This is the third of the four stories that I thought to write for June’s competition. It’s longer than the competition’s word limit because, of course, it can be. But at least writing it has told me that it couldn’t be short enough to be a good entry for the competition. Anyway, here it is, and I hope you enjoy it.
Cooper Row was an Islington backstreet whose regular visitors prized the tranquillity of its market stalls, cosy cafés and unique shops and restaurants. It was a welcome antidote to the noise and crowds of Pentonville Road and Upper Street.
Not so today.
“You should go to jail!” the gaudily dressed student shrieked at the trader, waving a book at him like it was a pistol. “You’re selling the most xenophobic, fascist filth on Earth without a care!”
The trader, a quiet man named Reggie Doyle, was taken aback, but still quite prepared to defend himself.
“It was yer boyfriend who bought it, not you, duck,” he said simply.
“You can bet I dumped him like a hot coal!” the girl sneered, “And if you’re selling it to anybody, you deserve to burn in Hell!”
“Call the bobbies, Madge,” the delicatessen across the street said to his wife. “That black bird with the pop star hair’s about to go Big ‘Enry on Reg.”
“Righto, Bill,” she replied.
Reggie Doyle, meanwhile, was still trying vainly to make the incensed young woman see reason.
“It’s a Biggles novel, luv,” he said, managing a smile. “This was a bloke who fought the fascists. You owe… Hey! What the bloody hell are you doing?”
The young woman was now ripping open the cardboard boxes at Reggie’s feet. The blue, white and pink streaks in her braids whipped back and forth as she tossed the books they held in all directions.
“Filth, filth, filth,” she fumed, before addressing the traders and passers-by. “Look, look at this everyone! Do you see the fascist degeneracy here?”
Joe the florist studied the cover of the book she held.
“Five Go Off In A Caravan?”
The woman roared in frustration and kept tossing books out into the square. But Reggie had had enough. He seized the woman under the arm and dragged her away from his stall.
“Right, you ‘eadcase,” he snarled, “I ain’t normally one for ‘aving a barney but if you don’t stop this right… now…”
His whole body went slack as at least 50 scowling African diaspora wearing black BLM t-shirts came round the corner and encircled the market. The angry woman twisted out of his grip and addressed the mob.
“That’s the one! And there’s his stall!”
A bellowing cacophony soon filled the street as the mob indiscriminately attacked the market.
That evening, Reggie was back home in his flat, staring at the faded red paint on the wall and sulking. He had been lucky; Joe the florist had seized his metre rule and swiped at the protesters so that Reggie could escape them with only a couple of bruises.
But they had wrecked his stall! Those oafs had soiled, trampled and gutted nearly half his books, including first editions, most of which were perfectly harmless, even to modern sensitivities. They’d ripped open all the boxes, looted the cash box and smashed the cash desk in half with a sledgehammer. The monsters had even attacked the other stalls, when they had been selling nothing that had even a small risk of offending anyone.
It was a bitter blow for Reginald Michael Doyle. He was only 31, but with his balding head and worry lines he looked a lot older. His tastes and interests were older too; he had no love of pop music or television; just the books on his shelves and the piano and brass instruments he played in quiet moments, of which he enjoyed many.
That book stall had been Reggie’s passion. It had been in the family for generations, so even though he had only taken it over 5 years ago, when his Uncle Martin developed senile dementia, it felt like he had run it for centuries. Yet it had only ever made modest profits. And now with much of his stock destroyed, the market was sealed off by the police and the insurance company unlikely to pay up soon, it could be ruined. Worse yet, baseless as the young woman’s claims of racism were, rumours like this often had serious consequences, with or without evidence. He might never get his customer base back, if he wasn’t careful.
Reggie sighed and hung his head, dreading what might happen What would his family say if he went down as the one to kill their business?
Oh bugger it, he thought, It might all blow over. I’ll just play somethin’ to take me mind off it.
He took his old trumpet and made ready to play one of his favourite tunes; Louis Armstrong’s We Have All the Time in the World. It seemed to defy the young woman’s false allegations, at least privately.
There was a knock at the door just as he was taking in a breath.
Strange, he thought. I’m not expectin’ no-one. Maybe it’s Aggie come to cheer me up.
But it was not Cousin Agatha at the door, nor anyone he even knew. It was a handsome young man in a royal blue suit and naff purple-and-white tie. This man was probably his age, but still maintained a bloom of youth in his face. His eyes were wide and as blue as his suit, his wide mouth had a winning smile and his chin was sharp. Yet his broad rounded forehead and golden blonde curls gave him a strangely cherubic air. This man seemed both dynamic and innocent at the same time.
“I trust you’re having a good evening, Reggie?”
