Chapter 1: You Must Remember This

I will never understand what’s so nice about sports. I wish I did, but I just don’t get it. You wouldn’t sand and then paint your house just for fun, would you? Or volunteer to move a piano for anyone who asked? So how is that any different from running or badminton? Is it just the points you score? Seriously? Because it’s not like those buy you anything. They’re not Nectar points.

I suppose it could be about the cheap silver-plated cups. I mean, you can just order those online but some people are afraid of credit card theft. Seems like a roundabout way of getting them, though.

It’s not that I’m lazy. There’s probably just something wrong with my dopamine receptors. I only ever get tired and agitated, because I’m sweating and wasting my time. The runner’s high is not something I’ve ever even come close to experiencing, though that might also be because I tend to give up after about ten minutes: I keep imagining my meniscus slowly crumbling into a million pieces, one step at a time. Running can’t be good for a person, surely. Show me a runner (or any kind of athlete, really) and I will show you someone who has at least five hours’ worth of horrendous anecdotes about all the physical therapy he has received and how the one they’re with now is a ‘miracle worker’. If your hobby requires you to have miracles performed for your resurrection, may I suggest reading? Or stamp collecting?

I’m also not very competitive. So you can kick a ball, can you? Or get a shuttlecock past me? Well done. Now go do a lap of honour while I sit on this bench, reflecting on how much I hate changing rooms and the smell of sports halls. I hate everything about them: the smell of stale sweat. The equipment, all offering unique ways in which to break one’s spine. Plimsolls, or tennis shoes as Americans call them. Can’t stand those, or the sound they make on rubber floors. Communal showers, those are awful as well. I stopped using those as soon as I found out skipping showers after gym class only got me half an hour of detention. I never needed a shower anyway, because I didn’t exert myself in the slightest. Which didn’t make me very popular with my classmates, but that never bothered me too much. When math class came around they’d all want to be my mate again, copy off me.

The thing is: I’m a big guy. Not so much tall, but wide. Broad-shouldered. I looked fine until I was about eighteen, even though I couldn’t outrun a tired snail on crutches. Then I went through a rather dark period and gained about fifty kilos in five years. But the thing is: that’s exercise too, in a way. Could you make it through the day with a fifty kilogram backpack? I could. And I grew up in Holland, where we all ride bikes and where schools and universities really don’t bother with escalators. I was fit enough to make it through daily life, even if I sometimes had to watch a bus or a train pull out without me because I couldn’t run two hundred metres without blacking out. I gave badminton a go once and after four weeks I decided I really, really did not care for the company of people who got emotionally invested in something as stupid as badminton. And that was my sports career.

Well, that attitude came back to bite me in my early forties, after I’d had rather an eventful year. First I broke an arm and a rib. Recovering from that took ages. Then I dangled off of a bridge by my left arm for a few minutes, holding on to a young woman with my right arm. Didn’t do much for my ligaments, let me tell you. I followed that up the same day by doing a very physical comedy sketch, which required me to fall down a lot. And wouldn’t you know it, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back: three days later my back was sore, my left shoulder was swollen and I had more complaints than the Wailing Wall has bits of paper sticking out of it. My sister Kate and my wife Melody dragged me to a physical therapist and other assorted quacks (one of whom wanted me to throw a heavy ball at her at a rate of seventy pounds for half an hour) and eventually I ended up with a tailored workout to help me recover, supervised by my sister. There was no getting out of it, even though my own instinct was to just sit in a chair very quietly until the throbbing stopped.

And that is how, for the past three weeks, my routine had been to start the day by having a swim. I work for a PR firm called Keller & Fox. They have a very swanky office in Bayswater, one of the most expensive areas of London. It’s on Sussex Street, on the North side of Hyde Park. They also own several adjacent buildings, some connected by basement tunnels or glass walkways. And underneath one of those buildings is a very fancy gym, which includes a pool. The rich in London like to burrow, you see. Their houses aren’t that small to begin with, but apparently you really need your own indoor cinema, play room, man cave, wine cellar, safe room or indeed climbing wall to make life bearable if you’ve got a few million in the bank. And that’s why you can’t walk through Kensington, Chelsea or indeed Bayswater without seeing at least a few conveyor belts coming out of the basements of stately homes. The facades, with their doric columns, porticos and dentilled cornices remain untouched behind their imposing fences, but below street level it’s like a coal mine. Sometimes they bring in mini diggers, those small excavators with a hydraulic arm road workers use for digging trenches. These machines essentially dig their own grave, because after the job is done there’s no economical way to get them out again and so they’re just buried underneath the floor of the lowest level. Some of these houses plunge deeper into the earth than their actual height from street level. I don’t begrudge anyone an extra guest room, a sauna or some storage space, but you have to wonder why someone would want a private ball room. Seriously, how often do you have to host dances to make it worth a few million in subterranean construction costs? What’s this, nineteenth century Vienna?

