Small in a Big World E-Book

Ben Fraser

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Marcus Small is set to become one of the new breed of young, up and coming barristers of his generation. Sadly his humorous, naïve and bumbling old fashioned values threaten to destroy his career, his marriage and ultimately his life. Marcus has the determination and drive to succeed in a prestigious London law firm, but his ambitions lead him to a path of secrecy, defiance, and outstanding ineptness. His dream of taking lead counsel in a high profile case turns sour, and his most trusted friends and colleagues turn their backs on him. Who can he trust? His wife, employer, the Police, the security services? Confusion reigns in a maelstrom of calamitous events where Marcus find himself on a collision course with the world around him.

Leseprobe

Ben Fraser

Small in a Big World

To my wife and two beautiful daughters, whose patience allowed me to finish what I started!BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Small In a Big World

“Small, in a Big World.”

Chapter 1

‘Friday the 4th October 2005, 8.30am.’ Marcus Small wrote into his well-worn brown leather backed notebook.

‘Memories fade on most things with the passage of the years, but I will never forget…’ The date and the first line set, Marcus sat back on the cold and damp wooden bench and admired the view.

The sun was shining brightly over the horizon, but with a lack of heat that signalled the onset of autumn. He pulled his scarf up under his nose, cupped his hands and blew into them in a vain attempt to generate some heat. The failure of the heat to manifest itself from his breath caused him to fold his arms and seek comfort in the magnificent panorama before him. It was breathtaking. The hills that were darkened by the shadows hidden from the sun dominated his view both left and right, they were broken in the middle by a small mining village at the foot of the valley. The previous night’s rain caused a glistening of the sun on the grey slate roofs, and the thick black smoke rising from many of the chimneys gave him the comfort of warmth he sought. There was a must of damp leaves in the air, and a soft mist clung stubbornly to the dew soaked mountain heather. The vista gave Marcus a sense of belonging, but at the same time the solitude he had always craved.

His mind drifted further down into the valley, where he could see rows of washing lines tied out in the yards displaying an array of colours that brightened the grey walls of the terraced houses. Grey clothed children were playing in the streets, delaying the impending but inevitable trudge to school. A milk float turned into his view. The idyll only broken for a second, as the elderly milkman struggled from the float in a vain attempt to catch the little wretch running away, arms full of apparently free milk.

Marcus smiled to himself, and although his memories had indeed faded with the passing of the years he could picture himself as a child down in the street he was now looking at. He was however, caught up in world that was in fact nothing like his own.

For Marcus recalled the grey slate roof of ‘Small Hall,’ in Yorkdale, where as an only child; his mother had brought him up courtesy of the money his father supplied as a successful businessman in London. Money was plentiful, but came at a price. Mr Small senior was rarely at home.

His father was a tall man, yet probably not as tall as he remembered him to be as a child, but a man with presence, a man who commanded authority. He was always immaculately dressed, his shoes highly polished and his short, balding and greying hair trimmed to perfection. He was a man more to be feared than respected, but Marcus had grown up believing that the two traits went hand in hand. He had a loud abrasive voice that had caused Marcus to wet himself more than once when his name was shouted. But for all that, he was his dad, and whilst he would never admit it, Marcus was very similar in many ways, and as Marcus was to grow older, then the similarities increased.

For all his fearful admiration, Marcus was never close to his father. The infrequent weekend visits were short, and Mr Small senior was so tired after the weeks work that he had little time to entertain the family, which ended up in the inevitable arguments, and Mr Small storming out of the house with an early return on the train to London. Mrs Small would spend the rest of the day between crying, cursing her husband or cursing Marcus for getting under her feet.

Marcus loved his mother. A short rounded but elegant figure of a woman with a pretty face, and a smile that would brighten any room. Courtesy of Mr Small senior, the house cleaner, cook and gardener took care of all the daily chores keeping the days free, if not dull for his wife. Although devoid of tiresome household labours, she still took to wearing a pinafore around the house and garden which sought to infuriate Mr Small, as, ‘He worked so that she didn’t have to.’ Mr Small senior was concerned more about the impression this gave to others seeing his wife’s attire and not displaying the affluence he insisted upon.

