, which lead to the small problem of having to remember everybody’s names. She resolved the problem by calling everyone “Duck”. Mavis was famed for it, and would be remembered by everyone long after they left school. Some of the kids had competitions to see how many times they could get her to say the magic “Duck” word in conversation – not an easy game when the queue was being forced along at quite a pace. Mavis was the highlight of the lunch break or even the day for many of her “little’uns”.

“I heard her saying it six times,” one kid boasted.

“I asked her if there was any duck in the noodles,” another countered.

She said, “No duck in the noodles, Duck, it’s chicken, Duck,” to raptures of childish giggles.

Mavis Davis was in charge of the main courses; she loved her job and had a special place in her heart for all of her little kiddies who shuffled along the queue with their runny noses, clinging onto their trays for their dear little lives. She tried not to harbour favourites, yet she was particularly susceptible to the charms of a certain cheeky lad with floppy blonde hair, a wide smile, plus a wickedly naughty glint in his eye and particularly long eyelashes, which he used to full effect on her.

“Hello Miss Mavis, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, Duck, but be quick – there’s a queue behind you”

“What happens to the leftovers – do you throw them away?”

“Yes, Duck, well we can’t keep it, Duck!”

“Well can I have a bit that you will be throwing away? It’ll save on waste, Miss, won’t it?”

“There might not be any waste, Duck.”

“But there’s always waste, Miss Mavis. We can smell it when we’re in the playground in the afternoon, Miss.”

“Not my shepherd’s pie, Duck, that always gets eaten, Duck. It’s cabbage you can smell, hardly any of you eat your greens, and they’re so good for you Duck.”

“I always eat my greens, Miss Mavis. Oh go on. Miss, I’ve got to play football for the school this afternoon and I’m starving, I’m sure I’ll faint if I have to run around too much… I won’t waste it, I promise.”

Mavis Davis plonked a much larger than normal portion of shepherd’s pie on Robert’s plate, adding

“You know I can’t give you more than everyone else, otherwise they’ll all want more, won’t they, Duck, and where will we be then, Duck? But you can have some extra greens seeing as you say you always eat them, Duck.”

Mavis reached over to her colleague’s section of veg, scooped a spoonful of cabbage and covered some of the pie.

Robert gave her one last flick of his lashes, flashed his cheeky grin, and moved swiftly to the pudding section to the sound of Mavis’s “Yes, Duck”, quacking quietly away in the background.

Mavis had a huge soft spot for a lovable rogue; she had been happily married to one for twenty-five years. They had two beautiful children and their first grandchild. They had lived in their modest rented house since they had tied the knot. She reckoned that they must have paid for the mortgage on the property by now, what with the amount of rent they had stumped up over the years. Mavis lived a life of unselfish, loving sacrifice, bringing up those two children with her devoted husband Ron. As the years passed into middle age, Ron had found work increasingly harder to find – the never-ending recession had not made things any easier.

Mavis was a good cook. She understood how to feed her family wholesomely on a limited budget. She attended college, qualified in hotel and catering management, got married and quickly fell pregnant, which forced her to postpone her career until their children started school. Mavis was over the moon when she offered a position at a junior school as a cook. Of course, she enjoyed working with food, but children were her first love. It also meant that she could look after her “little bears”, as she called them, during the holiday periods. As far as Mavis was concerned life couldn’t have been better. She didn’t mind that others that had more money, better cars and their own houses. She wasn’t materialistic, so the normal trappings of life were meaningless. Her priority in life was to be surrounded by a happy, loving family all pulling in the same direction. That was what mattered, not the car or the seemingly more important registration number. She cared little about how much houses were worth, or how much her friends had just spent keeping up with the latest fad. If Mavis did have a bone of contention that angered her, it was how so many couples were creating children without being in the position to provide emotional stability and security – that angered her.