The pool underneath this building wasn’t meant for parties: it was only three metres wide, but about twenty metres long and one and a half metres deep. This was a pool for doing laps, which was ideal for me. And even though the gym was open to all employees of Keller & Fox, it was understood that Mr. King really didn’t care for company during his swim. Each morning I would find the water perfectly still, a stack of fresh towels in the changing cabin and the underwater lights shimmering. I’d turn on the radio, tune it back to Classic FM, take off my suit and change into my swimming trunks. I’d take a shower, turning the mixing knob from thirty-seven to twenty-five degrees so as to get used to the cold and then I’d curse under my breath as I sat on the edge and lowered myself into the water. I’m not a morning person. Never have been. Being a night owl is a sign of intelligence, they say. But then they also say vaccines cause autism. They say a lot of stupid shit. If I were intelligent, I’d have stopped chasing that eighteen year old boy after he’d beaten the shit out of me the first time.

The first few days I couldn’t manage more than three or four laps. Not that I was in any danger of drowning if I went on, but my arms were sore and I just didn’t have the energy to do more. But that got better day by day and by now I could do ten laps easily, in just under fifteen minutes. That’s only four hundred metres, but given where I started from it wasn’t too shabby. Besides, this wasn’t the only part of my recovery: even though my job came with a chauffeur driven car, I would sometimes go home on public transport. It was half a mile on foot to Lancaster Gate Station and another half mile from Park Royal to my house on Dallas Road. And then after dinner, which I would prepare, either Melody or Kate would supervise my exercises: some weight lifting, some sit-ups, all kinds of annoying swinging motions with my arms, stuff like that. And afterwards there’d usually be sex, because that is the one thing I don’t mind breaking a sweat for. No matter how poor my stamina: I can fuck like a porn star. You may wonder what my sister Kate has to do with that, but in that case you are a bit late to this story and I would suggest starting from the beginning.

Even though I have the radio on as I swim, I can’t really hear the music over my own splashing about. That’s okay: I know most popular classical music by heart, so I only need to hear one or two bars for my memory to kick in and provide the rest. I just focus on the underwater lights to keep me on track. And that’s why I was more than a bit surprised to see two female feet in open, high heeled shoes when I came up just before a turn. It’s a sight I welcome, by the way. I stood upright and looked up at the owner of those feet. A tall, elegant woman dressed in a designer outfit stood at the edge of the pool, her arms crossed as she looked down at me.

“Hi Caroline!”

“Hello dear, don’t stop on my account. You’ve only done six laps so far.”

“Have you been here that long?” I asked, wiping the water from my face. I like Caroline. I call her my pet dragon, even though she’s my boss. Actually, she isn’t: I’m the director of a Keller & Fox subsidiary, called Scytale. And I’m also a director at Keller & Fox, albeit one without shares. It would be more accurate to say she outranks me. I’m fine with that, by the way. We’re friends, sometimes a bit more than friends, and she is one of the most amazing women you will ever meet. She’s also Godmother to my son, Edwin, and one of the most influential women on this planet that you’ve never heard of.

“That’s okay, I can take a break.”

She kneeled down, as if I were a slightly dim dolphin. Great legs. I wasn’t quite sure of her age, but based on the stories she sometimes told me I guess she was around fifty. She didn’t look it, not even from up close. Not that she looked like a thirty year old, either. Caroline has a timelessness about her. She’s in great shape, with the frame of a ballet dancer. Seriously, she could hide behind a lamp post if it weren’t for the hats she likes to wear. Her skin is incredibly light, but not pasty or pale. Her eyes, on the other hand, are nearly black. If she likes you they’re fine. If she doesn’t, a mere look will make you want to chew through your own wrists to get away from her. Her clothing budget is twice what Finland spends on suicide prevention, although you could argue it is better spent. And her accent is similar to mine, the difference being that I am an impostor.

