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Sherm Donor
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Category:
Drama
Publisher: ShearArt
ISBN-10: 1497593565
Type: Fiction
Pages: 357
Copyright: March 14, 2014
ISBN-13: 9781497593565
Price: $3.72 (eBook)
Original in a fun way that will keep you engaged throughout the late night hours
How far would you go to help the people you love?
A cynical, famous underwear model, and infamous international sports personality, despondent and guilt ridden because of a terrible mistake, finds redemption from helping the Streakers who ruined his chances of a world record.
After moving in with this bunch of dysfunctional guerrilla marketeers he discovers all isn't what it seemed and finds out his life is being controlled by his estranged mother from beyond the grave.
His mother is also the patron of a large pawn brokers and the Streakers Matriarch who believe her absence is temporary. It soon becomes apparent to Ashley she has left him with no choice but to help them move on with their lives and come to terms with her untimely death.
Ashley has made enemies too. He is viciously attacked, sent threatening message, and attempts are made to destroy him in the media - both professionally and personally. With his new house mates by his side, they must discover and deal with his pursuer Streaker style.
Excerpt
Chapter One
For Shaun it all started on a bright, Saturday morning, sat at a stainless steel table, foot tapping el fresco in front of Joe’s café, Greenwich high road. A big issue newspaper rolled up in one hand, and a frothy latte held firmly in the other. Shaun carried the guilty expression of a slouching dog, deep in thought about his precarious situation.
Saturday retail workers filled the pavements striding towards the station at the end of the road. This was meant to be the start of the return journey up North, his failed attempt at a new life in London, beat him down to the clothes on his back.
His only possession of value left was his grandfather’s Timex, the one thing so far, hadn't let him down and that's including him. But Shaun's an optimist and some would say a Polly-Anna optimist, often biting off more than he could chew.
He doesn't blame anyone else for his predicament and viewed his defeat as a retreat to fight another day. Still, for every adversity there's a greater or equal opportunity and unbeknown to Shaun he was staring at his from across the road.
This particular edifice like so many in Greenwich had been changed, reformed and reinvented. The building was colossal with thirty five rooms on four floors built around the 1830’s. Most of the time spent as a hotel and corner pub with red brick string courses above panels of ceramic faced bricks. The windows spanned with arched tops, cast with painted stucco.
A sign loomed over the three brass balls of the Pawn broker. Traditionally written with a dark green background and gold lettering it read: KLEPTOMANIACS.
That morning had a delicious chill as Shaun cupped his hands around the coffee mug. He was fascinated by a woman cleaning the windows from within the building. The next day after the royal wedding, sales for self-tanning products skyrocketed, a reaction to seeing the English socialite, "Pippa" Middleton.
But not this woman, even if she had seen the event, she would staunchly prefer to remain a typical English beauty, with a milk-and-roses complexion, big pansy brown eyes, which had experienced well over fifty years of life, and an extremely interesting one. She was immodestly dressed in a red chequered dressing-gown wrapt with a yellow scarf as she continued to clean the shop windows.
The lady clutched her gown together in the middle stopping her breasts from spilling out. She had piled her long strawberry blond hair atop her head, held in place with another yellow scarf, tastefully matching the one around her waist.
She seemed to beckon him in-between window smears. He raised his eyebrows compelled to find out what she wanted, and how this intriguing person knew he was waiting for the shop to open.
Shaun hated not being able to afford to leave a tip for the waiter, don’t look back he thought, as he scuttled across the road, darting in-between the traffic gaps. He slowly pushed the door open as if not wanting to draw attention to himself, but it jarred from the swollen, damp timber.
He half cringed awkward, embarrassed to be in the shop skint as the ringing bell jingled, reminiscent of a corner sweet shop from the seventies, he had seen on the TV, in fact he instantly felt like he'd walked through a portal in time, the smell of the place comforting, nostalgic.
A sweet sounding voice came from the belly of the shop, "I'll be with you in a mo' Love."
At that moment, at that failed pathetic point in his life, a warm safe mum-like person was here to welcome, save, tell him well done or everything was okay.
