* * *
The clock struck seven.
As the grandiose oaken sentinel began to chime, beautiful in its autonomy, another sound joined with it, slowly obscuring the peals of the great clock.
This new sound emanated steadily from the table beside the ornate four-poster bed, and some may have recognized Silent Woods Opus 68 No.5 – a work of brilliance by Edmund Battersby.
As the soft and pleasant melodies filled the room, warming the cold silence of the previous night, the lone occupant of the ornate bed stirred between the sheets and coughed politely, before raising himself slowly to a sitting position.
An exploring hand soon swept up his glasses from beside the radio, there today as surely as they had been every day of the countless years before.
He pulled back the sheets, slipping out of bed and into his slippers and dressing gown. As he did so, it was plain to see that he was not so old as to deserve the lines that traced across his skin, like the tracks of some miniature freight train. He knew it too.
He stood, taking a few exploratory steps, half lidded eyes allowing him to just about navigate his way across the room to the large standing mirror, where he exercised his jaw, slapped his lips together a few times and glanced briefly at his reflection. He gathered fresh undergarments from the drawers, before turning in the direction of the bathroom.
As he passed the large mirror just inside the en suite, he paused to watch himself undress. There was a clarity in the eyes that examined him in return, which spoke of an unrealised sadness, a deep regret and a painful longing. A sight he was blind to, but a self-evident truth if ever I’ve seen one.
Meet Stephen Robert Lewis - a London millionaire, though not a Londoner by birth. If ever you’d wondered about the faces behind the name of Lewis & Clarke’s, your imaginings may have been fairly accurate.
Stephen, or Mr. Lewis as he prefers, is a man of sixty-five with the visage of a man sixteen years his senior. He blames the stress of the job. After all, successfully establishing a law firm in London is an impressive feat in itself - even with the help of a shrewd business partner. However, to climb the rickety ladder of competitive business and reach the top rung all in a lifetime is another thing altogether.
I have my own ideas about my friend’s premature ageing, though it’s none of my concern really. What does concern me will, I imagine, make itself clear to you soon enough.
The clock struck eight.
His ears filled with the sound of rushing water as he stepped into the shower, drowning out the faint chimes of the old grandfather clock. Stephen breathed deeply as he reached for the soap, turning on the radio with his free hand. Technology never ceased to amaze him. Waterproof in-shower radios? That was just one of many new gadgets that his youth had been devoid of.
Just the though of the word ‘youth’ was enough to send his mind racing in a silent tirade at the younger generation. How could children raised with the benefits they have today be so uncouth, unread and unpleasant?
He was still muttering to himself as he stepped out of the shower and into the warm embrace of a thick, white towel.
It didn’t take him long to get dressed – it never had. His fingers moved deftly through their well-practiced motions. Buttons, belt, laces and a Half Windsor knot all defeated, they returned to his sides. As he stood, absently staring at his reflection, his right hand strayed upwards again to run backwards through his thinning silver hair. Those same eyes stared back at him from the mirror, cold as glass.
I can’t say that I’ve seen him smile in seventeen years, and I’ve been watching Mr. Lewis very closely for a good number of those. All he seems to do now is work, smoke and drink. In my experience not one of those is any good for your health or state of mind.
Still, I suppose I can sympathise, after all he’s hardly had an easy time of it for the last twenty years. The damage done by his vices pales in comparison to the damage fate and fortune have done. I regret my part in that tally of wrongs, though it’s far too late to even consider an attempt at making amends. After all, a man in my position is a little limited in that regard.
The clock struck nine.
No one heard as the antique timepiece counted another hour. The great manor-like house was as empty as a crypt, and as the clock fell quiet, a deathly silence descended.
Behind the wheel of the Cadillac, Stephen was concentrating on navigating the London traffic. Not that it mattered whether or not he was on time. The company would continue to run itself without his help, it would continue to grow without his input, but he felt a compulsion to stay involved and keep busy.
Given his financial situation you might expect him to retire and relax - to fall back into the comfort of a well-padded pension. Unfortunately, that just wasn’t him.
