by A A Abbott
She waved them away.
“Suit yourself,” Marty said cheerfully, helping himself to a couple. He added cream and sugar to his coffee.
Kat sipped her drink. “What’s your budget for new equipment? And for extra sales support?”
“Sales is Tim’s area, but there’s no need to change what we’re doing at the moment. I take it you’re satisfied with Tim’s services?” Marty winked.
Kat forced herself not to blush. “Yes, but he’ll have to spend more time on Starshine if I ramp up production.”
“Not necessarily,” Marty said. “I want you to make Snow Mountain vodka, not Starshine.”
Kat jumped to her feet. “In Birmingham? You’ve mentioned that idea before, and I thought it was a joke. Snow Mountain is a Bazaki brand, crafted in the countryside from local grain and mountain stream water.”
“And methanol,” Marty said.
“What?” This made no sense.
“Your mother sent me a shipment laced with methanol,” Marty said.
Kat gasped. She already regarded her mother as lost to her. Who could forgive the woman who had betrayed her husband and abandoned her children? This was worse, though. “She’s playing with people’s lives.”
“Lucky we caught it,” Marty said. “But I can’t buy from her again. This wouldn’t have happened if Sasha was around. He was my best friend, as well as a superb distiller. I miss him, as I’m sure you do.”
“Don’t guilt-trip me,” Kat said, with vehemence.
“No guilt-tripping intended,” Marty said. “You share Sasha’s talents, and together, we can fix the problem. Yes, I know Starshine and Snow Mountain have different recipes, but you can make them side by side. Birmingham tap water is as pure as any river in Bazakistan.”
“It’ll never take off,” Kat said. “Where’s the brand integrity? Anyway, what’s Snow Mountain to me? I don’t have a stake in it. Starshine has my heart and soul. If I stop concentrating on that, it will suffer.”
Marty stood up too. The difference in height was less marked than when they’d been seated; he was only an inch or so taller than her.
“Brand integrity?” he said, his face reddening as he thrust it towards hers. “Let the marketing guys worry about that. Your friend, Amy, and Tim, for example. You need to realise that Snow Mountain should be everything to you. It’s what pays for all this.” He stretched out his arms. “This office, this warehouse, and your craft distillery with its shiny new pipes.”
“Starshine is going places,” Kat said. “I can’t afford to lose focus.”
“So that’s your final answer?” Marty glared. “Think on it, when the money runs out. If I go bankrupt, your precious Starshine goes down with me.”
Chapter 5.
Marty
Darria Enterprises was a few minutes’ walk from the Rose Villa Tavern, a handsome redbrick gothic pub in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter. While the cancer drug business was a joint venture, Marty mostly left his partner to his own devices. Erik White wasn’t just a talented scientist, but a farmer who was growing the darria herb from which the experimental drug was synthesised. Marty’s only role was to apply financial rigour.
By the time Erik arrived at 6pm, Marty had already bought beer for them both and found a quiet corner.
“Sorry I’m late,” Erik said. “I was so absorbed in the British Medical Journal, I lost track of time. How are you doing?”
“I’ve got less hair than a week ago.” Marty took a swig of his pint. There was no easy way of saying it. “Erik, this business isn’t paying its way. We’d planned to sell darria tea to cover the cost of further clinical trials, but it’s not happening. Although sales were promising to start with, they’ve taken a dip.”
“Any idea why?” Erik asked. Golden light streamed through the pub’s ornate stained glass windows, lending a halo to his black spiky hair. Tall, thin and pale, he looked like his father’s ghost.
“Consumers are chasing the next fad,” Marty said. “My wife swears by darria to keep her looking young, but Angela alone can’t keep the business afloat.” She did her best, though, drinking the foul-tasting brew morning and night.
“Never mind,” Erik said. “The anti-ageing tea is a side hustle. Once we get a licence for the cancer drug, we won’t look back.”
Marty sighed. “I can’t afford the next round of trials, Erik. Not unless I sell all my property investments and mortgage my house, and even then, maybe not. The cost you quoted in your last email was twice what I’d budgeted. But that’s not all. I face a crisis with my Snow Mountain supply.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother sent me a consignment contaminated with methanol. I can’t trust her to do it again.”