To the right of the door the wall was dominated by a mural where a masked Scaramouche, from the 1952 film, swung on a tassel rope from a Parisian theatre balcony, steel rapier in one hand. At the side of this massive wall painting Ivy trees climbed up and along the plaster moulding.
Dominating the centre of this large room was a rotund bar from its public house days.
Starting on the left and curving around to the right, once timber varnished, now painted a silvery grey. The small kitchen in the back led out into a yard. A skinny black man wearing a dusty red tracksuit and Martindale dust mask, rubbed down with sand paper, a sparkly fab 50s fandango cocktail bar.
On the other side of the room the once public toilets had been demolished adding more room for shelving and a display area. Where the access to the public bar used to be was now a wrought iron security gate.
On top of the bar, more iron-art scroll work spanned the full length, painted black, and doubling up as a security grill. In the middle a section was left clear for handing over small pieces. Across most of the wall space hung bespoke wooden display shelves with items for sale in no particular order: a violin next to a Basil Brush puppet, and a copy of Jas de Bouffant by Paul Cézanne.
Half a 1970's red VW beetle jutted out the wall with seating in the front boot--target audience, forty year old men with caves.
Behind the bar were shelves of laptop computers, various electrical items and gold and silver jewellery, saxophones and electric guitars. Most things were waiting for their owners to return, and on occasion they did.
Shaun ran his fingers over a rack of Lady Killer TCB, Elvis Sunglasses and an ornament which caught his interest; he pocketed with the compunction and speed of a monkey from Assam Indian, and moved around to another stand. Almost without thinking he lifted a crisp packet, pulled opened and crammed a bunch in his mouth. He spied with delight an item, which he slipped deftly into his denim jacket pocket.
A sound behind him of steel scrapping against rock stopped him, a flash in front of his face, and a sharp pain in his neck. The quickness of her hand deceived his eye. He stood frozen, was this Coup de grâce he thought, and stiffened even more, not daring to move he raised his hands. His eyes slowly slued around following the shiny steel blade. Suddenly, she pulled the sword from his throat, spun full circle like a gladiator and stopped at his protruding Adams apple, scathing skin.
"You took four things; tell me what the items were, the cost and whatever it is you're eating?"
Hesitating in wide eyed shock, he pushed out the half macerated stolen crisps with his tongue onto his chin. Glad he had just used the toilet or his already stained underpants would have a fresh load.
"What and why?" she repeated, more tempered.
"I hadn’t eaten for days." He emptied the residue off his chin into one of the packets. "Crisps cheese and onion, I think, I picked the ones out of date because I thought they were heading for the bin. I stole these for my grandmother, a gift."
He held up a chain of rosary beads and a Madonna. She lowered the sword and screwed her freckled nose in disbelief.
"What?"
"My grandmother," he repeated.
"Why?’
"She raised me, I call her mum, figured it'll be nice when I hit home."
She leant on the sword drumming her fingers on her chin and looked him up and down. From her body language he could tell she believed him.
"I’m sorry I…"
She interrupted, "I know this doesn’t seem real to some people, like a toy shop. The sign has a subliminal effect."
The lady seemed to take the blame for his felonious behaviour. She turned her back, "Anything else?" He shook his head in consternation and quickly pulled out a home pride figure and placed it back on the shelf, more nostalgia. She eyed him in the reflection of a 1970's Coca Cola mirror and smiled.
He asked her what her name was and she glanced up at an old sign that used to be part of the pub, read: The Rose. She held her hand out after drying them on her dressing gown. Her eyes widen at the sight of bandages on his wrist.
Rosie, as we will refer to her at the moment, was born in Blackheath in the 50’s to a home maker and architect. In her rebellious days she had been arrested twice for public nuisance before finishing Bedingbridge School for young ladies, she met Earl St John at university. They married and had only one child, some say was conceived well before wedlock, and enjoyed 15 years of marriage from his father’s estate in Chislehurst.
When disaster struck, her marriage ending in a savagely expensive divorce, her son sent away and last she would see of him. Rosie lifted Shaun’s arm so gentle and eyed his wristwatch.
"I can't afford it, worth too much."