Reggie was stunned that the stranger knew his name. He even felt slightly on edge, since the stranger’s tone implied he knew it was not a good evening for him. Yet Reggie also felt confident about the man; he had an innate charisma that won trust effortlessly.
“Cat got your tongue, old fruit?”
“Oh, sorry,” Reggie said with a start. He must have held his silence longer than he’d thought. “’Oo might you be, mate?”
“I might be your salvation, Reggie,” the stranger grinned. “I might even be your ticket to the good life. But what I am for sure is a fellow named Thomas. May I come in?”
“What for?” Reggie snorted. “If yer sellin’ Bibles or cleanin’ products can’t you do that right here?”
“I am selling neither products nor God!” Thomas cried out, sweeping his sizeable left hand heavenward. “In a way, I am not selling anything.”
As he brought his hand back down, Reggie was surprised to see Thomas was holding open a black briefcase. How had he both concealed it until this moment was unclear. Reggie wasn’t even sure he’d heard the catches click.
“Within this briefcase, my dear Reginald, is a contract that ensures you will rise into glory. Your little business will not only be secured from censure, but grow beyond its modest means to heights that you could never have conceived of. I have helped countless other men achieve success that the commoner would think unnatural. Don’t you want that chance?”
Inside the briefcase was a cream-coloured cardboard sleeve with a striking salmon pink border. It looked like the kind of document that royalty would sign. Was it his imagination, or was it… glowing?
“Yeah.”
Reggie wasn’t sure if he’d really spoken the word or his lips had moved on their own. But Thomas’ smile split into a pearly white grin and as he closed the briefcase and leaned forward, Reggie stood back to let him through.
“Very good then,” Thomas grinned. “Now, where can a chap sit down and have a chin wag with the master of the house here?”
Reggie sat Thomas down at his battered old dining room table while he took the seat opposite.
“First of all, let me show you who exactly I represent,” said Thomas, as Reggie sat down.
A subtle twist and a business card, the same cream and salmon colours as the cardboard sleeve, appeared in Thomas’ well-manicured fingers.
This bloke must be a magician in his spare time, Reggie thought.
The card too seemed to have a strange glow about it, not like a light bulb, but as if it was reflecting light that wasn’t there. It said…
The Brotherhood of Fleeting Glory
Subtle Arbiters of Great Success and Its Withdrawal
“We are a long-lived group,” Thomas told him, “Who for a great many years have brought about the success of men who, like you, had a dream and came from next to nothing. Would you like to see our brochure?”
“Sure.”
“Look inside the briefcase.”
Reggie leaned over and did so. “But there’s only the contract and…”
At that moment Thomas, with the speed of a striking cobra, connected the first two fingers of his right hand to Reggie’s temple.
The world outside rushed away from view, as if shrinking down the eye of a telescope. For a fraction of a second all Reggie could perceive was a veil of blackness, but then images raced across his vision, each one of a man lauding over his fellow citizens in many times and settings. He saw noblemen entertaining in their extensive gardens, industrialists touring their bustling factories, clergymen holding vast congregations spellbound, and stars of sports and the arts waving at cheering fans. Reggie recognised none of the faces, but each of their names drifted into his ensnared mind.
Another rush of light and reality snapped back into view. Thomas was gently putting his right arm down, a relaxed expression on his face.
Reggie, however, was anything but relaxed. He staggered backwards and crashed into his chair. He very nearly fell over completely, but just managed to get his balance back in time.
“What the bloody ‘ell? Who are you, yer bastard? You come inna my flat, all smiles in yer smart blue whistle, knowin’ I need ‘elp wiv my business an’ that I’ve got bad publicity to deal wiv too, then yer tap my loaf and I go all acid flashback? Who in buggeration are ya?”
Thomas simply continued smiling and raised his eyebrows a little.
“Well?”
There was the slightest of pauses before Thomas replied.
“My name is indeed Thomas, Reggie,” he said mildly, “Thomas Cecil Ogden Braithwaite Delamere. And I am indeed a member of The Brotherhood of Fleeting Glory, who give men great success, asking not a penny in return. We have indeed been going for centuries too. I have not lied to you once this evening, Reggie, nor led you into the slightest danger. But there is more you need to know about me. How old would you guess I am?”
Reggie studied the enigmatic Thomas very carefully before replying.
“Thirty? A bit less? Why? Are you over for’y or summing?”
Thomas shook his head and trembled slightly, as though chuckling.