Erik’s expression was bleak. “Nobody can trust her,” he said. “So, without Snow Mountain sales, your cashflow’s weak.”
“Worse than weak. It’s negative.”
“I guess I’d better put my research on hold until you can overcome the vodka problems. And sell more tea.”
Marty nodded, relieved that Erik was so different from his younger sister. Where Kat was self-centred, quiet Erik would listen and compromise.
Erik grimaced. “I can delay for a few months to defer the cost. I wouldn’t wish to wait much longer. Have you spoken to my sister?”
“I asked her to make Snow Mountain for me. I offered her a pay rise, even though I’ll be borrowing to pay the wages this month. She refused to help.”
Erik clearly sensed Marty’s frustration. “Let me talk to Kat. And I’ll see if my girlfriend can persuade her. Amy and Kat are having a girls’ weekend in London soon.”
“I’m obviously paying them too much,” Marty said.
“They won’t be splashing the cash,” Erik said. “Amy’s father invited them to London to help plan his second wedding. Amy’s a bridesmaid.”
“They’re having a big do, aren’t they?” Marty said. “A top London hotel with views of the Thames. Champagne before, during and after. It’ll cost a pretty penny.”
“You seem to know a lot about the arrangements. Has Amy shared them with everyone at your office?”
“I’m getting an invitation myself. Charles and Dee told me to save the date,” Marty said. “You remember, when Amy came to work for me, Charles insisted on visiting? He wanted to check us out. We met for a drink a couple of times after that.”
“I can see why you’d get on. Charles likes his craft beer.”
“Angela’s really excited about attending a celebrity wedding. It’s giving her kudos with the ladies who lunch.”
Erik grinned. “Dee’s yoga DVDs must be popular with that crowd. How about you?”
“Yoga? No thanks. The wedding will give me a chance to tell Dee and her famous friends about darria tea. If they promote it to their hordes of social media followers, we can turn the business around.” Marty chuckled. “I’ll get Amy on the case.”
“She’s supposed to be marketing vodka.”
“When there is any.” Marty swallowed the rest of his pint, and went to the bar for another. His vodka supply was still uncertain, along with his finances. At least Erik’s cancer research wasn’t about to soak up millions he didn’t have.
Chapter 6.
Ben
Ben Halloran sipped his coffee and selected a Glock 17 pistol. Did it have a safety catch? No; it was an excellent choice. He pulled the trigger.
Blood and brains spattered everywhere, right to the edge of the screen. The stats at the bottom said it was his 141st zombie kill: just as well, because he’d lost count.
Although he earned his living playing fantasy games, he could hold his own in shoot’em ups. He enjoyed chilling in this Hackney café, checking out new games and catching up with the guys.
In real life, he wasn’t a lawman with an unlimited selection of weapons at his disposal, but a skinny twentysomething with floppy brown hair. His background was very different from the avatar disposing of zombies.
Ben si
ghed. He had to meet Vince, who was a link with his childhood, and not in a good way. Logging out, he waved to his fellow enthusiasts. “See you tomorrow.”
“Laters.”
In August, the café was busier on a Friday than usual. The handful of veterans, Ben’s age and above, had been joined by adolescents who were usually at school. One or two were even girls. A few lads glanced out of the window after him, obviously admiring the new black Golf GTi he’d parked right outside. Ben wondered if gaming was their safety valve, as it had been for him as a teenager.
As a gamer, you were the hero of your own legend. His earliest memories were of sitting on his father’s knee, listening to stories of bravery and cunning. Like the fairytales Ben’s mother read to him, Shaun Halloran’s yarns were fantastical: anecdotes of rivals buried alive in the foundations of shopping centres, and the police being outwitted.
Ben had treated the information as colourful fiction. He was perhaps ten years old when he realised from the reactions of his schoolmates that Shaun’s stories were true. At about the same time, he did his SATS at primary school. He’d found the tests easier than everyone else. His mother had been delighted. Unexpectedly, his father wasn’t. Shaun couldn’t understand why a child should have his nose in books.