What, he thought, worth nothing. She answered after reading his reaction.
"Worth more than money, when was the last time you ate – a proper meal?" Shaun looked down at the floor still embarrassed and changed the subject.
"How did you know I was waiting to come in here?"
"You've been spinning that watch around your finger and staring over at the shop for an hour, and a few other things, that accent, the fact you're wearing three jumpers and two pairs of trousers. The only thing missing is a scruffy dog and a cardboard sign."
Shaun cringed ashamed at his predicament again.
"You leaving London," she asked, "sit down."
He pondered two chairs, one comfortable, the other a stool. He chose the wooden stool.
"Yeah, I'm trying to get the bus fare together."
"Why did you choose the chair?"
Shaun can't keep up with her questions.
"Although the chair's a Portobello Ercol and worth a lot of dough, the stool, which is Queen Ann, still has a label tied to its leg with, for repair in red ink."
"What about that piece over in the corner, the table?" asked Rosie, intrigued.
Shaun studied for a moment. "Ebony Victorian renaissance revival centre table and 4 side chairs."
She lifted up a framed painting and passed it to him. He mooched over the canvas like he was an expert. Shaun had no clue about paintings; he only knew furniture types because he used to help his granddad clear out houses on the weekends before he passed away two years ago.
"Oil on canvas, the colours are… it’s a fake, they have tried to add age, to achieve Craquelure by applying varnish at unequal drying times called crazing."
She takes back the painting knowing full well he was blagging - she liked his effete.
"Come on sell me. What are your super powers and how would they benefit this business."
"This place or have you other things in mind?"
Good question, she thought. Shaun noticed her gown had come open revealing her tight stomach and cleavage spilling out over a blue lacy bra; he whips his eyes away, too late, captured.
She pulled her dressing gown closed, smiled and said, "Only flesh darling, you'll have to get used to it in this house." Shaun smirked, his face red from embarrassment.
"There’s a room upstairs with your name attached, but you have to bring more than the rent to the table, we work together here. Obviously you're not prepared to do anything illegal above petty theft or you wouldn’t be running back up north. We believe in keeping things legal and ethical, however, are you willing to bend the rules, just a little?" She makes a pincer gesture with her finger and thumb.
"I can learn and listen."
"Good because that’s rule number one, don’t question, do, pull your weight and try hard to impress, right."
She tapped him on the leg for him to stand. "See the handsome fella in the back ask him what needs to be done, breakfast is at 930. The rest of them will be here by then. I’m Lady G, or simply G, you’ll know when you can start calling me Rosie."
Shaun reprieved and lucky, had he by chance found opportunity knocking he wondered, or the beginning of some twisted indentured servitude? Who cares, for now it’s the best offer he has had since he hit the big smoke.
Lady G never asked for anything from one individual, it would always be as a group or she'd give a suggestion motivating one of them to volunteer. She declined until the one she thought should volunteer came forward. So years later, one day, when she pulled Shaun to one side and asked if he would help her with her son, as she was going away for some time. It was a double shock.
First, she had a son, a well-known, and unfortunately at times, an infamous son, and second, he was living in the same municipality. Also she gave Shaun the honour of knowing her plan for her son first, but that was how she was, asking you specifically to make her a cup of tea, felt special.
Shaun didn’t know at the time she had asked everyone in the house the same request. Adding, all of them will find themselves if they achieve this one task. That was the last thing she would ever ask of them. So they braced for their biggest challenge yet.
Chapter Two
Marriott hotel, in the London Borough of Richmond upon Thames, is a luxurious 4-star accommodation offering 156 fully equipped bedrooms and easy access to Twickenham Stadium.
Shaun pressed his shoulder up against Nadine as they stagger with a modicum of dignity, holding in their laughter. They canoodled down a long plush carpeted corridor, stopped to swipe a chrome security lock and paused to spy on a muscular, heavy man, Ashley. His smile framed athletic handsome with faint traces of a pugilist, he bent down, slipped a piece of folded white paper under a door.
Shaun and Nadine regarded him with intrigue, and then faced each other, sharing twisted smiles, connivance. Both dressed in evening wear and could be mistaken for models, although Shaun was starting to lose his edge.