“Poor little sods don’t stand a chance do they!” she said. “Every child needs a loving mum and dad,” she would add. There was always worry about the household budget; the rent on their house swallowed most of her income, so they were dependent on Ron chipping in with money that he earned from his stints on building sites or decorating front rooms. Despite all of their financial uncertainty, Mavis was blessed with a cheerful, positive outlook on life: she loved her family and they would always come first. As hard as things could be for her, she fully appreciated there were many that were a lot worse off than her family, so she always managed to find time to help others. She could spot a troubled child a mile off in the dinner queue and always treated them to the full “Duck” treatment.

“Are you alright my little lovely? You look like you’ve got the whole world on your shoulders, Duck… Are you hungry, Duck? If you are, you tell Ella on chips over there that I said you could have some extra, cos you like your chips don’t you, Duck? But only if you give me a little smile first, Duck, and if there’s anything you want to talk to me about you come and find me after I’ve finished serving here and we’ll have a nice little chat.” Mavis sadly found herself having to conduct these conversations on an almost daily basis. She always made herself available and that was the important thing for her. The children who did talk to Mavis reinforced her belief that families should not be started unless both parents were in it for the long haul.

As the economy grew worse, her husband Ron found less and less work. So when the offer of a promotion, working at a senior school that was closer to home and paying considerably more money came calling, it was an absolute no brainer. It meant a definite holiday every year, they could get their car back on the road, or she might not have to work as much during the holidays. She’d miss the “little’uns” as she referred to them. But on the other hand she might see them again if they ended up at her new school when it was their time to move up a level.

As a child, Robert had always enjoyed his food, he was an energetic child who loved his sport and his athleticism justified the amount that he consumed. He didn’t have a particularly sweet tooth, but he always ensured there was room for some pudding at school. His mum didn’t believe in desserts at home unless it was a special occasion, so he considered them his daily treat. Robert’s school had an established team of energetic cooks that quite rightly believed that they contributed to the children’s wellbeing by supplying tasty, slightly adventurous, nutritious food. Robert enjoyed eating their food and looked forward to the banter with his favourite dinner lady.

“Will I get larger portions when I go to big school, Miss Mavis,” he enquired with what looked like an almost genuine look on his face.

“It depends on which school you go to, Duck.”

“I’m going to King’s & Queen’s Academy, Miss.”

“Are you really, Duck? I’m glad you said that because I’m going there next term as well,” she said as she scooped a second ladle of chicken casserole to compliment the rice and peas that were already filling his plate.

“I’ll have to keep an eye on you there, won’t I, Duck,” she grinned.

Both parties were clearly pleased that they would continue their lunchtime fun.

“Do they have bigger plates there, Miss Mavis? I reckon I might need one when I’m at big school.”

“You’ll have to wait and see, Duck… You’ll just have to wait and see, now mind you don’t get gravy on your tray, Duck, poor Ella is busy enough without you making an extra mess for her to clean up.”

CHAPTER 3

It was award season – the time of the year that allowed Rob alongside his fellow top-notch systems designers to dust down their best penguin suits, swap business gossip and generally give each other a congratulatory pat on the back. It was an excellent social circuit to be associated with for the ultra-career minded, but not one to get on the wrong side of. There were powerful corporations involved that wielded the influence to improve or ruin a reputation in an instant. Robert was a relatively new member of this elite movement, he had received an enviable collection of invites or nominations and he fully intended to enjoy his new found acclaim. He treated himself to a Savile Row dinner suit to celebrate his initial recognition by his hierarchy. It had not taken long to accumulate some memorable stories to share with his close friends featuring conquests or great escapes while he had been wearing it. Just the sight of the jacket and trousers induced a huge grin on Robert’s face. It symbolised a great night out, the possibility of a trophy recognising his work achievements at work… He might even get to meet George King, an up and coming MP who was being touted as a future Prime Minister. The one cast iron certainty however was the huge piss up that followed the awards ceremony. With a little luck, a few tried and trusted quips, and some strategically placed compliments, he had managed to end up sharing a bed with a good-looking stranger with no ties. Without doubt this was Rob’s favourite time of the year. He was a happily single guy, with too much money in his bank account, who was more interested in his career than settling down and having children. He was happy for Mrs Right to come along, but he wasn’t in a hurry to find her just yet. He would leave that in the hands of the gods.