“No dear, I want to see you swim and move about. I’m trying to get an idea of the status of your recuperation.”

“So you’re a doctor then, are you?”

I like to tease her. It’s my version of bungee jumping.

“No, obviously not. But I have been a professional dancer for half my life and I know a thing or two about injuries and the human locomotor system. So if you would?”

And so I did another lap, with her walking alongside me and peering into the water.

“Enough?” I asked, when I was back at the start.

“Do you usually do eight laps?”

“No, ten.”

“Only ten? Surely if you did ten yesterday, you can do eleven today?”

“Yes, but I am actually supposed to get some work done. That’s what you pay me for. I want to be out of here in fifteen minutes.”

“Give me fourteen laps. I can afford the extra five minutes.”

“FOURTEEN?”

She began to look impatient.

“Martin, I wish to asses your health. You are a company director, a company asset, a friend and the father of my Godson. Now, without stopping, please do the remaining laps. I’m asking nicely.”

She was, for her. And anyway, I knew I could do six more. It took me just under ten minutes and then I found her at the end of the pool, holding up a towel.

“It’s not quite James Bond emerging from the sea, is it?” she said, as I took the towel.

“Thanks very much.”

“I take it the Dormeuil has been relegated to the back of the closet? It can’t possibly fit you anymore.”

The Dormeuil Ambassador was a bespoke suit she once gave me as a present while we were in Japan together. I was measured in our hotel room and it came two days later, including extra pants and some tailored shirts. And she was right, I wouldn’t look very presentable in it right now. At the time I had just completed shooting Fatherland, my one and hopefully only Hollywood movie. I was in good shape, mainly because I was too distracted to eat. These days I had less going on and I was the cook of our household, so yes ... guilty as charged.

“I’d say ... one hundred kilos? Give or take?” she said as I towelled myself dry.

“I haven’t actually checked in a while,” I grumbled.

“No, of course not. Why would you? You were a clean ninety when you were fitted for the Dormeuil. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I was being generous just then, but I don’t actually need scales to know your weight. You’re one hundred and two kilos. Your left shoulder seems to be recuperating nicely, but your constitution is very, very poor.”

“Excuse me, I just did fourteen laps!”

“Yes, and you are panting like a dog. There’s barely any musculature, Martin. I hope you weren’t planning to have another rooftop fight to the death any time soon, because unless you’re fighting Her Majesty I don’t fancy your odds. In fact, the Prince of Wales could steal your lunch. How many sit-ups can you do?”

Just to get away from her I walked to the radio and turned it off.

“What, here? None. Can’t do it on tiled floors. Hurts too much. At home I can do ten.”

“Ten. That’s ... surprising.”

“I have been doing exercises, you know. Kate is making sure that I do.”

“And clearly she has managed to restore you to the condition of a forty-something endomorph with a sedentary lifestyle. Quite an achievement on her part.”

She followed me to the changing rooms.

“Excuse me, I’m going to get dressed now.”

“I shall avert my gaze, though it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. I seem to recall I am a member of the W.S.P., after all.”

The White Spot Club ... Don’t get me started on that. My friend Susan came up with that’s one. Trust me to befriend the only lesbian in existence with a sense of humour. Okay, Samantha is funny, too. But she’s bisexual so that doesn’t really count. Neither does Ellen DeGeneres, if you’re wondering.

“Look, you’ve had a look and you’ve had your say. I’m not up for a part as a body-builder. Right now I’m trying to recover from my injuries. When that’s done and Edwin stops driving Melody up the bloody wall maybe I shall find the peace of mind to lose some weight. In the meantime, the Dormeuil will have to wait.”

I stepped into one of the changing booths, not dissimilar to what you might find in a clothing store, and closed the sliding door. That didn’t stop her.

“You should find a sport, Martin.”

“I’ve tried that. I don’t like any of them. Well, I like sailing and jet skiing, but neither are conducive to losing weight.”

“That game we play ... The maze game...”