Another woman, Yanna, a year older than Nadine at 25, dragged a silk shawl lagging behind; a thinly strapped white dress clung to her slim, but in front-of-the-queue in all the desirable places, body. Her blue eyes sparkle from too much champagne using one hand to push herself off the wall, trying to maintain equilibrium, still maintaining the posture of a tall, blond, model cat-walking down a Milan runway.
She spotted Ashley and perked into a stride passing him. He barely acknowledged her, for that to be, with this stunning beauty, he must have more than an overcast, shadowy soul.
Shaun and Nadine fell into their room, followed by Yanna. Ashley concentration focused, continued his paper posting at various doors from a list. Stopped at one door and pushed it open.
Light flicked from within as a 42" flat screen TV fixed to the wall, pumped out hip hop from a music channel. Ashley squinted at several small pieces of paper that cluttered the floor - obviously delivered in the same way.
He scooped them up. A black leather suitcase was open on a chair. Two empty red bull cans squeezed flat next to a large dumbbell on the timber effect laminated dresser. Ashley lifted the 50kg of weight and pumped his guns in-between pulling of his suit jacket. He threw his black trousers onto the edge of a king-size bed, kicked off his underpants and dived amongst charcoal coloured silk sheets, hunched up the pillows for support and arranged the square papers, matching them as if playing patience.
He pointed a remote control and clicked off the noisy plasma. Ass bounced off the mattress, sifting through the notes with an air of tension. He sprung up off the bed, still reading and paced up and down on a plush Oriental style rug seriously considering the information, stopped and focused on one.
The note read: 'This should be candid, so I’ll get to the point. Your best work is when you calm down, as a team it’s to our advantage to have you on the pitch, being sent off is no good...' He screwed it up, and read another...'While this is anonymous, thought I’d take this opportunity. What’s your fucking problem? Tighten up! Supposed to be a tight unit, I know you have personal troubles but, sort yourself out. Good luck with the record tomorrow.'
He tossed the note on the floor next to a waste-paper bin festooned with paper balls. Squats on the bed, rubs his hair, stands, pulled off his T-shirt, collected the papers and straightened them out for another read. A breeze swirled in from an open window, a plastic cover fluttered revealing a pressed suit hanging on a hanger from the bathroom door, pocket emblazoned with a red rose.
Ashley stood at the window naked, surveyed Twickenham Stadium below. This is the home of England rugby with seating for an impressive 82,000 spectators, and the largest dedicated rugby union venue in the world. All of a sudden it occurred to Ashley he was visible to the outside, instinctively covered his genitals and recoiled back into the room.
The next day, the same red rose on Ashley's jacket was on the pumped chests of a line of blood, sweat and muddied white England shirts. As they Spiralled the ball to each other moving forward.
In pursuit, the recognizable shirts of the New Zealand all blacks. Snarling and snorting through a sprint, Ashley leaped and crashed down across the touch line. The crowds anxiety released with a raw, the score board showed a tie, the last minutes remaining of the match.
Bodies piled on top of him, he flexed up, mauled and pummelled, he stretched his neck to glimpse through the mass of muscular thighs where the goal posts were and smiled at his placement centre left. A burly hand grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him from the suction of the mud. He spun around and feigned a head-butt at a steaming, sweaty mass of Maori muscle, but the potential tussle was quelled. Conservative pats on his back by his team mates as he was led away, phlegmatic.
From a press box, high up on the third tier, east side, a wiry gray haired commentator, pinched faced and hunched, spoke through his microphone in a hushed and nasally tone, adding effect for his listeners.
"One kick away from victory here at Twickenham and for this player, one kick away from a world conversion record, possible the most important moment of his entire Rugby career, we are talking about the difference between disaster and complete triumph, the crowd are so quite you can hear a pin drop as most people cringe and cover their eyes, in fact, I don’t think I can watch and I’m getting paid to do so."
Ashley placed the ball on his sand tee, stretched his powerful, Herculean leg on his back foot, lined up for a conversion. He placed his hand over his heart almost as a solute and hesitated. The clock ticks, a pin clangs on the floor.