He arrived at the Savoy for 7.00pm as requested. There was an option to bring a guest on his invitation, but he had always declined the offer, feeling that it would cramp his style and ability to get the most out of the night from a business perspective. It was first and foremost a “works do” and although he had every intention of getting plastered when the formalities were over with, he still had the obligatory circulating and hobnobbing to fulfil. This was the general code of conduct at these events – the “tour rules” policy kicked in once the band or DJ started.

He checked the seating plan to discover that he was seated with two IT Directors representing their respective multi-nationals who had brought their partners, a couple of Chief Execs who had chosen to bring their secretaries rather than their wives and another nominee called James Barker. Rob and James had met at a previous gala a year before, shared a couple of bottles of wine, swapped stories and chased the same woman only to discover she was the escort of the president of their society, before sheepishly retiring to their table with another bottle of fizz. The pair of them soon came to the conclusion that they probably would not be in contention for the main prize seeing as they were seated so far away from the main stage. Neither were surprised, both were pleased that their presence had at least been required to make up the numbers. They consoled themselves that there would be better things to come at future events, and decided to team up for the night. They had a lot in common: James had trodden a slightly different career path to Robert to achieve his place at the table. His expertise was more internet-based; he had revitalised many leading City corporate web sites and his small company was fast gaining the reputation for creating innovative, engaging, professional sites. In a very competitive market, James had cleverly positioned his company within the finance industry and had negotiated free office space (which just happened to be going spare due to redundancies) within a prestigious merchant bank in the heart of the City in return for a state of the art, fully hosted and supported company website. He played on his sexy city address and it worked. He even named his company “City Web Design” and his calculated, slick sales technique solely aimed at the specialist banking and finance sectors won him a succession of long term, lucrative contracts. He was soon a force to be reckoned with; he was expanding and he was very ambitious. Like most successful businessmen, he enjoyed a work hard, play hard ethic.

Robert had stumbled upon the perfect playmate for the night.

Rob spent the first three glasses of champagne cheerfully fraternising with potential future employers, checking out how up to date their payment systems were, or whether they had plans to rewrite or upgrade them. He explained how much more efficiently his customers’ systems were running since he had implemented his new designs. But he was also careful to recommend people or companies for anything that he couldn’t do himself. Rob’s ability to rub shoulders easily with complete strangers was second to none. He glided effortlessly from group to group, picking up on strands of conversation before introducing himself (and James) and their services to welcoming, eager ears. He was not averse to a bit of self-publicity and took note of how many times he was asked whether and when he was going to set up his own company.

“R B Systems has a good ring to it,” said the chairman of a services company.

“Watch this space,” replied Robert on several occasions.

James and Rob settled down at their table towards the rear of the banqueting suite and, deciding on a policy of champagne continuation, ordered another two bottles. “Might as well sample the Chablis as well, seeing as it comes with the meal,” suggested James

“Be rude not to. It’s a Premier Cru,” agreed Rob, who also ordered a bottle of champagne.

Three courses, four bottles and five awards later, each one to increasingly rapturous applause, the two well on their way to being inebriated chaps made their way to the bar and ordered a bottle of Sambuca with yet another bottle of champagne. “Told you we wouldn’t win anything Rob. Just as well too, I’m that pissed, I’d have made a right arse of myself,” laughed James. “Not that bothered mate, not this time. Besides, I’ve sorted my next contract here, so that’s another hundred thousand in the bin for me, mate.”

“Best make that two bottles of Krug then me ol’ china, seeing as we’re celebrating and all that,” smiled James.