She was referring to Team Fortress 2, a computer game I played with my IT department every other Friday. One day Caroline had decided to join in, because she couldn’t stand the fact she found herself unable to socialize with a group of nervous computer geeks. She watched the game, asked hundreds of questions, poured soft drinks, distributed nachos and then asked me to install it on her office computer. Two weeks later she joined in as a pyro and tore us a collective new asshole.

Maybe I should briefly explain Team Fortress 2. There are two teams, each composed of up to eight players. There’s a blue team and a red team, but each side has the same characters, or ‘classes’: a scout, who is very fast but gets injured quickly. His opposite is the ‘heavy’, who can lug around a massive machine gun but isn’t very quick on his feet. Then there’s a soldier with a rocket launcher, a sniper, a medic (who can heal other characters and even make them temporarily invulnerable), a grenadier (called demolition man), a sneaky spy and a mechanic. The mechanic builds gun turrets and other useful devices. And then there’s the pyro, a maniac with a flamethrower...

He’s lethal at short range, but fairly easy to kill. I tend to favour the role of medic or mechanic, though I’ve played all classes for hours on end. Well, Caroline had focused on the pyro and by God, was she good! Or annoying, depending on which side she was on. She knew the arenas inside and out and endeared herself to our IT guys simply because of her dedication to the game. She had mastered a skill that was completely alien to her two weeks earlier, simply because she felt she should be able to get along with every department. If they wouldn’t join the Media Department for drinks, she’d join us for some multiplayer. And that’s Caroline Keller for you: an extraordinary woman. Also a complete and utter pain in the backside if she wasn’t on your team, which is also true in real life.

“Isn’t there a real life version of the maze game? With laser guns?” Caroline asked, as I was changing into my office clothes.

“Yes, there is. Laser Tag.”

“Well, do that! Lots of running around, that will do you good!”

“Ah, yes, but you see ... It’s more of a group thing. Bachelor parties and all that. It’s a bit pathetic to show up by myself as a middle-aged man to take on a group of students on an outing, or a gaggle of drunk bridesmaids.”

“I see. Such a pity. But would you be interested in that as a sport?”

I opened the door to make eye contact.

“Please don’t make those weedy hipsters from the Media Department take up Laser Tag just so I can get some exercise. They’ll only trip on their designer beards or overheat from wearing woolly hats indoors. Please? Now I’m the one asking nicely.”

“Suit yourself, dear,” she shrugged. Clearly I had read her mind. To distract me from this minor victory she knocked on the door.

“Don’t do your tie, dear.”

“Oh, I was nearly done,” I lied. Caroline can’t help herself. She has to do men’s ties, even when they’re on perfectly straight.

“Liar. You’d never do your tie before your trousers. So how is Edwin?”

“It’s a struggle,” I sighed, buttoning my shirt. “He’s teething, he’s having a hard time getting used to solid food ... Mel looks as white as...”

I was going to say ‘as you’, but thought better of it. “ ... a sheet.” Melody, my wife, is dark-skinned. Coffee and cream, to be precise. Mocha, if you will. She’s absolutely gorgeous, although having to look after our son had aged her by about five years so far. I did my bit, obviously, but at the end of the day she’s his mother and he just won’t stop crying when it’s only me holding him. She had a hard time letting others take care of him, which took its toll on her.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Still, he’s very welcome to come and stay with Peter and me.”

I opened the door and handed her my silk tie.

“I know. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Oh but you must go!” she said, looping it around my neck. “Elton always has the place ready, the weather is lovely right now ... You really should go.”

She was referring to a trip to Rome Melody and I wanted to take. We were married in September of 2014 but still hadn’t had our honeymoon yet. Edwin was just too young to bring along.

“I know. But in the end it’s not up to me. And I’m not staying in Elton John’s Palazzo, or whatever it is. I’ve seen it on TV. It’s where taste goes to die. Besides, paparazzi must be keeping an eye on it and I want some peace and quiet this time. I’ll make my own booking when we’re ready. Hey, I have a job applicant coming in at two. Are you available?”

“No dear,” she said, focussing on some exotic knot I’d never be able to do myself. “Peter and I are taking a first aid course this afternoon.”

“Really? I thought you knew first aid.”