Marcus was used to the arguments and knew the routine. He would retreat to his bedroom in the attic to play with his many Action men figures, and boats that he curiously laid out beneath the bed.

Marcus had held quite a fascination for boats, and had spent many lonely hours under the ‘Ten Arches,’ and the stream, that ran beneath, during the many long arguments that were being acted out at home. The thought that one day he would own his own boat comforted him, and he held his favourite boat out in front of him to picture it on the water. Onlookers viewed the display with some curiosity, and even more so the attached action man, in a wet suit seemingly covered in talcum powder. Marcus often remonstrated to such curious people that the powder was used to enable the rubber suit to be removed easily, but deep down the smell reminded him of his mother who was never far from his thoughts. Neither was the hatred, mainly born out of fear, that he felt for his father for the way he treated the family.

Playtime was split between the Action men and the bright yellow soft-top MG sports car that was kept in the large detached garage at the rear of the house. Mr Small senior had kept the car in an immaculate and entirely new condition. This condition had been undeniably easy to maintain due to the fact that Small senior couldn’t drive. He’d purchased the car with the increase in wages that his promotion in the City had brought, and had always promised himself that one day he would learn. Unfortunately, as it turned out, his promotion also meant long hours at work, and a journey that leant itself more to rail travel than travel by road.

And so it was that Marcus often sat behind the wheel of the MG and pictured himself roaring through the open countryside with the top down and the wind in his hair.

In contrast the garden wasn’t an exciting place to play. The gardener had excelled himself, and there was a profusion of colour at every turn. A small curved piece of lawn, edged perfectly with crushed slate of every imaginable colour, a small ornamental pond that flashed occasionally with the gold and silver of the fish below, and a fountain that dribbled more than sprayed. The dribbling fountain was another of Mr Small’s annoyances, and it was on strict instructions from Mrs Small, that Tom the gardener kept it that way. It became apparent as Marcus grew older, that the garden wasn’t the only thing that Tom kept in tip top order, and whilst as a youngster seeing Tom coming from the house in various states of undress wasn’t anything unusual, his older years gave rise to wiser suspicions.

Small sentry like trees lined the boundary guarding from intruders, whereas Tom the gardener guarded the rest of the garden from Marcus.

Then there was Marcus’s Nan. His Nan lived almost fifty miles away in a terraced house on the edge of the countryside. Nan’s visits were also infrequent, partly because she would have to catch the train, followed by a short bus journey, followed by a taxi ride to get to ‘Small Hall,’ and partly because she too hated Marcus’s father. Unlike most people, Nan would tell him so, and Mr Small couldn’t fight back, what with her being an old woman, so again an early trip back into London would follow. It was suitably arranged that Nan would visit when Mr Small was away on business.

Marcus only ever visited his Nan’s house during the school holidays, and it was the memory of these visits that Marcus was probably remembering looking out over the hills.

The garden at the back of his Nan’s house, in contrast to his own, was long and narrow. There was a small concrete yard outside the back door, on which stood a coalbunker and a small wooden tool shed. The coalbunker was made of red brick, stained black by the coal, and had a small wooden sliding hatch at the base to get the coal out. The top of the bunker was covered with a large piece of wood, which was heavy enough to stop the wind blowing it off, but light enough to move so that the young Marcus could climb in. Nan had dragged a blackened Marcus into the bath more times than she cared to remember after catching him in the bunker. The small wooden shed was nothing to write home about, and stood more like a sentry box than a tool store, but nonetheless made a good sound when a ball was kicked against it.

The back of the house was whitewashed pebbledash, and Marcus would spend hours kicking or throwing his ball against it, just to hear the sounds of the loosened pebbles landing on the yard.

Marcus could recall the sounds of seagulls that permanently circled above his Nan’s house, and even now, the sound of seagulls reminded him instantly of his Nan.

The garden was immense. The grass, which was never less than two feet long, stretched almost as far as the eye could see, or so he seemed to remember; it was probably around seventy feet long. But the prize stood at the end of the garden. It was a large black iron shed, rusted and quite dangerous. It was full of cobwebs, and inevitably spiders, and there had been rumours of mice; but none were ever seen.