Turning back towards their now deserted table, two stunning East Asian women, dressed to kill, who had escaped their rather boring hosts and had been watching the boys enjoying themselves, stopped them in their tracks.

“That’s a lot of drink for just the two of you. D’you need a hand with it?”

The shortest of glances were exchanged before Rob requested an additional two flutes and shot glasses, leaving James to usher the ladies back to their places. “You guys look like you like to party,” they said

“Party is my middle name!” responded James

Within the hour, four guests of the Savoy Hotel banqueting suite had swapped banter, stories and argued over the best and worst films and songs of the year. They formed naturally into two couples and were all getting along famously. The night was drawing to a close, it didn’t take a genius to work out that all four of the party were looking to prolong their festivities.

“Did you book a room here?” asked one of the girls

“You sort the champers and I’ll sort the rooms,” ordered James

“What if there aren’t any?”

“There are, I checked last time I went for a leak.”

“Ha ha, me too. I booked one in your name next door to mine mate!”

“Well in that case I demand that we inspect said rooms immediately,” commanded James before beckoning to the ladies to join them. The two couples made their way to the 3rd floor and entered room 321.

“Nice… very nice,” said Rob’s partner for the night whom he understood to be called Kelly.

“Would you like a livener?” she winked

“I was just going to say that,” James added taking his wallet out.

“Well seeing as we’re having such a great time let’s raise the bar a bit,” Robert laughed and drew yet another small plastic bag from his wallet, tossing it on a highly lacquered table.

Rob wasn’t a regular user of cocaine, it was just something he liked to have handy on special occasion, just in case, and as luck would have it, he was with three other like-minded people.

Several lines later accompanied by more champagne, a good deal of snogging, groping and giggling interspersed with conversation that most people would describe as cocaine-induced “general bollocks”, Rob, Kelly, two glasses and a half bottle of champagne left room 321 and entered room 323.

“You wannanuther line?” Kelly winked tipping a large amount of white powder from a fresh bag next to a single line, which she snorted up her beautiful nose off the immaculately French polished bedside cabinet.

“Let’s have one for the road?” she giggled

Robert bent over, pulled the rolled-up twenty-pound note to his nostril, cleaning up the line of bright white powder straight through to the back of his throat.

Kelly had already started to rub his crotch slowly as he leant over. Life didn’t get much better than this, he thought. He left the note next to the other line, stood up and slipped behind her, cupping her magnificently shaped breasts as he guided her into a ninety-degree angle. She hovered around in that position before she hoovered up her line and then let out a gentle moan as he pushed himself onto her firm buttocks, sliding his hands down to her hips while gyrating her gently. Kelly’s body felt fantastic and although he had already pictured in his mind what she would look like naked, he had been longing to confirm it. “Can we keep the lights on?” she murmured

“Of course honey, anything you want, absolutely anything!” he rasped.

That last line of coke was doing its job; Robert was completely in lust with Kelly, he was going to make love to her all night and give her the best time she had ever had. That was his mission – to satisfy Kelly. Tonight he was going to be the giver… He wanted to hear her moan as she came… He would like that more than anything and he was ready for action. His head started to feel heavy, though, which wasn’t quite right, but to hell with it, he was about to make love to the best looking women he had ever met. He turned her round and kissed her, parting her delicate lips with his as he slipped his tongue slowly into her mouth. He toyed with her tongue as if it was her clitoris. She loved it and moaned in appreciation as he caressed her spine, his middle finger reaching down to her coccyx before it weaved its way up to the base of her delicate skull. Rob began to deliver the tenderest circular massage and, sliding a few inches down to the top of her dress, he reached for her zip. She directed him towards the light switch nearby,

“Lights, darling. Let’s just turn it down a little.”