There’s an annual company-wide refresher course. I’d been to the last one, which took two days. They don’t mess about and Caroline is in there with us, on her knees, pounding the life out of that dummy. Do regular first aid courses address gunshot wounds, by the way? Ours does. And stabbings. And overdoses. In fact, it focusses on those more than, say, sprained ankles. Well, we are in show business after all.

“This is a specialist course for infant first aid. As Edwin is coming to stay with us, unless you keep putting off your trip. Stand still for Pete’s sake!”

“Wait, wait, wait ... You’re doing a special first aid course because my son is coming over for a few days?”

“Yes. And I’m having the builders in to childproof the doors. You sometimes hear how their fingers get stuck in the hinges, or how they get into the medicine cabinet.”

She practically shuddered thinking about that and messed up the knot.

“He can’t even walk yet.”

Caroline took her role as Godmother very seriously. Actually, we didn’t put her in charge of overseeing Edwin’s religious upbringing, because we’re atheists. It’s just a nice word and we did ask her to take on the role of guardian in case anything happened to Mel and me. My own parents are getting on a bit, you see. In daily life we treat her like she’s his aunt and she relishes the role.

“Well I imagine he’ll suss that one day. He’s a bright lad. There ... perfect Eldredge.”

“What?!”

There was a mirror on the wall behind her, so I leaned to the side. My necktie now had a knot with a sort of tapered, sort of ... fishtail ... braid-like effect. Amazing.

“I was going to do a fishbone but that’s best suited for taller gentlemen. Anyway, as your new hire will be for the IT department, I really don’t think I’ll have much to add. Unless he wants to discuss the maze game.”

“She. It’s a she.”

“Really? Wonderful. Where did you find her?”

“Job agency listing, where else?”

We were done here and made our way to the exit. Behind a big window I saw two young men on exercise bikes, watching a TV mounted on a wall. Apparently there had been some sort of collision involving double decker busses. It looked nasty. I saw lots of blue lights and they had set up a screen to shield off the incident. Terrible. It’s one of the reasons I don’t watch the news much.

“And what do we know?” asked Caroline, as we walked towards the lift.

“Uhm ... Mother of two. Works at a school. Wants to do more programming. Lives in Barnet. Loves to bake cakes.”

“Oh dear, that’s not going to help your diet. Well, I shall trust your judgment. Those boys won’t know what hit them, having a female colleague.”

“You really don’t want to meet her?”

“No, dear. Your department, your budget, your decision. As long as you follow our HR guidelines I’m sure it will be fine.”

She stepped into the lift and smiled until the doors closed. I took an underground tunnel to an adjacent building and started my day. A special first aid course to deal with children ... I was going to have to tell Melody about that. And then she’d sigh, cry because she felt like a bad mother for not having thought of that and sign us up for one. Poor thing. She hardly got any time to herself as it was.

I try to avoid the news. Given that I work behind a computer with an internet connection that’s rather difficult, but mostly I manage. I understand a responsible citizen should be aware of what goes on around him, so he can cast a considered vote when the time comes, but as I was now living in a two-party state with a ‘first past the post’ electoral system, I no longer saw the point of that. Labour always wins in London, anyway. The margin is so big that my vote really doesn’t matter.

There’s also the fact this barrage of news gives us a warped sense of how dangerous the world really is. I’m really sorry to hear about, say, an awful bus crash in Switzerland or a big fire in Australia. But just because it’s possible to get that news to me in a matter of minutes, with clear pictures and live video reports, does not mean I should know about it. A fire or a crash half a world away does not impact me in the slightest. All it does is make me perceive the world as cruel and dangerous, when statistically speaking it’s safer than ever. It’s just that there are never any live reports from when the fire department showed up within three minutes to put out a small fire, or how the anti-lock brake system on a bus kicked in exactly when it was supposed to so that thirty school children came home safe and sound. And that happens all the time.

If it bleeds, it leads. I’m not sure I agree with that philosophy. Did you know they found a type of seaweed that, if mixed in with cow feed, can reduce methane emissions from cattle by ninety percent? That’s awesome. That’s exactly what we need. But I guess you missed that, because some idiot ran away from the police and they showed the chase on live TV for an hour and a half.