Ashley's heart pounded in his chest and ears, sweat stung his eyes. There was a creeping fear growing inward, he self-talked it away with positive can dos and thoughts…
This was the most defining moment of his life and will square him off, a perfect record. It’s his job, his destiny. Deep breathe, and it’s his god given right and what better way to finish his Rugby career.
Out of thirty successful kicks, this has got to be the easiest and placed by yours truly, they will love him up. Kiss his forehead and in the after party. His toes are moments away from having female breasts squeezed into them in the dressing room party. Later his fiancée is going to declare him champion and set a date for their wedding.
He is going to live happily ever after in his own shriek style fantasy the king of his personal bog world. From here on his life will consist of fantastic sex with his model-actress wife and all he has to do in the future is tell the kids to listen to their mummy and brush up on his sailing and golf skills.
Bang! He woke from his day-dream… Screams and shouts in his peripheral vision, he’s not sure which came first, the feeling of his ear being flicked or the crowed shock in unison.
"Saint Christopher! What the hell?" The commentator shouted and spat at his microphone.
A commotion behind Ashley disrupted his focus, something flicked his lobe. Flashing white buttocks, a naked man streaked past him, scooped up the ball and proceeded to run with it, taunting. The volume seemed to be turned up. Another Streaker, female, blasted across the pitch, chased by a helmet fumbling Policeman. On the Streaker’s backs, penned advertisements: Poker online dot com, Kleptomaniacs Pawnbrokers Greenwich.
Ashley unable to contain his rage, in pursuit, stretching and pumping his legs as fast as possible, the adrenalin injected hatred was not enough to catch up with the naked fella, holding his record breaking, life defining ball. It’s like the recurring rubber fist nightmare where he fights an inferior opponent punching him without any effect and the man just standing there laughing.
He squeezed out more effete, kicked up a notch sprinting as hard as possible, his chest pounding, he snatched at the Streaker missing him by millimetres. The sound of the crowd visceral and distorted, he dived with bestial ferocity, crashing him to ground. He punched, elbowed and stamped on the now unconscious Streaker as rage enveloped him he bent his head up at the sky and screamed, "Why."
A herd of rhinos, comprising of players and the Police lashed out in a tidal wave of angry wind-milling arms, clawing Ashley back to the ground, stopping him from killing the naked man, still holding HIS BALL. The female Streaker’s expression of revulsion on her captivating face, and her large boobs, are the last Ashley remembered as he ate the muddied pitch, smitten.
Chapter Three
Ashley wasn't too fazed by the urine-whiffing, graffiti-gouged police cells he stayed in all Sunday or the fact they wouldn’t give him bale. Insisting he go to court first thing Monday morning to hear, at least, the charges. He didn’t even mind having to share the cell with two TWOCers from Deptford; in fact, he now knows how to break into a BMW 5 series and bypass most car alarms fitted before 2002.
What narked him was the ridiculous amount of blood thirsty press waiting for him. Ashley was now the latest sensation on YouTube, stood in between two columns outside the court house, like Samson with a new trim, feeling helpless, still wearing his team blazer.
He stepped down the stone steps into a frenzy of camera crews. Press reporters fought to thrust their microphones with a volley of aggressive questions and annoying rapidity into Ashley and his solicitor.
The doddering old Brief, who had now had his photo op, was helped into a black Bentley limousine by his muscular chauffeur, leaving Ashley, who for a second was stuck for words and then ironically quoted one of his favourite Frenchman, Éric Cantona.
"Don’t you lot think I’ve thrown you enough sardines."
Jeers and angry protestations from the restive crowd as a Policeman usher and urge him to get into the limo.
Ashley's solicitor, pinstriped and quaffed, effeminate and camp, ensconced in the black leather seating, inserting a cigarette into a gold holder. He opened his thin lips to speak, pauses, then…
"Interesting, seems like yesterday chasing you around your mother’s garden with a hairy spider, a terrified skinny boy, now look at you."
He squints as he presses a remote to turn on a TV screen, a news report.