Lights dimmed, albeit hardly at all, Kelly let her silk dress slip effortlessly to the floor. She turned and kneeled, relieving him of his trousers, boxers and socks (let’s face it, no-one in that situation was going to keep their socks on) and took his already firm cock in her mouth. Kelly knew exactly what she was doing; she was totally in control of Robert now, which was not what he had in mind. His head was feeling even heavier too, which was weird… He blamed it on the three or four bottles of champagne or wine that he’d consumed over the past six or so hours, not to mention at least eight shots of Sambuca – but he had just had another huge line of coke, surely that should have levelled him out.

He wondered what was in that last line, maybe it was just not very good quality – that might explain why his head felt woozier.

Rob realised that his plan A was not going to be the reality he had hoped for. His head was getting heavier and drowsier.

Kelly’s night of passion would have to go with the flow. Kelly in the meantime was giving him the blow job of his life (and he’d had a few in his time), bringing him close to orgasm before easing off, preferring to rub her perfectly positioned nipples with her index fingers.

“Take me from behind,” she demanded

Robert didn’t need a second invitation; he knelt her near the edge of the bed and stood up close before inserting himself into her. She groaned with delight.

“Now fuck me!” she ordered as she pushed herself towards him, parting her muscular thighs a little wider. He gripped her waist and thrust himself into her.

“Harder, faster,” she screamed. Robert was giving her everything he had, he didn’t think he was going to last much longer, seeing as she had been expertly teasing him with her mouth earlier. It also seemed rather strange that the room was getting darker with each thrust. But he was with the sexual object of his dreams and he was determined not to let the side down. He positioned himself to get a maximum vice -like grip around her waist and powered away like a steam train piston, as she pushed closer to him, groaning with pleasure.

“More, More MORE!”

He was so close to coming… He pulled her towards him, thrusting as hard as he could, pushing all of his weight into her.

“Yes, Yes, Yes, you’ve got it, I love it, fuck me!” she cried as he repositioned himself, finding himself standing on the smoothest, slipperiest of silk dresses.

Kelly slammed herself into him, knocking him off balance – his bare feet allowed him no grip whatsoever while they were in touch with the silky soft material. He fell comically backwards, knocked his head on a cabinet and simultaneously ejaculated streams of spunk in the air. By the time his head had hit the ground, his night was over. * * *

Rob woke up in bed hours later, alone with no real recollection of what had happened in that room earlier. He was covered in baby oil, had an aching cock and, more worryingly, a sore arse too. Unusually, he was also experiencing one hell of a headache. He was well versed and hardened in partying, but he could not recall ever suffering such an almighty hangover. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what it was… And he had absolutely no idea of how bad things were about to get.

CHAPTER 4

George King, the people’s politician, a man destined for political stardom. His chiselled jawline and high definition cheekbones served to highlight deep blue eyes that resonated honesty and intelligence. A full head of medium blond hair sporting a trendy “City boy” hairstyle, showed no signs of thinning or receding. Full lips that gave way to a wide welcoming smile, sat below his roman nose, completing the dashingly good looks that were custom made for modern day television. A lot of men would have allowed these attributes to be the main facet of their personality. Not so George King. He knew that good looks did not necessarily guarantee a good person, far from it. His priorities had for a long time been to live life with a good heart and a loving soul. He was not unaware of his marketability; he was fast becoming the political face of TV. He could not control political spin or the quite depressing fact that the majority of the public preferred to look at and listen to a well groomed person with an ideology that quite openly would cause untold harm to the human race than someone that dressed simply, yet resonated a caring nature, only spoke of love, happiness and caring of the inhabitants of the earth regardless of feelings, beliefs and integrity.

George accepted that he had been blessed with good looks and had decided that he would use these attributes as part of a package with the overall objective of trying to persuade people to think for themselves. All of which, he hoped, would improve their mental, moral and physical lives.

In short, George was a good egg, he had always gone out of his way to help people, and would continue to do so for the rest of his life. With this in mind, he had entered politics. He wanted to make a difference, improve the everyday life of Joe Public. He believed that he had been born with a purpose in life – to do something meaningful. As far as he was concerned, the best way to achieve this would surely be from a position of power. Not power for the sake of self-acclamation, but power to facilitate change for the better.