It wasn’t far to the Lewis & Clarke building. At most it was a twelve-mile drive from Eltham to 10 Upper Bank Street in Canary Wharf.
The building used to belong to the Clifford Chance Group, but was now the central offices of Lewis & Clarke’s after they bought out the struggling firm at the turn of the century. It was like a second home to Stephen, and an office he could be proud of. All 32 storeys of success towered over the surrounding buildings, like a monument to his dedication.
George Gershwin’s Rhapsody In Blue played quietly on the radio as he drove on.
The clock struck ten.
The empty house echoed in accord.
‘Mr. S. Lewis CEO’ greeted him as his hands found the cold steel handle on his office door. His name, engraved on the frosted glass, looked so cold and isolated as the door swung back.
Silence, save for the distant sounds of the city - one would have to strain to hear the muffled noise of slow moving traffic sixteen floors below. His own office was oddly located half way up the thirty two storey building. It had been there ever since they had acquired the building and rented out the sixteen floors above. Now Lewis & Clarke’s had consumed every floor of the tower to facilitate the day-to-day operations of the corporate giant, but Stephen had never felt the need to move.
He liked his office. He’d grown accustomed to its location, to the glass window that was the outer wall, to his chair and bookcases, but most of all to his pictures.
Three simple and relatively small frames decorated the office, each hanging proud and alone on one of the three interior walls.
His wife, resplendent in her ivory-white wedding dress beamed her winning smile down at him from his left. Opposite him, Jason Clarke shook hands with his old business partner, trapped forever in time that never moved on. The final picture hung on the wall behind his desk, where two shadowed figures sat by small fire in southern France, watching the sun set from a beach that seemed to go on forever.
“Rachel, have Adam come down to my office when he has a moment.” He spoke into the telephone as he sat, turning slightly in his chair to gaze out of the window.
“Right away Mr. Lewis”
Adam Vaughn was a man of many talents, multifaceted one might even say. He more or less ran the administrative side of the business now. Stephen didn’t mind, in fact he was glad that there was someone else to take the burden off his hands. He was getting too old for the cutthroat world in which his business operated, though he still had a few cards left to play.
Every major decision the board reached went through him, and often Stephen would simply nod and agree that it was in the best interests of the business and its clients, but every so often there would be something to put down – a rogue idea that needed to be thrown out completely.
When the board had moved to take the company public, Stephen quickly stepped on the neck of that little venture.
The old man despised the public. They didn’t know what they wanted, or where they were going. They couldn’t tell their arseholes from their elbows given a lecture, diagram and government funding.
He hated people almost as much as he hated the government. It amazed him that the populace was either stupid enough or so uninterested in politics and reality – living in their world of ‘reality TV’ and ‘celebrity culture – that they could re-elect a corrupt and self-interested government, which fed nothing but lies to the people it exploited. They were supposed to lead us, set an example and look after the interests of the United Kingdom. Did they? Did they bollocks.
He’d always hated the focus on spin and the media, grinding his teeth as he watched ‘our glorious leaders’ play to the whims of the international mob, wasting money on third world countries when the bank balance of the NHS was in desperate need of medical attention.
“Mr. Vaughn to see you sir.” Lost in his silent commentary on the state of the world Stephen didn’t hear.
“Mr Lewis?”
“Yes Rachel?”
“Mr Vaughn is here sir.”
“Ah good, send him in right away.”
A young and handsome looking man opened the door, smiling politely as he walked over to Stephen’s desk.
“Take a seat Adam.” Stephen smiled genuinely, with all the warmth of a winter blizzard.
Adam sat.
“What can I do for you Mr. Lewis?” Adam asked calmly and politely. Many of his colleagues thought the old man was erratic and unusual, wanting Stephen out of any position of authority in Lewis and Clarke’s as soon as possible. Adam, on the other hand, saw a sad and lonely man who had unknowingly isolated himself from the world and needed to take some time to enjoy life – god knows he’d earned it.
“The Leighton account?”
“Signed and settled.”
“That Heeley chap?”
“He’s very well off sir, but we have no intention of taking blood money to defend a well known arms dealer.
“Good good, and the renovations?”