The shed was the workshop of his late grandfather, who had died when Marcus was four. His grandfather had worked on the railways, and he recalled seeing a photograph of him stood next to a huge steam engine. Even the washing line props were large rusted sections of rail track, concreted vertically into the ground.

But now at the age of ten, the workshop was Marcus’s adventure den. Marcus was invariably on his own when he visited his Nans, he didn’t really know any other children in the area, and those he did know he didn’t much care for.

He had been warned, and at times frightened into not going into the workshop, which hadn’t been used since the death of his grandfather, but the tools;… oh the tools! Every conceivable tool was in there, from lethal bladed weapons to big iron wheels that could barely be dragged out. And best of all, the big iron door had rusted shut, leaving only a small gap in it, that only Marcus could climb through. Yes, there were fond memories of his Nan, and of her house.

Chapter 2

Marcus went to private school at the age of eleven. The school, Bletchford Manor, was a large Victorian building, two bus rides away from ‘Small Hall.’ The school was steeped in history and its occupants traditionally excelled at both academia and sports. Marcus himself, from his early days at the school excelled at all the subjects his father had said were most important, maths, English, physics and French. Mr Small senior was equally keen for Marcus to play rugby, as he thought that it would build character, and whilst at the age 11 he should have been fit enough, it was evident that he was both far too fat and lazy. The game of rugby held no interest for Marcus, for a start it was too rough, and thought it ridiculous that anyone should want to run around a frozen pitch in the wintertime, in shorts, chasing a ball. In fact, Marcus had no interest in sport of any kind, but Mr Small senior wasn’t going to let that get in the way of his own wishes of Marcus playing rugby. Small senior had many childhood voids, and Marcus was going to fill them.

Marcus first ran out onto the rugby pitch against Old Dugonians on the 8th of December 1987, aged 12.

Old Dugonians, or ‘Thugonians’ as they were affectionately known were the local rivals, and games were usually hard fought and brutal affairs.

It had already proved to be a hard winter, and the frost lay hard on the ground. Marcus was last out of the changing rooms, and had followed the boot marks left in the frozen grass by his team-mates. Marcus wouldn’t have been picked for the first team normally; In fact it would have been a surprise to anyone that Marcus was picked for any team. But it was that Mr Small senior knew the sports master; several profitable tips and the subsequent successful purchase of shares ensured first team rugby, for at least whilst the shares were paying such handsome dividends.

Marcus had quite an eventful first game, and survived most of the first half by having the uncanny ability to be where the ball was not. It was noticeable to most of the spectators that Marcus was keen not to get involved, and numerous ice balls and lumps of wet and frozen turf were thrown in his direction by Duffle and scarf clad patrons. The missiles hadn’t gone un-noticed by Marcus, and he was able to keep warm by spending the first half dodging them. The whistle blowing that signalled half time gave Marcus a false hope of the warmth of the changing room, and was indeed sat inside on the benches before the refreshments were being wheeled onto the pitch. Marcus was unceremoniously dragged back out to re-join his team-mates in the centre of the field who were shrouded in steam.

Several calls of ‘shame’ and ‘you’re a disgrace’ had emanated from the diminutive crowd, and Mr Small senior had shouted more than his fair share of the unsavoury comments, denying any knowledge of the lazy youth or of his un-married father.

It was during this short exchange from the crowd that Mr Small senior met with an old friend, Donald Newton-Bishop. Newton-Bishop and Mr Small senior had been in University together and had remained good friends ever since. Whilst Mr Small senior had gone into the business world dealing on the stock market, Donald Newton-Bishop had studied law, had become a very highly respected barrister, and was now head of Chambers in a very profitable and indeed exclusive practice in the City.

It was fortunate, given their outrageous behaviour that either of them finished University at all, but despite several warnings from the Dean about their shameful attitudes and practices, they were allowed to continue with their studies. The Dean was a very astute judge of character, and could see through the juvenile, if not dangerous antics, and knew that he had two very bright if miss-guided individuals. It was in fact Donald Newton-Bishop that reminded the Dean of these qualities the night the Dean had driven through the chemistry lab wall at frightening speed, after the two pranksters had wired his throttle fully open. The prank was in fact designed to merely scare the Dean and not to cause the catastrophic damage that resulted. The thought was that the noise of his high revving engine at full throttle, would indeed achieve the desired fright, but the Deans hearing had deteriorated so badly through the years, that he was unable to hear the resulting cacophony from under the bonnet. Having carefully selected reverse gear to pull out of his parking bay, the Morris minor took off like a V12 roadster and careered through the wall and into the lab, destroying several years work in the process.