Ben had naively hoped Shaun would be pleased when books were replaced by PCs and games consoles. It hadn’t taken long to learn otherwise. Again, his father couldn’t see how or why Ben’s interests should lead to a career. Shaun enjoyed the excitement of running an empire of drug runners, drinks dens and shady ladies. Why wouldn’t Ben want a part of that? Ben’s preference for a virtual world was a source of disappointment.
He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped idolising his dad, shutting himself in his room to avoid arguments and violence. It gave him no pleasure to think how far his father had fallen as his own star had risen: the despised video games having taken Ben all over the world, while Shaun’s empire had shrunk to a Belmarsh prison cell.
Now, driving to Hoxton to meet his father’s wingman, he saw a blue light in his mirror. Here we go, he thought. He pulled over on a double yellow line.
The patrol car stopped behind him. A policeman emerged, strutting towards the Golf, self-important in a stab vest and silly hat. Ben noticed the officer remaining in the vehicle was female. She was preoccupied with a phone or tablet.
Ben opened his window, recognising the young cop as he did so. Kyle Lassiter had been a school prefect, and officious with it.
“Good morning, Sir,” Lassiter said, a smirk appearing between his protruding chin and the monobrow that sat like a black caterpillar on his forehead. “You appear to be parked on a double yellow line.”
“I thought you wanted me to stop,” Ben said.
“Where safe and legal to do so,” Lassiter told him. His lip twisted into a sneer.
Ben felt nothing but contempt. There was no point being angry. He’d had many encounters of this sort. His surname attracted them. “Sorry, Kyle,” he said. “I can move along if you like.”
“Oh, it’s Ben Halloran, isn’t it?” As if Lassiter didn’t know. “How come a scruffy university drop-out like you can afford to drive a GTi? Doing a bit of dealing, are you?”
Ben didn’t give Lassiter the satisfaction of a reaction. “I won it in a competition,” he said, coolly.
“Is that so?” Lassiter said. He nodded to his colleague in the car behind. It, too, was squatting on double yellows. “We’ll just run a check on this vehicle. I’ll have your driving licence and your keys, please.”
Ben handed over the fob. He could still have driven away with a press of the push-start button. Didn’t Lassiter appreciate that?
The licence was in his wallet. Ben reached into the inside breast pocket of his black leather jacket, retrieving a passport as well.
“Let me see that too,” Lassiter snapped.
Ben was tempted to say that Lassiter knew who he was, but kept his mouth shut. When your opponent held all the aces, silence was the best policy. He gave both documents to the policeman.
Lassiter pretended to scrutinise them in minute detail. “Hmm. Not obvious forgeries,” he said. He flicked through the passport, looking Ben up and down. The photograph, Ben’s blue eyes staring straight at the camera under a long brown fringe, was an exceptionally clear likeness. Lassiter wouldn’t find anything amiss.
“I see you’ve been travelling,” Lassiter observed. “Korea, Japan and Dubai. What were you doing there?”
It was none of Lassiter’s business, but Ben didn’t mind answering. “Video game tournaments,” he said. “I make a living from eSports.” Perhaps Lassiter really had no idea. The policeman had always been a rugby player rather than a computer nerd. Since they left school, their paths hadn’t crossed.
Lassiter’s companion emerged from their vehicle. She was probably also in her early twenties, and a lot prettier than Lassiter, her hazel eyes dominating a pale, heart-shaped face. Wisps of dark hair escaped from a bun under her bowler hat. Lassiter would be showing off to her.
The policeman frowned. “I thought I told you to stay in there, Nat.”
“I wanted to stretch my legs,” Nat said.
Ben couldn’t help ogling them. Lassiter responded with a malicious stare.
“The Golf’s taxed and insured. Owned by Benjamin Michael Halloran,” Nat said. “I imagine that squares with the driving licence.”
“Yes, it does,” Lassiter conceded, with bad grace.
“Thought so.” She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “I googled the name as well. He won the car in a computer game tournament.”