“My dear Reginald,” he said silkily, “I am nearly 796 years old. My father was a French knight who fought in the Crusades. The real me was a stillborn child; my body never held life, so the Spirits of Fleeting Glory gave me life everlasting instead, in return for being their agent. The Spirits, you see, are the power behind the Brotherhood of Fleeting Glory; they are neither ghosts, nor gods, nor any being that your lexicon could define. They are merely forces outside the mortal plane that engineer the happenings upon it. Most significantly, they have the most vivid perception of the inescapable impermanence of all things in the universe, however mighty or absolute they might seem to mortals. This includes rocks on a planet’s crust, successful organisms that live for thousands of generations, or practices and principles that seemingly could never be abandoned, discontinued or corrupted. And unlike nearly all mortals, The Spirits do not resist or deny this impermanence. Indeed, for want of a better word, they… go with the flow.”
Reggie stared at Thomas with his jaw open. None of what Thomas said could possibly be. And yet, however hard his senses rebelled, he couldn’t disbelieve what he was hearing. Was it Thomas’ charm? The visions he’d been given? Or could he just not think of any other explanation?
“The faces you saw in that vision, my dear Reggie, were men throughout history that the Spirits have assisted,” Thomas explained. “It was they who gave you that vision, not me. I am a mere conduit. They wanted you to see what you could achieve from nothing, with their aid. And like I say, they ask nothing in return. The only benefit they gain is satisfaction that their perception of the universe is as it always was and always will be. Think of those protesters who attacked the market, Reggie. The world holds up their cause inviolate for now, but as the world turns their cause too will sour, and even if it never quite dies, it will certainly alter.”
Thomas got up from his chair and moved slowly round the table towards Reggie. Reggie turned to face the impossible young man, but did not back away. Thomas still possessed a reassuring charm to him that diluted Reggie’s urge towards caution and flight.
“Are you keen to sign this contract, Reggie?” said Thomas, airily waving a hand over the still-open briefcase on the table.
“No,” Reggie muttered, “It’s like the Devil’s offerin’ me sumfing. My Uncle Martin always said; ‘If sumfin’s too good ter be true, it probably ain’t.’”
“Wise words indeed, Reggie,” said Thomas, gazing out of the window and causing Reggie to follow his gaze.
“Uncle Martin’s absolutely right.”
Another lightning-fast sleight of hand and Thomas’ left hand connected with the left side of Reggie’s temple. Again, Reggie’s vision shot away into the void and a fresh illusion took over.
Now Reggie saw the same men as in his last vision, flashing one by one across his racing mind in the same order. Yet this time, the men were not enjoying life’s pleasures, but suffering. Some were being led to a scaffold to be executed. Others were being attacked by disgruntled workers. Others still were languishing in prison, or wiling away lonely evenings in spartan dwellings. Every single one of the men had fallen from grace.
Another rush of light, and Reggie was back in his flat. This time he was steadier on his feet, but he still swayed like a tree in a gale. He was pasty-faced and his breath was ragged thanks to the shock of his visions. Thomas remained as cool as ever.
“That’s how the Spirits of Fleeting Glory work, old boy,” he said, strolling back round to the opposite side of the table. “They giveth and they taketh away. It’s in their nature to make all success, even the greatest, temporary. In fact, there’s a good chance you remember one of their more recent beneficiaries.”
Thomas swirled his hands and snapped his fingers, loud as a firecracker. A blue figure the size of a china doll rose out of the open briefcase and hung in mid-air, like a tiny cloud that had taken on a familiar shape.
“Roscoe Abrahams?”
“The very same,” Thomas said baldly. “As much a New Yorker as you are a Londoner. Sold old cinecameras and films in a stall on the Lower East Side, along with his brother John. Never had much of a dream until the Spirits came. 5 years later, he and John had their own production company. 10 years later he had produced 20 Oscar nominated films and 5 years ago he had produced 126. Then came the sexual misconduct and racism rumours, the tax evasion indictments and finally, the conviction for ordering arson on that period drama film set. Now he’s in prison, a warning to evil-doers rather than a template of success.”
Reggie was rigid with shock. He wanted to say so many things but his lips just wouldn’t form the words.
“And… that could be me?”
“It could be,” Thomas said with a shrug, “Or something even worse. But not before undreamt-of success and luxuries and comforts you’ve never known. And there’s one other thing you haven’t considered.”
A flick of his fingers and Thomas yet again produced a business card. He gently placed it in Reggie’s unresisting hand. Reggie read it and suddenly his face lit up. His doubts were no longer so powerful.
“So what will it be, Reggie?” Thomas asked. “A touch of sweetness before a sour end, or nothing more than blandness throughout your life? You decide.”
He pulled a lilac fountain pen with a gold nib out of his jacket and offered it to Reggie, whose eyes darted from pen, to suitcase, then to Thomas, meeting his gaze steadily and fearlessly.
Reggie looked down at the card one last time. He made his choice.
