by Mark New
AVALON RED
MARK NEW
Copyright © 2019 by Mark New.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations in the context of a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
John Harvard novels
Avalon Red
The Ambrosia Promise
Marquis Winter
Cover design: www.blackdoggraphics.portfoliobox.me
For Dad
Chapter One
‘You know how to make a real martini, son?’
Well yes, actually. Sadly, every American I’ve ever met has his own secret recipe so it wasn’t much good saying so. This one might just as well have worn one of those ‘Brash Tourist’ t-shirts that were popular for five minutes in the Forties; size XXL required. He also had the obligatory simpering brunette in tow. Frisque had already warned me about attitude so I smiled sweetly and offered to make it up to whatever specification he cared to name. It took the wind from his sails a bit. I think he was hoping to impress his companion by taking me to task on the subject. They sat down at the table in the far corner. He took the chair by the wall so that he could survey the bar, she facing him and with her back to me. Not that there was much to survey on a quiet Sunday evening when all right thinking Islanders were in church for Evensong. The only people around were tourists like him and his lady friend and bartenders like me.
It was a warm night - not really a surprise in Polynesia - and the air-conditioner was making a racket trying to cope. I’d have to remind Frisque to get it serviced before it gave up the ghost completely. She wasn’t usually very interested in the fixtures and fittings unless it affected the profits. Being the only bar in the Cook Islands without air-conditioning wasn’t going to be a big selling point unless she wanted to market the authentic twentieth century experience so I was confident that I would be seeing the engineer before the end of the week. That would be good. De Marjenas was a veteran of the South African war and his visits were usually entertaining. Since he had discovered (he thought) my own part in the conflict he treated me as an equal even though, unknown to him, I had only briefly disembarked. ‘The Tech-Man’ was what he called me to Frisque’s continued amusement, a term that was outdated before I even enlisted. As for my actual involvement in the liberation of his homeland, it was better he never found out exactly what I did. He might not be so keen to buy me drinks.
Mr Brash Tourist coughed loudly from the corner and waved his empty glass in the air. I stifled a heavy sigh as I mixed him another perfect martini. It was going to be a long evening.
◆◆◆
I finally got home just after midnight. It had never really got busy and, frankly, I had spent most of the night trying not to say anything Frisque might regret. She had actually done me a favour by insisting on taking the last few hours of my shift. She was quite sweet in her stern way and she had certainly looked after me for the last eight months, even though her style of man-management owed more to Genghis Khan than any of the touchy-feely gurus currently in vogue. One of her regulars had confided, some weeks after I started working for her, that she had a reputation amongst the Arikis as a seer and that most of the locals were, if not scared, at least wary of her. She had never said anything even vaguely mystical to me and I assumed it was just a story. The information was useful, though, when it came to talking to suppliers. One mention of her name and logistical problems disappeared. It must have been the best stocked bar in Oceania. I even got in some European beer for the night we celebrated full independence. Anyway, Frisque and I had got on ever since the day I had first wound up, rather the worse for wear, in her bar and I was determined to avoid getting her into trouble by actually assaulting any of her clientele. I had come close but, to date, all customers had left in the conventional manner via the door rather than through the window as I had threatened on occasion. OK, too often. I was aware of the rumours that my war experience had left me short-tempered and touchy (which wasn’t really so far from the truth) and, just so everyone got the point, I snarled unhelpfully if anyone tentatively broached the subject. Consequently, when I threatened anyone they either backed off voluntarily or someone whispered in their ear and then they backed off. In eight months I had never actually had to show my combat prowess. Which was just as well as I didn’t have any.
My ‘house’ was effectively a beach hut. It was, however, solidly built on the edge of the sea on the west coast of Rarotonga, afforded spectacular views at sunset and was a two minute walk from Frisque’s Bar. It even came with its own AI which was a pretty upmarket device even for the newly rich Cook Islands. This one had benefited from a few tweaks I had added since taking the lease and which were undetectable even when the system was interrogated by the landlord’s seneschal each time it debited my account for the rent. I had learned from previous mistakes and the modified security features would now stop a mainframe full-on cyber strike. The sweet part was that no one would ever know why the attack failed. I hadn’t bothered to adapt the AI personality. I wasn’t interested in anthropomorphising and mentally flinched when I came across the hideously friendly ‘personalities’ which seemed to be de rigueur these days. If my household AI had greeted me like a long lost brother, I would have disconnected it. Instead, it merely acknowledged my approach by opening the front door and saying without inflection, ‘Twelve-thirteen a.m. Mr Harvard.’
‘Messages?’
‘One, Sir. From First Bank of Melbourne offering an appointment to discuss your investments.’
‘Decline.’ Junk mail.
‘Confirmed.’