At least she was behaving like an adult. She, for one, would understand the stamps on his passport, and might even know they didn’t match traditional drug supply lines. There was every chance she knew Lassiter was an idiot.
Lassiter scowled, returning the documents and fob. “Very well. Everything seems to be in order. Drive on.”
“Thanks, Kyle.” Ben was careful to sound more polite than he felt. Kyle Lassiter had the might of the Met on his side. Ben had no one.
He left the window open as he started the car, and had the uncertain pleasure of overhearing Nat say to Lassiter, “I don’t know why we had to stop him, Kyle. He seemed okay. A zaddy, even.”
Lassiter grunted. “When’s your eye test? You can’t trust a Halloran.”
The GTi pulled away swiftly. Ben parked in Hoxton Square a few minutes later; too soon for his liking. Although the encounter with Lassiter had been annoying, the forthcoming meeting with Vince invoked a deep sense of unease. Ben could handle Vince’s hipster pretensions and hot temper, but not the knowledge that everything they planned was a step further back to his father’s world.
Vince wasn’t in the bar yet. Ben bought a beer and found a table. Nearby, two pretty girls, a blonde and a redhead, were sipping cocktails. Ben’s mood lifted. Perhaps he could enjoy himself while he waited.
Chapter 7.
Kat
“I miss London bars,” Amy said. She beamed, scanning the cocktail joint in Hoxton, twisting a tendril of long red hair around her finger, and sipping a drink, all at the same time.
Kat laughed. “Changed your tune, haven’t you?” she said. “Ever since you moved there, you’ve been singing Birmingham’s praises.”
Amy blushed. “Brum has its advantages. Erik, for example.” He was Kat’s brother, and Amy’s partner.
“We could have brought him with us for the weekend. Or maybe not. Two’s company, three’s a crowd.”
“This pub is awesome. It’s really cheap.” Amy had homed in on a bar on Hoxton Square. The cocktail prices were scarcely higher than their local in Birmingham.
“It’s happy hour,” Kat said. “I prefer Charlotte Street - less gritty, and more central.” It was the lane of bars and boutiques in Fitzrovia, the London enclave just north of Soho, where she’d lived with Ross. Going out there was expensive, but it hadn’t mattered when he was paying.
“Still,
it’s nice of Dad to lend us his place,” Amy said. “Just as well it was free.” Having moved into his fiancée’s gracious house in suburbia, her father rented out his hip flat in Shoreditch. It was currently between tenants.
“It’s not a swanky hotel, but it’s better than his spare room in Primrose Hill,” Kat said. “Imagine that. All yummy mummies and baby sick there.”
“And little George waking up in the night,” Amy said. “He’s cute until he cries. Then I give him back.”
“No thanks,” Kat said, with a shudder.
“Dee’s turned into Bridezilla, too,” Amy said. “Don’t let me get lashed, Kat, because I’m seeing her to talk dresses tomorrow.” She beamed. “I always dreamed of being a bridesmaid. I never thought it would be at my father’s wedding.”
“How does your mum feel about it?”
“She’s not going. She doesn’t regret her divorce, but she says it’s weird to celebrate when he marries someone else.”
“Charles lucked out when he met Dee,” Kat said. “She must be loaded.”
“Yes, and it’s her first marriage, so it’s money no object. The hen weekend is a creative retreat in Greece. She’s paying my share. I couldn’t possibly afford it.”
“The wedding itself sounds really special. A whole day of drinking in an exclusive hotel. I’m looking forward to it already.”
“You earned your invitation. If you hadn’t badgered Dad to propose to Dee, there wouldn’t be a party at all,” Amy said.
“Why did they invite Marty, though? I can’t believe your dad has a soft spot for him.”
Amy shrugged. “They’re drinking buddies. I’m sure Marty will just use the occasion to network. Dee’s asked her business friends along, so he’ll be in good company.”
If Marty found more customers at the wedding, it wouldn’t do her any harm, Kat thought. Some of them might even buy Starshine. It was exciting to be making commercial quantities at last, but work as a solo distiller was proving to be exhausting. “Thanks for suggesting this weekend away,” she said. “I really need a break, especially in Cocktail Central.”