George was proud of the fact that he was state educated. He gained an impressive string of A’s at both ‘O’ and ‘A’ level. He applied for and won a scholarship to study Philosophy, Politics and Economics at Oxford and after a heated debate with his down-to-earth, working class parents, he accepted it and not only more than held his own academically, but also found the time to excel at sport, playing rugby and football for his university.

As a teenager he played the field with his mates, but to his friends’ or colleagues’ amusement, dismay, or in most cases complete disbelief, George very rarely showed any interest when the time came to stand up and be counted as far as the sexual side of things were concerned. His ability to talk any girl into being his buddy for the evening was legendary. He realised that the more non-sexual these dates became, the more popular and trusted he became. He ignored the accusations and serious questioning of his sexuality, preferring to continue with the lifestyle that suited him rather than what was expected of him. George was the perfect gentleman, great fun to be with, equally comfortable in male and female company. He could talk sport, current affairs, cooking, the arts, and on the odd occasion when he was not knowledgeable about a particular subject, he still managed to display a healthy amount of interest. Not any old fleeting comment for the sake of keeping a conversation going – on the contrary, he demonstrated an authentic desire to learn and interact with the subject holder.

He asked intelligent questions and proposed scenarios that required thought and consideration. People saw him as the genuine article, well brought up (a credit to his parents, his elders would tell him), and excellent company – in short, a gentleman destined for the very top of whatever career he decided upon.

Few were surprised of his decision to enter politics. Many were pleased when he stayed true to his roots by campaigning for his local Labour candidate, helping him overturn a Conservative majority in a marginal seat. George’s laborious efforts, combined with his alluring powers of persuasion did not go unnoticed and he was soon recommended and rewarded with a Labour candidacy for an impossible win in one of the safest of Tory seats in the country.

It offered no aspiration or expectation of victory. But to George it represented an opportunity, a stepping stone perhaps; a chance to showcase and hone his debating skills. He had no doubt that the experience would come in useful at a later date. He was more than prepared to play the waiting game and he accepted that he had to earn the right to contest a seat with a realistic chance of entering parliament. He knew he could learn an awful lot in defeat and intended to give the opportunity his absolute best. He didn’t win the seat, but he did receive the loudest cheer when the Returning Officer announced that the turnout for this particular by-election was some 21 per cent higher than the national average and that while George King’s opposition had only lost three thousand votes (this was after all one of the safest Tory seats in the UK), the Labour vote had increased dramatically from the usual 4,000, to a very respectable, all-time high of 15,000. OK, it was still 14,000-odd short of victory, but that didn’t matter. What made the media sit up and notice was that George’s idea to “get out there” and introduce himself to as many people as possible had caused a public stir.

He had managed this by displaying his natural, kind self, discussing policies with people from all walks of life, showing them complete respect whether they agreed or not. George ensured that he complimented the current government for doing their best in a very difficult economic climate. He offered thought-provoking alternatives to some of the more minor policies.

Importantly he managed all of this without the need to slag off any his opposition. Instead he suggested that it didn’t really matter who suggested or implemented government policy, claiming that so long as the people benefited from them he would be a happy man. This refreshingly honest approach had taken the public by surprise; his warm-hearted, conscientious philosophy had embraced everyone that he met. The result was that the media found a new darling. Being British, the fact that he had just lost his first election only served to stoke up the underdog mentality that assisted so many sportsmen and women in the past, present and future. The press assigned their highest profile writers to interview him and he appeared on all of the daytime chat shows within a week. The ensuing invitations to appear in celebrity reality shows soon followed, which served only to heighten his public standing. George realised he was in grave danger of becoming a TV personality without a real job, the sort that he quite detested, so he politely turned them all down. Not that he would have ever dreamt of getting involved in such a stunt. The one positive aspect of the previous week’s exertions were that his bank balance was looking more than respectable, so he did not have to worry about finding proper employment for the next year or so.