The investigating Police Detective, who was an excitable young man, was convinced that the sabotage was the work of Animal Rights Activists seeking revenge for the laboratories work on what he considered to be ‘Overly large rabbits’ which had escaped into the lab during the commotion.

One look at the two likely lads and the Dean knew he had the culprits.

The Dean had managed to convince the not too bright Detective that the large rabbits were in fact part of government intelligence research, and it would be best for all concerned to play the incident down and to ‘file his papers’. The Detective, who conceded that he was ‘Out of his depth’ with matters of National Security thought he’d better leave the rabbits to the likes of MI5, and scurried off the campus to carry out his filing duties.

It had been the final warning for Donald Newton-Bishop and Mr Small senior, and both had knuckled down and were proving to be exactly what the Dean had expected.

Now, both stood in the grounds watching the rugby, there was no mention of the past, there never was, ‘What goes on tour, stays on tour,’ was the order of the day. Given his social and professional standing, the ravages of time hadn’t played kindly with Newton-Bishop, and he looked ten years older than his old college adversary. He was considerably overweight, grey haired, that was left unsuitably long, and sported an equally grey handlebar moustache that Newton-Bishop constantly twisted between his fingers.

‘Your lad playing today?’ questioned Newton-Bishop.

Mr Small senior wondered for a second if Newton-Bishop would recognise the young Marcus.

Having looked across the pitch he could see Marcus cowering, and was now covered in the mud clumps that had been thrown at him, and barely recognised him himself. He took a chance.

‘No, just thought I’d come and watch the first team, see how they were doing, re-live the past so to speak.’

‘I hear he’s doing very well in his studies.’

‘Yes, he appears to be working very hard.’ Said Mr Small senior.

‘There’s always a place in chambers for him should he be so inclined…Dear God, whose that damned little wretch cowering in the centre there?’

Mr Small senior didn’t need to look to guess who the ‘Wretch’ was, and chose to ignore what he hoped was a rhetorical question, although managed a glance across to see Marcus falling under a storm of orange segments.

‘That’s very kind of you, although I’d hoped he’d follow his father into business.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t follow his father whilst in University eh?’ Newton-Bishop gave Mr Small senior a wink and a nudge in his ribs with his elbow, and strutted off towards the bar.

The whistle blew for the start of the second half and Marcus continued with his quest to avoid becoming at all involved in the match.

Unfortunately, it was less than ten minutes into the second half, when Marcus was seemingly minding his own business at least half the pitch away from where the play was, when a stray ball landed at his feet. Without thinking Marcus picked the ball up, and could barely hear his father screaming at him for the sound of several sets of studded feet running towards him. By the time he'd noticed the entire pack of very large ‘Thugonian’ forwards descending on him, it was too late to run. Marcus’s father turned away just as the full impact hit his son. The sound of slapping skin and cracking bone just preceded the crowds sympathetic ‘oohs.’

Marcus’s first experience of being applauded came as he was being stretchered from the pitch.

After being berated by his wife and sobbed at by his son, Mr Small senior agreed that perhaps rugby wasn’t the game for young Marcus.

Now free from the pressures of sport, Marcus could concentrate on his academic work, and this he excelled at. Marcus became house monitor at 13, and by 15 he was made school prefect.

Marcus wasn’t the most popular boy in school. It wasn’t that his school friends didn’t like him, but he kept himself to himself and didn’t socialise well. Unlike his father he could never understand practical jokes, but as he was usually on the end of most of them it was hardly surprising. In fact nothing really distracted Marcus from his work, until the May of 1991, his last but one year at Bletchford Manor. A new boy had started, David Higgot.