“Scheduled to finish in two days time. Looks like we’ll have the new system in place ahead of schedule.”
“Wonderful, though I was never much good with technology myself.”
“I’m still getting used to Windows Vista myself sir, seems like it was designed to baffle and irritate the user.”
Stephen laughed briefly, “Well if things are going so well I suppose I’m more of a loose end here today then aren’t I?”
“I wouldn’t say that Mr. Lewis, but I do think taking the afternoon off would do you good.”
“Perhaps you’re right . . .” Stephen smiled wanly, Adam left soon after that, with very little being added to the conversation.
Stephen had thought about it and decided that Adam was probably right. Taking the afternoon off couldn’t hurt, seeing as today’s significant business was all settled, could it? No.
He couldn’t help but look a little happier as he left the building later that day, making his way down to the Cadillac Sixteen he’d commissioned as a personal build four years after the turn of the century. Classic FM played as he drove – perfect music for thinking.
It began to rain, just a little at first. It came in dribs and drabs – ‘spitting’ as it was more commonly known. Soon however, it began to worsen. The skies overhead grew dark and the rain sleeted down, driving hard with the wind at its back. The Cadillac’s wipers and lights dealt with the problem, and Stephen thought nothing of it.
Stephen thought long and hard on the drive home, and took his deep contemplation into the house with him.
Had he been working too hard? Moreover, had he been burying himself in his work to try and forget? Did he need to let go?
Stephen thought that perhaps he did. He still had a copy of the Times newspaper dated five years ago, the front page of which read ‘Jason Clarke commits suicide’. It was somewhere downstairs in his study, bundled into a drawer along with his wife’s necklace.
She’d worn that necklace in France - In truth she was wearing it when she died, and although she hadn’t taken it to the grave with her, it always frightened Stephen. It seemed to exude an aura of cold, and when his eyes flicked across its bright metallic surface, he couldn’t help but imagine grave mould working its way between the miniature silver coloured links.
The clock struck one.
Stephen jumped slightly. Lost in thought again, he hadn’t recognised the chimes of the ancient grandfather clock that stood in his hall.
Stephen shivered momentarily, feeling a chill run down his spine. Wet through with rain, his logical and ordered mind placed the blame for the cold sensation on the water that had soaked his clothes. He sneezed loudly, sending an almost comical sound echoing about the house.
Looking around, he took off his shoes and gathered his things, deciding that a nice hot shower would cure his ills.
Stephen opened the door to his room a little too quickly, startling his cat, who cried out in protest before vacating the space at the foot of his bed - bolting out through the open door, into an otherwise empty house.
Stephen laughed, something he did far too little these days. He was deep in thought as he stepped into the stream of hot water, closing his eyes as it fell across his shoulders.
He spent much longer in the shower than he had expected, losing himself in thought and the warmth of the water. After all these years Stephen had finally taken the time to step back and have good long hard look at his life. He was successful, rich, well known but lonely and alone. He had decided to start treating his staff better, perhaps get to know them a little. He wanted to donate more to charities and hospitals, but more importantly he wanted to move on, to make new friends and to enjoy what remained of his life.
Half dressed and radiant in his white bathrobe, Stephen left the bathroom and crossed the landing, still lost in thought. He’d have to cut down on the drink - the cigars were a must however.
The clock struck four.
Stephen, busy contemplating, ignored it entirely.
Yes, he decided. Things would change for the better - today, or possibly tomorrow. It was with that thought that ‘Mr. S. Lewis. CEO’ took his first step towards his destiny. However, his feet, clad in smooth socks, slipped on the edge of his wooden stairs and he fell, tumbling down three flights of hard, angled wood and breaking his neck.
He lay there for two days, a mixed expression of mild surprise and something like relief on his cold, dead lips.
“Hello old friend, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Jason?”
* * *
I hope you enjoyed reading that short fiction piece. It's actually the first chapter of a story that deals with death and the afterlife in a completely fictional manner designed only for literary entertainment.If you read closely enough, you may hove noticed a few hidden meanings and links within the story. If you noticed them, feel free to post, comment and tell me you saw and what you thought of the story.
Thanks for reading,
Matt