The news reporter, a woman in her early twenties, holds on to her brown hair from blowing across her pretty face, stood outside the gusty court-building. She clasps the microphone close to her mouth. "They have just left the court house in what could be described as another controversial moment, representatives of England’s fly half expressed extreme regret; a formal comment has been released on his my-face page. Meanwhile, the viral release of the whole episode has broken all records in the millions. An undisclosed fee for the interview has been offered to this habitual Streaker, himself teetering on a Guinness book...
Solicitor turned off the TV.
"This chap’s probably going to sue you for everything--including your inheritance."
Ashley flicked up his white shirt collar, knotted up his blue and red tie in to a full Windsor. The solicitor dropped a letter on his lap.
"I was going to post it, but seeing as you are here it's just confirmation of our telephone conversation and details of her death. I've had the contents translated."
Ashley folded the envelope in half and slipped it into his back pocket.
"When are you going to come and see me about that, been over three weeks."
Ashley ruffed up his hair and ran his hands over his face with a sigh.
"Not now... she’s only been gone," he pulled hard at the back of his hair and spun it into a ponytail, "not yet."
"Don’t you think running away from this, bottling everything up, is part of your anger problem?"
Ashley grasped the door handle like a brow beaten housewife in mid domestic, escaping from the inevitable fight about to happen.
"Stop the car... Stop!" Ashley shouted.
He leapt out, the solicitor switched down the window. Ashley placed his hand on top of the car, leaning in, listening.
"Advising you as an old friend of your mother, God rest her, get help. You’re on your own now, I’m tired and retiring. This is your mum's account and my last."
He prodded a newspaper at him, headline read: 'Psycho strikes again. Mr Nasty’s latest victim is crippled for life'.
"I know you think I should waste time on finding out what happened to her," he paused. "Look my life may not be perfect but, I enjoy my rugby and my fiancée… loves me, that's more than enough."
"Nice, but is it, what about your daughter. Have you any interest in the knowledge of her whereabouts?"
Ashley shot him an ambiguous glance, which changed to a greeted teethed retort.
"Not necessary for you to instil guilt. I got self-talked for that," he said, his tone sharpening to an edge.
"Yes, just like your mother, and that is the most worrying." His voice dropped a few decibels, "look, come see me at my office. We have very important things to discuss. She's left you a lot of information." He placed a creepy skeletal hand on Ashley’s arm.
Ashley uncomfortable with this pulled away. He remembered how much money this guy had made off his parent's divorce. Echoed around the halls of the old bailey, a record amount, he was the only one who benefited his cheesy grin on the cover of law review.
"I'm not ready yet, and for the record, as a child it wasn’t the scary spiders that motivated me to run from you."
Ashley hit the top of the Limo, an indication for the driver.
He started to walk away, spins around and knocked hard on the window, jogging alongside. The tinted glass slid down and a plume of smoke smothered his face before dispersing in the wind.
"Fifteen years, fifteen of the best years of my achievements and I receive a call saying she’s dead, no why, no how. I’ve not started to think about it yet, but rest assured I’m not letting her just get away with what she did, death is not suddenly going to be the statute of limitations."
Ashley stopped and curved both hands up to his mouth like a horn. "I got some new time on my hands," he shouts, as the limo sped off.
Ashley rounded the corner into park row muse and seemed to brighten, his step picked up.
A cobbled road patch repaired with tarmac, tight squeeze between uniform rows of indistinguishable dwellings, apart from the odd personal touch and colour change, brass knobs on solid black doors. The 18th century, Victorian muse houses dried out from the downpour an hour ago. The sky now clear of clouds, blue shined between the satellite dishes and peppered brick chimney stacks.
As he approached number seventeen, he slowed to caution and threw his hands up to his unshaven face.
"Please not my motor."
Classic black Porsche 356, rugby football sticking out the smashed windscreen, body work, splashed in graffiti expletives. He rhythmically knocked at the door. Perforated cream net curtains flared through an open sash window from the second floor.
Ashley shouted, "Sarah no keys!"
Two black plastic bin bags flew out of the window and splashed down in a shallow puddle, but stay intact.
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