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Prologue
“The government is advising everyone to stay indoors. We repeat…….”The roar of the storm drowned out the screams of the woman inlabour as she lay on the kitchen floor of her house in a smallsuburb of Victoria, the capital of Saint Mary, a tiny dot in theCaribbean Sea. She dared not go upstairs to the bedroom for fearthat the roof might not withstand the onslaught being dealt uponit. The hurricane had caught the island by surprise and when herwaters broke the radio was advising everyone to remain inside.“Winds gusting to one hundred and forty miles per hour…” itcrackled in the background, inaudible above the terrifying soundof the tempest.Her husband was frantic with worry seeing his wife in distress,and felt helpless to assist or relieve the pain she was in.“I’m going to get the doctor!” he yelled. The incessant bangingof the corrugated galvanised roof sheeting against the woodenrafters above them was deafening.“No… don’t go outside, it’s too dangerous!” she panted, sweatbeading on her forehead.“He’s just down the road, we can make it!” He struggled againstthe front door being battered by the vengeance of the stormoutside of their little two-storey house and made his way out intothe violence that was nature that evening.The rain lashed at him relentlessly as it hurtled horizontallypast. Lightening illuminated the scene of the man battling to keepon his feet as he picked his way slowly towards the doctor’shouse.Inside the woman shouted in agony as the contractions camecloser and closer together, signalling the impending arrival ofher baby. Suddenly there was a deafening screech above her as theroof sheeting was torn from the house followed by a sound like anexplosion as the roof structure gave up its grasp and was thrownasunder. The lights went out, plunging her into darkness. Thegalvanised roof sheeting spun through the air before scything itsway back to earth, and to her husband. Like a depraved guillotineit flashed through the air and caught the father to be a full blowin the neck, killing him instantly.In stark contrast to the roaring maelstrom a tiny, fragile,baby’s cry was heard.
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Chapter OneJanuary - thirty two years later
Gatwick Airport, North Terminal, 7:00am Monday January 8
th
. Onthis cold, dark, damp and dreary morning a smartly dressed andimmaculately groomed young man of colour sat in the departure loungein front of a cappuccino and The Daily Telegraph, waiting to besummoned to a further waiting zone and then to board his flight. Hehad been up since 4:00 am, had stood in what seemed like aninterminable queue to check in his luggage and was wondering througha tired mind and gritty eyes if this whole venture was a grandmistake.It had all begun with a call from his friend and work associateback in November."I've a job for you," Kevin had said, "let's go for a pint andI'll give you the details."The young man lived in a one-bedroom loft situated on the thirdfloor of a terraced Victorian building on a quiet street that waslined on both sides with tall and ancient trees, on the outskirts ofChiswick, West London. He loved his flat, and the road it was on. Itwas a quaint backwater with a small parade of shops opposite: abutcher, a hardware shop, a launderette, and a café, all of whichcould be viewed through the tree branches from his living roomwindows. It felt like it hadn’t changed since the war, or evenearlier. He was prone to sitting and staring out of this window,gazing blankly down at the comings and goings of people as they wentabout their affairs. The leisurely, unhurried way in which businesswas conducted on this little stretch of commerce was soothing, and amillion miles away from the hustle and bustle that typified the highstreets of central London. This part of Chiswick was separated fromthe more hectic parts of town by the feed road to the motorway,itself a strip of noisy madness, filled with deafening lorries beingchased by angry cars. Here, however, he had easy access to the riverThames which afforded pleasant walks along the footpaths that linedthe banks of the river, and many splendid pubs.His name was Jack Delisle, and as he kept himself, so he kepthis flat: immaculate. A true metrosexual, he had a passionate dislikefor dirt and disarray, and anything that might cause either.On Kevin’s invitation Jack had left his abode and set off to thepub allocated for the event. It was 8:00pm, dark and wet, and thestreetlights reflected orange off of the concrete pavement, whilst inthe distance the passing cars' tires hissed on the shining tarmac ofthe road. He would have happily stayed at home on such a night,comfortable on his settee immersed in a paperback novel, the aromasof supper drifting in from the kitchen whilst he enjoyed a suitably
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cosseting glass of wine. Still, this was the promise of work, andheaven knows he was in need of that, so off he went. Pulling hiscollar up around his ears and chin, and with the cold stinging hischeeks, he wandered off towards the river and the pub. At the end ofthe road the commerce stopped and all the buildings became houses andflats. A mixture of terraced, semi-detached and detached homes ofdiffering eras, and purpose built flats of the 60's, the architecturewas of many ages and styles but one common thread held them together:the glow from their windows. At first glance this appeared flat, butat closer inspection it was three dimensional, revealing a glimpse ofthe domestic life inside where fireplaces ablaze illuminated a personor two, sometimes an entire family, all of whom were oblivious toJack outside in the wet and cold on his solo journey. A lone greyfigure in a cold, grey streetscape.Jack was an architect and had worked with a progressive andhighly successful practice in central London. Successful, that is,until it was discovered that the sole partner of the practice wasliving and spending well beyond the means of the fee income generatedby those who worked for him. The result was that the accountantsmoved in and dictated the running of the business. This in turn hadstifled the free-flowing creative process they had thrived on, andreplaced it with accountability for all things right down to thetoilet paper, proving too much for Jack who left to hang up his ownshingle.Initially the work had come in thick and fast as past clientswere happy to assist in establishing Jack's enterprise. It hadsurprised him just how enthusiastic they had been about his forayinto the world of the self-employed. People are basically good, hedecided. Unfortunately, as good an architect as Jack was, and he wasvery good indeed, his marketing skills were crap and as a result theworkload had waned and Jack had found himself designing theoccasional loft conversion and house extension. Even this meagretrickle had dried up, and like so many of his ilk he was strugglingto make ends meet. The good people had vanished and been replaced bya bunch of disinterested strangers. The prospect of work from Kevinwas, therefore, attractive.Kevin was also self-employed, as a quantity surveyor. UnlikeJack, however, Kevin's venture was a success. They had been friendsfor many years, some of them sober, and Kevin was Jack's number onefan and would put Jack forward to clients whenever possible. This wasone such occasion.Passing under the railway bridge Jack saw the muddy puddle andthe approaching van too late. With an expression of boredindifference the van driver sped the vehicle towards the pool ofgrime and the hapless Jack. Forced to press up against the cold moss-covered stone wall of the bridge he tried to shield himself from theinevitable. A wave of thick, muddy, cold filth rose from the van's
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