Ten years later, Sir Reginald Michael Doyle MBE returned to Islington to oversee the opening the launch of the new Doylebook; a tablet that played relaxing music to enhance the tranquillity of the reading experience. It was wonderfully nostalgic to visit the Doyle & Family flagship store, which now occupied two storeys of the Angel in the space where the Vue Cinema once was. The family pad in Richmond and the pied á terre in Mayfair might have been well-appointed, but his heart would always lie here, just streets away from his old stall in Cannon Row, the humble roots of his flourishing tree.
David Walliams, Malorie Blackman and Tim Berners-Lee were among the star guests. They didn’t bat an eye when Sir Reginald said anyone who was interested could check out the Old Boys’ Vault in the corner, where they could shop for Biggles, Bulldog Drummond, Roger Brook and many more to their hearts’ content. How delightful the publishers had been that his work to revive interest in them had generated so many thousands of sales!
The event was a great success, with all having a good time. The Doylebooks flew off the shelves, with hundreds more orders placed online. A couple of hours in, Sir Reginald decided to take a short rest away from the crowds before heading home to his wife, Teresa. He obscured himself in a deserted stockroom and brewed a strong cup of expensie coffee.
Then just as he put the cup to his lips…
“Youse sittin’ comfortably, Reggie?”
Reggie’s cup froze at a 45-degree angle. Then, when he saw who was sauntering out from the shadows behind the stacked cases of books, he almost spat his coffee out. Not only should it have been impossible to squeeze behind that stack, but this man, who stood in front of him right now, couldn’t really be speaking to him.
The figure gave a cocksure chuckle. “Well, even if you is or ain’t, I’m glad I gotcha alone. ‘Cos I got a few things ta say.”
“Roscoe Abrahams?” Reggie croaked.
“Why, you said that in just the way you said it ten years ago, old bean.”
Reggie recognised the melodious, reassuring voice at once. It was Thomas, who now stepped into the light to stand beside the dumpy, squinting producer-turned-convict. He was just as youthful and cocksure as Reggie had remembered him on that pivotal day 10 years ago, when he had put pen to paper on the contract that had granted him his destiny… and his doom. Thomas was even wearing the same blue suit and purple tie.
“But this man died in prison three years ago!” he gasped, his voice now showing much less of his old cockney accent. “Are you… a ghost?”
“Nah,” grinned Roscoe, tapping his thick fingers against the wall. “I’m solid as a rock, baby. Just like Tommy Boy here.”
“You see, my dear Reginald,” said Thomas, “The Spirits of Fleeting Glory can only make organic life out of death. We’re corporeal. We just choose when to be seen and nobody sees us before that. All those touched by the Spirits, agents and beneficiaries, have this power.”
“But we can’t stay too long, boy,” said Roscoe. “We came here ta say, the Spirits is gettin’ worked up. They’re ready ta start takin’ back what they gave ta ya, just as they did wit’ me. But there’s somethin’ ya can do.”
“Do you remember what was on that card I showed you the evening you signed the contract, Reginald?” Thomas asked.
“I should say so,” said Reggie. “It’s never left my side.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and produced Thomas’ business card, now thoroughly creased and dog-eared. The words on it, however, were just as clear as ever.
There are ways beat them if you try.
“So, someone’s beaten the Spirits, then?” said Reggie crisply.
“Nah,” said Roscoe, “But they’ve come close, wit’ insider help. And even if ya can’t give ‘em a lickin’, ya can always do what I did.”
“What’s that?”
“Use their power on somethin’ else,” Roscoe said, with a malevolent grin.
“Or as I put it on our first meeting,” Thomas chuckled, “Go with the flow.”
“Why da ya tink this store took over from da flicks?” Roscoe sniggered. “It’s cuz I cursed da movie industry. I used da Spirits’ magic ta make sure dat when I went down, da movies went down wit’ me. Why else do ya tink dere ain’t so many movie-goers as before?”
“You see, Reggie,” said Thomas, “The Spirits’ power can be used by everyone they’ve touched, including you. They prevail over all comings and goings. They are lords of flux and shifting fortune. You just have to tune yourself into that in the right way.”
“Could you teach me?” Reggie cried hopefully.
“Dis is somethin’ ya have ta teach yerself, pal,” Roscoe said with a nod towards Reggie. “But we’ll be sendin’ ya info that we collected that might be useful. And we’ll look in on ya from time ta time.”
“Don’t forget, Reggie,” Thomas said silkily, “Time is short. And if you don’t find a way… who will?”
Moments later, Sir Reginald’s secretary, Cynthia Barnes, came into the stockroom. She found her boss sitting at the far end, looking shaken, with a cooling cup of coffee in his hands.
“Cynthia,” Sir Reginald said drily, “I need you and the team to conduct some research for me.”
Curious, Cynthia thought. I could have sworn he was talking to somebody.
But there was nobody else there.
rpatersonwriting 