As school prefect one of Marcus’s roles was to help newcomers fit in. Marcus had performed the role many times, but this time he attacked the role with more enthusiasm than ever. Not just because David was a nice lad or that he was similarly minded, it was because of his sister Caroline who had joined the school a year below them.

Caroline was the first girl to ever catch the attention of Marcus. She had a sweet name, a beautiful face, a radiant smile and best of all she smelt amazing. Marcus was smitten, and although he never told her so, he would follow her around the school in a daze, and would spend the afternoons in class dreaming about her.

Marcus had never known such feelings for another person; it was beginning to take over his life.

He went to bed thinking of her, he woke up thinking about her, and spent the entire day thinking about her. The worst thing of all was the fact that she hadn’t the faintest idea how Marcus felt.

She had the most beautiful smile Marcus had ever seen, she smelt gorgeous, dressed prettily, and on the odd occasion would brush past him and would touch him on his arm in what Marcus thought was a loving way. If she smiled at Marcus even in passing, he would spend the day dreaming that she may in fact be interested I him, and may even feel the same way. Yet 24 hours later she may be having a bad day and look less than interested in Marcus’s overly enthusiastic ‘Good morning,’ causing Marcus to go into a flap about why she had gone off him, or what he had done wrong. Marcus would spend his day worrying so much that he felt sick to his stomach, and couldn’t concentrate on any schoolwork.

After school he would go home, lock himself in his room and listen to Love songs, all of which could have been written for the two of them.

It was becoming more than an obsession and was taking over his life. If the phone rang he would immediately get butterflies thinking it might be her, even though she hadn’t got his phone number: and similarly if the doorbell went, he would jump up with a cold sweat in case she had called for him, even though she didn’t know where he lived.

Several months of painful falling in and out of love had passed, and Marcus’s behaviour was dependent on Caroline’s moods. Marcus hadn’t been eating properly, his schoolwork was suffering as a result, but at last he started seeing it for himself. ‘You’ve got to ask her and find out either way!’ he said to himself and in Marcus’s normal fashion set about planning how he was going to do it.

In the end, despite all his planning, it was Caroline that made the first move, and her timing was perfect, just before the six-week summer holidays started. Caroline’s forwardness stunned the naïve love struck Marcus in asking him to go out with her, and he couldn’t recall replying to her, as he believed he might have passed out.

They spent the whole summer holiday together, not apart for a moment, and Marcus believed life just couldn’t get any better.

Going back to school after the holiday wasn’t easy, and as Marcus was now in the last year of school, he knew he needed to concentrate and work hard towards his exams.

The dreaming extended through to his final exams, and but for the previous year’s studious work, he would have failed them.

Both Marcus’s parents and his schoolmasters were disappointed with the results, and couldn’t understand the sudden dip in form. Mrs Small blamed her husband for not being there when Marcus needed him, and when he was there, for being too hard on him, Mr Small senior blamed his wife for being too soft on him, and the school masters were, well, just disappointed.

Marcus had quite a tear in his eye at the final award evening, not for the fact that he was leaving the school, or his friends, or the school masters, but because he would probably never see Caroline again.

Despite Marcus’s mediocre exam results he was able to go on to Sixth Form College to study for his A levels. Without the distractions that had so affected him during the final year at Bletchford Manor, Marcus again thrived in the academic arena. He studied hard and obtained four high mark ‘A’ level results, sufficient to give him the choice of Universities. Although through his final year at Sixth Form College Marcus had attended several career development lectures and meetings, he had his heart set on studying law and becoming a barrister. His father had his heart set on Marcus following in his footsteps into business, but accepted Marcus ’s choice, and felt quite contented that his son had chosen a respected profession, one he himself could be proud of, and one he wouldn’t feel embarrassed telling his colleagues in London about.

He remembered the conversation he had had with Newton-Bishop and so had invited him over for tea at Small Hall to discuss the possibilities with his son.

Marcus had listened with excited interest at the stories that Newton- Bishop had to tell, of all the pomp and ceremony that went with the high court and the legal wrangling that had caught Marcus’s imagination as a young lad. The evening had been a success, Marcus was now more convinced than ever of his future, Mr Small senior was happy that his son would embark on a respectable journey into employment, and Mrs Small was happy in the potting shed with Tom the gardener.