The front door had closed behind me and the AI turned on the lights in the main room. The hut only had four rooms; the living space, the bedroom, the bathroom and a galley kitchen. In eight months I think I had visited the kitchen only twice to cook. I usually ate in Joe’s. However, I had a large refrigerator well stocked with alcohol. I never drank on duty in the bar partly because I knew I had a bar of my own waiting for me at home. I went to the fridge and selected a small bottle of the local brew, returned to the living room and collapsed in the only armchair. Fortunately, the bottle was screw top because I had forgotten to bring the opener. I took a swig and addressed the AI again. ‘News selection?’ I wasn’t very tired and insomnia was a constant companion these days so I might as well catch up on the world.
‘Personal priority set: compiling.’ I hadn’t checked the news for at least twenty-four hours. Once upon a time I would have checked it every twenty-four minutes. The AI took an electronic eternity to compile the list. That’s the trouble with the information age: way too much information. ‘Set list according to personal parameters, headlines are as follows…’ I took a long swig from the bottle and slipped lower in the chair. I’d set it up for audio only so the walls remained a muted shade of white.
‘Specified interest: US Grand Jury indicts Congressman Bennett on thirty-four counts of embezzlement relating to his tenure as Chairman of the Industrial Affairs Commission. The Attorney General indicates that further charges are likely to follow.
‘Stock markets worldwide continue to show steady growth. Shale Gas prices remain stable in all major markets.
‘The UN peacekeeping force in the New Transvaal is continuing with the staged-withdrawal plan. There have been no civilian casualties since the last news update at 8am yesterday. The UN General Commanding, General Sir Francis Linne, paid tribute to the leading role played by British and Canadian forces
in the recent action.
‘General interest: David Winter, the games creator, remains in a stable condition in hospital in Detroit, but a medical spokesman confirms that the cause of his coma remains unknown.
‘Local interest: Oceania Free Trade Association delegates are arriving in Auckland for the annual conference with much of the agenda likely to be taken up with the continuing health crisis in certain European states. Some members have speculated privately that the eastern European countries will defy the EU ban on pharmaceutical imports which would greatly benefit OFTA conglomerate ANZ-Med. The Managing Director of ANZ-Med is scheduled to report to the conference on the likely economic implications now that the US Government has sanctioned the sale of third-generation gene therapy in North America. It is anticipated that he will also address a fringe seminar on the subject of global trading in medicine.
‘The Cook Islands received another economic boost this morning with the announcement that the US Tech House Group is to register in Rarotonga as an offshore arm of the US parent. The e-commerce – ’
‘Skip it.’ Turns out economic forecasts aren’t a cure for insomnia, after all. The AI obliged.
‘Sport: The European football authorities announced today that the second round of the European club championship is likely to start on schedule despite the fact that leading clubs have raised health fears about playing in some eastern countries. A further statement was promised in 28 days when the situation has been reviewed.
‘There are no further items, Sir. Would you like to review?’
‘No.’ To be honest, I hadn’t listened to much of what I hadn’t skipped.
I put the bottle down on the coffee table, and noticed it was still half-full. My alcohol consumption had been nose-diving since I started living here. Maybe there was hope yet for my liver. A good night’s sleep, should it ever arrive, might even restore my good humour.
◆◆◆
It didn’t arrive. I arose at around 8.30 a.m. as usual and stalked about for a while, not really doing much other than noticing that I needed another application of depilatory cream. I could usually rely on Frisque to tell me when the ‘designer stubble’ was getting too much. It was hopelessly out of fashion these days when the object was to look clean and healthy to show that you hadn’t got any of the various afflictions on offer in Eastern Europe. I left the hut before 9.00 a.m., trying desperately to avoid thinking of it as 0900. Sometimes the depression left me alone for weeks, only to resurface unexpectedly at the merest fleeting memory of the bad old days. This week it was averagely hideous. I was sure that there was a full-blooded dark dog on the way. I’d suffered for so long that it was easy to spot the approaching storm nowadays. I could probably manage for a day but, in all probability, I’d be in bed by early evening and wouldn’t be functional for a few days. I must remember to tell Frisque so she could reassign my shifts. As was my custom, I wandered along the beach where most of the day’s tourist activities were well underway. The round-the-island boat tour was oversubscribed, I noticed. There was a long queue along the jetty waiting to board and the last dozen or so were going to be disappointed. Bruce, the boat’s captain, saw me from his place on the bridge and waved. I managed a sort of half-wave by way of acknowledgement. The first mate, Ranu, was trying to prevent a push and shove amongst the later arrivals from escalating into a full skirmish whilst also attempting to arrange the orderly embarkation of the first comers. Bruce watched happily from the bridge. If he was helping in any way, shape or form, I couldn’t see how.