Still, the news is often inescapable. And so even though I was trying to do my job, which included reading Slashdot, skimming a white paper on network security and placing a call to our human resources department in preparation for my interview, I learned that some maniac had gotten on a London bus and detonated himself on the top deck, killing himself and three others. Because Jonathan from HR apparently felt it necessary to ask every person he spoke with today if they knew anyone who had been on that bus. Even me. There are 19,000 bus stops in London, served by over 9,000 buses. More than two billion individual trips are made annually. A bomb could go off on a bus every day and it would still be safer than driving to work by car.

“Wouldn’t want to be on that bus,” said Jonathan, even though I had announced I had all the information I needed twice now.

“No? You wouldn’t want to be on a bus with a suicide bomber?” I said, trying out this thing called sarcasm I’ve been hearing good things about.

“Hell no. I’d be out of there like a shot!”

“You do understand explosions aren’t all in slow motion, right? That’s just on TV. You can’t outrun one. It’s literally over before you realise it.”

“Yeah but I mean, when some shifty looking guy comes on ... wearing a turban...”

“That’s a Sikh.”

Apparently he thought I had launched into an impression of Super Mario or something, because he answered with an enthusiastic:

“Yeah, that’s sick, right!”

“No ... a SIKH. One of the most decent religions you could hope to find. They wear turbans. Well, the men do. And you don’t want to make them angry, historically speaking, but they tend not to be suicide bombers. Or terrorists. So don’t worry about turbans.”

“Yeah but I mean, when they wear them white shirts. Djellabas or something.”

I sighed.

“I think you’re referring to a thawb or a disdasha and I’ve never seen anyone in London wearing them, except really old men on their way to Aldi. They’d stand out a mile. Hijackers and terrorists wear jeans and a shirt, like everyone else. They want to blend in. That’s the idea.”

Jonathan suddenly seemed to remember his place in the chain of command.

“Yes, Mr. King. Of course. Well, do let us know if we can assist you further.”

“Thank ... Hang on, did you just call me Mr. King?!”

“Uhm ... Yes?”

“You work in HR! You of all people should know my real name!”

“Yes, but ... I don’t call Elton John Mr. Reggie Dwight, do I? All the world knows you as either Mr. King or Mr. Carstairs.”

I sighed. I do that a lot.

“I suppose you’re right. Thank you Jonathan.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. uhm ... vanday ... kessi ... cashew...”

“Oh, don’t bother!”

Slamming a phone down was a lot more fun thirty years ago, when they had some heft to them and the mechanical bell inside would give a satisfying ‘ding!’

My real name is Martin van de Casteele. The name is Flemish in origin, but I am Dutch. Because I have at one point in my life been an actor, I have a stage name. I didn’t pick it, but one of the requirements of ‘Equity’, the UK trade union, is to have a unique name. My sister picked this one. She did that because she is Kate Castle, one of the most important asset managers of Keller & Fox. Castle is not the name of her husband, but the English shorthand she uses for her Dutch name. That’s how we managed to hide the fact we were related for a while. Why we wanted to hide that has various reasons, but nepotism is one of them. So I’m King, but not really, and she’s Castle, but not really. And I’m also Carstairs, a character I play from time to time. He’s a butler.

I am both an ‘asset’ of Keller & Fox and one of their three managing directors, albeit the one without any shares in the company. For the time being I’m in charge of the IT department, although I am also the managing director of Scytale, a Keller & Fox subsidiary. Wow, two jobs? Well, to be honest: Scytale doesn’t take up more than an hour or so per week. I developed a piece of event ticketing software, which we license. But it works, so there’s not much to do. In fact, we get paid mostly for NOT using our software. Look, this is what you get for reading someone’s private journals and then not even bothering to start at part one, okay?

The IT department of Keller & Fox is the backbone of the organisation, although plenty of people get by without a spine perfectly well so that’s not saying much. The agency represents artists, writers, composers, dancers and various other suspicious characters. Not only do we arrange their bookings and handle their PR, but we also save their asses when they do something stupid that might damage their reputation. We also make sure they honour their commitments: artists signed up to Keller & Fox show up when agreed and perform as best they can. If not, people like Kate step in and unleash a bout of hellish fury that would make Muhammad Ali wet his keks. (Oh, you should know that even though I am Dutch I take a particular delight in using British idiom.) If you’re an asset and Keller & Fox guarantees your appearance, you will show up even if we have to perform taxidermy on your coked-up corpse and animate you like a muppet.

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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