George was soon considered in some circles to be the only true voice of politics who was without a seat in parliament. So when the oldest, most respected Labour MP died from a sudden, but not entirely unpredictable heart attack, there was only one name being seriously considered to replace him. George duly won the consequential South London by-election, increasing the already solid majority by a further six thousand in the process.

His inaugural speech naively questioned why, in the face of the worst recession, could the government not investigate the possibility of cross-party cooperation for the good of the nation, the people and the failing communities. It may not have had the desired effect in the House of Commons, but once again the press picked up on the sincerity of this freshman MP who was already being labelled a cabinet minister in the making.

CHAPTER 5

Rob inspected his eyes in the gold leafed mirror that had been wrongly, in his opinion, screwed into the wall of one of the finest hotels in the world. Confused, he scratched his head, made that face that says, “what the hell happened last night?”, checked his watch and realised that, annoyingly, he was way too late for a top class breakfast. After showering, he dressed in the previous night’s attire, leaving his bow tie in the jacket pocket. Finally, he gave his room a once-over, searching for anything that he might have forgotten; some clue as to what happened after James and his lady with the forgettable name had left him alone with Kelly.

None the wiser, he knocked gingerly on the adjacent room’s door in the faint hope that James could at least add a few pieces to the puzzle. After three attempts, each more assertive than the last, to no reply, Rob trudged off despondently towards the lifts and politely asked the attendant to take him to the ground floor and its famously luxurious reception area.

“Good night last night?” enquired the receptionist with a knowing look as he returned the keys to their rightful pigeonhole.

“Well, it started off well enough, I had a great time… Must admit the final hour or so’s a bit of a blur,” answered Rob as honestly as he could.

“Quite a party from what I’ve heard,” replied the receptionist in the deadpan yet professional manner that is required of someone representing a world-leading hotel, as he slid a printed bill across the highly lacquered rosewood counter.

“Really?” enquired Robert in an inquisitive “Tell me more” tone, sharply followed by a much louder and quite startling “REALLY!” as he grasped just how much he owed.

“Yes, Sir. I understand the night porter was quite popular.”

“I bet he bloody was!” Rob squeaked, frantically calculating whether he actually had three thousand pounds available on his AMEX.

He did dimly remember that he had been in a pretty generous mood at the awards party – but he had only reckoned on six or seven bottles of wine or champagne at worst. His account, however, was showing fifteen.

“You’re sure this is my bill?” he enquired. “I mean, I know I pushed the boat out a bit but I don’t recall ordering half of what it says here!”

“Eight bottles were ordered from your room, Sir,” replied the receptionist in as helpful a manner as he could manage in the circumstances.

“Well if you say so, who am I to argue?” Robert replied resignedly, now understanding that something had gone dreadfully wrong last night. He extracted his gold AMEX card from his wallet and handed it tentatively to the receptionist with a queasy fingers-crossed look.

“I hope that’ll do nicely!” Robert commented, trying to make light of what could be quite an embarrassing situation. As he spoke, James’s business card fluttered from his wallet to the floor.

“Well thank God for that!” he muttered to himself, slightly relieved. Perhaps James could explain what the hell had happened. Maybe they had both ordered more champers for the girls and it had ended up on his own bill. James wouldn’t have a problem paying for his share of the night; he was a decent enough bloke.

Robert’s flat oblong of gold-coloured plastic did not let him down; it performed its duty in a first class manner without question. So, with his financial pride intact and hoping now that things were not as bad as first thought, Rob’s natural confidence and swagger soon returned. As far as this receptionist was concerned, he’d had a stonkingly expensive piss up and ended up screwing the sexiest woman in the hotel – and he could afford it.

“I’m assuming there are cabs outside?”

“Naturally,” replied the receptionist, a little disappointed that he couldn’t deliver his “let’s humiliate the bugger within earshot of customers that clearly can afford their stay” speech.