I walked along the beach front a little further and then turned inland along a well-worn path amongst the trees heading for the café and breakfast. I didn’t really feel like eating much but I’d learned from experience that being hungry as well as depressed didn’t make me feel any better. Plus, I wasn’t likely to be getting out of bed to eat tomorrow so I ought to fill up now. As always, it was a beautiful day. The sun filtered down through the green canopy and specks of dust caught the light as they swirled in the gentle breeze. The locals said it was God’s breath over paradise island, a sentiment that sometimes even an old atheist like me could appreciate. Today, it didn’t do anything for my mood. There were no people along the first stretch but, as the path turned to the right towards the wooden footbridge over the stream, I could see a large figure standing on the bridge. He was in t-shirt and shorts and wearing a baseball cap. To be honest, he really didn’t have the physique to carry off that look. Although he was ostensibly looking down over the side at the stream, I could see he had spotted me. This was a spectacularly bad time to renew my acquaintance with Mr Brash Tourist. I wondered briefly if I could get away with a curt ‘good morning’ but the way he turned to meet me head on as I approached indicated a man who wanted a rather larger chunk of my time. My heart sank.
‘Nice day isn’t it?’ he called as I approached. Yes, I refrained from telling him. It’s paradise; it’s always bloody nice. The more depressed I felt, the snarkier the humour I employed. Some people don’t react well to it: imagine that.
‘Mm-hmm.’ is all I actually said, showing admirable restraint.
‘Taylor thought she’d like to take the island tour today, if she can fight her way on board.’
I managed to smile weakly. Unfortunately, our conversation didn’t seem to be over.
‘I’m not much of one for boats. I like terra firma under my feet, you know what I mean?’
‘Yes.’ I kept walking but as I drew alongside him he turned and fell into step beside me.
‘All that rolling from side to side doesn’t do me any good. If it isn’t a superyacht with stabilisers then I don’t want to know.’ I kept walking and so did he. Twenty paces to go until I got to Joe’s Other Café. Also, I noted inwardly, no place between here and there to stash a body that size so it looked like I was going to have to let him live. Funny how you can joke to yourself about murder when you know you don’t mean it. Joe’s place came into sight as we came around the path. My boon companion hadn’t been put off by my failure to respond.
‘Why do they call it Joe’s Other Café?’ Isn’t it obvious? I stopped myself sighing before I answered.
‘He owns one in Avarua. This was the second one he opened.’
‘Oh. Business must be good, huh? All that new foreign investment rolling in?’
‘Something like that.’
‘So that bar you work at - that one of a chain too?’
‘No. Frisque says her bar is so good that people should make the effort to come to her.’
‘Hey, I like that! That’s marketing skill!’ Joe was putting his menu board outside as we reached the entrance. He glanced at us both and gave me a rueful grin. He knows how I feel about people.
‘Hey Joe!’ said my new friend and then burst out laughing. Joe and I looked at each other and then at him. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you boys are too young. “Hey Joe” was a famous song back in the day.’ We smiled simultaneously, me through gritted teeth and Joe in that way that café-owners do when they think they might have a sale.
‘Breakfast, gents?’ Joe waved at his board. I hoped one of us had already eaten.
‘Sure!’ Hope dashed, mercilessly. I let my new friend enter in front of me in the forlorn hope that I could then sit down somewhere away from him. There was a morbid inevitability that upon entering I would find him waiting for me just inside the doorway.
‘Let me buy you breakfast and in return you can tell me where’s best to visit in the Islands.’
It was the point of no return. This is where you commit either to spending another hour in his company and all the horrors that entails or you find a reasonable excuse to sit elsewhere or - the nuclear option - you are incredibly rude and destroy the budding friendship. The nuclear option was certainly tempting but the man and his lady friend had been spending freely in the bar and I didn’t want them to refrain from donating to Frisque’s coffers merely because I had behaved badly. Blatant self-interest since Frisque’s coffers are what pay my liv
ing expenses and enable me to keep a low virtual profile. I didn’t have any reasonable excuse and, let’s face it, I’m British so ‘polite’ is my default setting, at least in non-combat situations. It didn’t help that I could hear Joe chortling quietly in the background. It took barely a glance to see that we were the only patrons. Maybe I could order something that would take Joe and his cook no time at all to prepare and minimise the time factor. Uncle Sam had taken my further failure to respond as acquiescence. I suppose he was right.
‘Splendid!’ He led the way to the corner booth. The café wasn’t large by any standards. Joe’s First Café (the ‘First’ had been added when the ‘Other’ opened) had about twenty tables but this one had barely eight, possibly nine if you counted the rather dodgy counter-top that had been badly modelled on an American diner. Still, like all dining establishments in the Cooks, it was the food and ambience that won out over style. I hoped that the new money flooding into the Islands wouldn’t change the emphasis. Joe had constructed the place with large windows so the morning light reached most of the floor space. It also left very little room for the wallscreens which this morning were showing gently waving fronds that looked prehistoric. The screen over the counter was showing a muted Australian sports channel but though I recognised the channel logo I couldn’t recognise the sport upon which they were soundlessly reporting. Nobody has yet considered that just because the bandwidth is available it doesn’t mean you are obliged to cover every undertaking known to humankind.
As we sat down the menus set in the table sprang to life. I just pressed the breakfast grill option by reflex. Sometimes I had been known to have something lighter (and cheaper) but, hey, I wasn’t paying. My companion was taking a little longer and poring over his selection.