Marcus had applied to numerous Universities and had received positive replies from most if not all of them. He had deliberated for some months, and finally accepted a place at Swandling University, his main reason being that he could see the sea from the windows of his first year student dormitories.

Chapter 3

Marcus was stood on the platform waiting for the train to arrive to take him on his first trip away from his family, and onto University. Mr Small senior was suitably proud of his son and believed the time away would do him good. A quick handshake and a ‘good luck’ were sufficient for the occasion. But Mr Small senior surprised them all when the clasping of their hands revealed the keys to the cherished MG.

‘I think that this has always belonged to you.’ He said, and gave his son a pat on the shoulder.

Marcus was struck dumb, and could never remember his father making such a generous gesture, and felt bad of thinking of nothing better to say than, ‘Thank you Dad.’

Mrs Small was beside herself; her only son was leaving her. ‘He’s just so young,’ she had kept telling Mr Small senior, blaming him for sending Marcus away so callously. She wept uncontrollably as she hung onto his dufflecoat.

The train was pulling into the station, and as the noise of the train got louder, so did Mrs Small’s sobbing. Marcus who had to admit had a tear in his eye as well, pulled his coat up around him and away from his mother, who for once had tried to seek comfort in Mr Small senior. Mr Small senior did what he could in the circumstances, but not knowing exactly what was expected of one in such circumstances did what he thought was best and proceeded to pat his wife on her head.

Marcus smiled and picked up his suitcases. He boarded the 10.45 to Swandling, and hung out of the window to wave his goodbyes. As the train pulled out from the station, Marcus sat down and felt grown up all of a sudden. The keys to the MG were held tight in his sweaty clenched fist throughout the entire journey whilst he felt decidedly ill, brought on by an exciting uncertainty.

Chapter 4

The MG was transported from Small Hall to Swandling campus. Marcus was there to greet it, and stood proudly as the truck driver reversed it off the back of the lorry and into the parking space that he had been resolutely guarding. As he stood by, feeling contented with his new possession he could almost feel the admiring glances from other students walking by. Yes there was no doubt about it, he was going to have to learn to drive, it was time to change his image, he was now his own man.

There had been many challenges in Marcus’s life, but learning to drive was going to be as hard as any he had faced so far. As with everything else in his life, and now with his driving, Marcus wasn’t prepared to publicly disadvantage himself or more specifically publicly embarrass himself.

The arrival of the car meant the attentions of new friends, and the small number of those who had limited driving abilities subsequently offered this advice to the eager to learn Marcus. Countless hours spent behind the wheel of the MG whilst parked in his father’s garage at Small Hall; countless hours spent behind the wheel in the car park of the campus; and countless hours gently caressing the throttle and feeling the bite of the clutch as it began to take up the drive, gave Marcus the confidence that he was ready to take on his first driving lesson.

He thumbed the well-used pages of the campus phone directory that was chained to the dormitory phone looking for driving instructors, and Marcus being well aware that he didn’t fully know what he was looking for, hoped that something would jump out at him. Pages of names all stating much the same were flicked through, and nothing much stood out. Guess work would be as good as anything in the circumstances, thought Marcus, and closed his eyes picking the first one his pointed finger fell on. ‘Big Ron’s cars, good rates for students, tel Swandling 463982.’

Marcus took the plunge and phoned ‘Big Ron.’ A short and to the point conversation with Big Ron leant Marcus to believe that he possessed all the basic requirements of an instructor, and a nine o’clock Saturday appointment was made.

Saturday arrived, and Marcus was stood next to the MG lovingly polishing the bonnet for the umpteenth time since it had landed on the campus. The new ‘L’ plates shone almost as brightly as the car, and both he and the car waited patiently for the 9 o’clock deadline.

Nine o’clock arrived, and right on cue a hand painted matt black Ford Cortina turned into the campus. It too had ‘L’ signs on the car, but these had been painted onto the bonnet, roof, boot and doors seemingly with a pasting brush. The driver’s door creaked open, as he extricated himself from the car. He was without doubt the biggest, fattest man Marcus had ever seen, and even without the two stones in weight of gold jewellery the man was carrying around his neck and wrists, Marcus accurately estimated the man’s weight at twenty one stones.