‘There’ll be others,’ he thought as he thanked Robert for staying at his hotel and wished him a safe journey home and a pleasant weekend.

A twenty-pound cab ride to Bermondsey seemed quite reasonable compared with the receipt nestling reprovingly in his wallet. Besides, he was pretty sure his accountant would file most of it under the dubious cover of “expenses” and offset it against his tax bill.

Robert opened his front door to the welcoming sight of his rustic stripped wooden floorboards that pointed the way to his beloved kitchen – the womb of his house that made him feel safe, invulnerable to people, society and the ills of the world. Back in his kitchen, he was in control of his life. Within the confines of his house, he could go back to planning his immediate future, dwell on and put past mistakes to bed. This was his sanctuary where worries evaporated into the steam of simmering stock, fresh ideas or tried and tested recipes were inspired by the pungent smell of herbs that grew as freely as their pots would allow on their window ledge.

There were still questions that needed to be answered, if only to satisfy the nagging doubt that something untoward had happened last night. He phoned his new friend James.

“Hello James, It’s Rob.”

“Robbo, I wondered when I’d hear from you. In fact I’m amazed you managed it so early after that session, mate.”

“Really? If I’m honest I can’t remember much of it – but I did get a pretty hefty bill in the morning. I was wondering if you could shed any light on it?”

“You were caning it mate,” he chuckled. “I’m guessing someone else turned up judging by the amount of noise you made. Kept us awake I can tell you! I was going to knock you up for breakfast but you had your Do Not Disturb notice on your door, so I left you to it. My scrumptious little filly went first thing, ’bout the same time your little party quietened down.”

Little to none this made any sense, let alone jogged Rob’s memory.

“You won’t believe this James, but I’m damned if I can remember a thing after you left. You sure the noise was coming from my room? We were pretty plastered after all!”

“Absolutely positive, Rob, all that groaning and giggling was definitely coming from your room. I ordered up another bottle of champers for my room and the night porter had two more with him for your little party!”

“That still doesn’t explain why I have sore balls, or why I woke up covered in baby oil. Do you think we could meet up for a beer? I’d like to pick your brains about a couple of things,” said a very perplexed Rob. “Definitely, I want to know everything mate!” said James, unaware that unless Rob’s memory made a spectacular recovery he would be in for a very short and uninformative conversation.

Rob made some fresh coffee and poured himself a large glass of orange juice that lasted as long as it took to down it in one. He took his time over his coffee, shifting uncomfortably from cheek to cheek while mulling over why his rectum was providing a physically uncomfortable – not to mention mentally intriguing – tingling sensation. When his memory returned to the oily mess that he had scrubbed off his body in the shower back at the hotel, he began to feel sick. Rob was almost pleased that he couldn’t remember anything now and was clutching at the faint hope that Kelly had simply been a bit over-rigorous and overenthusiastic with the blow- or hand-job that he couldn’t remember.

The front door clunked open to reveal his best friend and house mate Rick.

“All right, fella, howdya bash go last night? Did you pull?”

“Hello, mate. Yep I pulled alright. Right cracker too – you’d’ve been proud of me!”

“Stick the kettle on and gimme the lowdown then,” Rick enthused.

“I will mate, I will. Just give me a minute. Mate, you have no idea how pleased I am to see you!”

Rick was so much more than a source of rental income; he was Rob’s best friend, his soul mate, most of all he was his confidant. If ever there was a time when he really needed to confide in him, this was it.

“Actually Rick, it all went a bit weird… Can’t even remember most of it... I’m actually a bit scared and I don’t know why. Does that make any sense? No, probably not… Sit down and I’ll try and talk you through it.”

Rick was concerned, he hadn’t seen his friend like this for many a year; they had always been there for each other in difficult times, yet he was struggling to remember the last occasion.

“Bloody hell mate, you look really worked up. So what the fuck happened? You’re not going to start blubbing on me are you?”

CHAPTER 6