The door of the Cortina was kicked shut, and the man rolled towards Marcus, who stood fast, jaw wide open. Marcus quickly shut his jaw as the smell of stale sweat reached him ahead of the great man himself. He stood about 6 feet tall, a reasonable guess would have put him in his early forties; he had shoulder length black greasy hair cut into a mullet, wore walnut effect ‘John Lennon’ style glasses, and hadn’t shaved for about a week. He was clearly a man who liked black, as the theme continued into a black silk shirt, unbuttoned to just above his navel exposing an absurdly large gold necklace entwined in excessively bushy chest hair. The sleeves of the shirt were so badly frayed at the cuffs, that the strands of loose material almost masked the enormous gold bracelets. He also wore black trousers, but as the shirt was worn outside, and he was so disproportionately round it was difficult to ascertain where the top ended and the bottom started. The ensemble was finished off with a pair of once black shoes, so pointed that Marcus genuinely feared being impaled on them, and due to the man being so fat, his legs actually bowed under the strain, meaning that he walked on the outer sides of both shoes causing them to split.

The man held his heavily laden hand outstretched, and in a deep booming voice announced his arrival.

‘G’day, I’m Ron from Big Rons cars, like you didn’t already know, eh?’

Marcus held out a feeble and limp hand, which Big Ron shook, prior to slapping him hard enough on the back to cause Marcus to stumble forward.

He had just regained his composure, when he saw Big Ron heading for the MG.

‘Wow, now that’s what I’m talking about. Nice motor! Yours yeah?’

Marcus hardly had time to answer.

‘Come on, it’s my time, your money, let’s not waste either.’ Big Ron pulled the passenger door open, and with such force that Marcus feared the door would come off. He stood for a moment doubtful that Big Ron was going to fit into the little MG. Big Ron had no such concerns, and shoe horned himself into the seat. The door didn’t close as easy as it opened and it took the efforts of both teacher and student to wedge the former in. Marcus was still not convinced that Big Ron was actually in the car as opposed to being on it, and his head was well clear of the top of the windscreen. Thankfully the weather was fine and the roof was down, allowing for sufficient head- room for the big man. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for the room left for Marcus, and the area around the handbrake and gear-lever had completely disappeared under Big Ron’s considerable girth. He climbed in and attempted to wriggle into the driver’s seat with the minimum of fuss, fearful of causing offence. He needn’t have feared, as Big Ron had seen it all before, and lifted his substantial tyre of fat off the gear lever, and held the excess bulk across his vast lap. The fat dealt with, Marcus was now struggling with the smell, and whilst the open top provided ventilation, it also provided easy access for countless flies, without sufficient room for swatting without striking his passenger.

Big Ron however, was, as he’d shamelessly announced, as happy as a ‘Pig In Shit,’ and coincidentally with that very same smell troubling Marcus, he nodded his head in agreement, trying to say as little as possible for fear of inhaling flies, and retching.

Marcus had explained on the phone that this was his first lesson, but wondered whether Big Ron had actually remembered, as the only instructions Marcus had received on starting the engine were,

‘Take the coastal road son, it’s gonna be a gorgeous day, let’s not waste it. Forward!’ Big Ron pointing a fat little finger out over the top of the windscreen.

Marcus concentrated on what he’d learned over the previous weeks practice in the car park, and surprised himself how easily he got the MG moving towards the exit of the campus. Moving forward at speed was just as surprising to Marcus, as his inability to stop was to Big Ron, as Marcus careered across the road in front of the main gates.

‘Fucking hell, the brakes dude the fucking brakes!’

Marcus had only used the brakes in the car park, at considerably lower speeds, and with considerably less weight, and the brake pedal was having much less effect than he‘d expected. The normal course of action for a driving instructor during such a potentially catastrophic manoeuvre would have been to grab the steering wheel, or pull on the handbrake, or at least something constructive, but Big Ron’s massive bulk confined in such a small area prevented any such movement. In fact the only movement available to Big Ron was from his mouth and from his bowels. Whilst one made considerably more noise than the other, they were as equally unpleasant.