An Exclusive Chapter from an aspiring novelist

As the summer gets into full swing and A Level exams are a thing of the past, so begins the detailed planning of a novel idea, that up until now has been drafted in the memo section of an out of date iPod. 18-year-old Jordan Edwards is an aspiring novelist from a small town in North Wales and has begun the next step in deriving a novel from his interests in business and politics. Take a sneak peek at the opening chapter of this corporate thriller and be just as hooked as I was!

CHAPTER I

Had one gentleman not decided to depart one of London’s tallest buildings via the seventy­fourth floor that day, perhaps Arthur Marshall might’ve made it home for dinner. The moment he saw the roadblocks and police barricades surrounding his office’s headquarters, he realised that he wouldn’t stand a chance of arriving for his wife’s homemade stew unless he left his chauffeur­driven Mercedes Benz and opted for the claustrophobic rush hour Jubilee line.

The so­called ‘jumpers’ got on his bloody nerves. How selfish must a man be for their final intention to be for half of the roads in Canary Wharf to be inaccessible? They seemed to be dropping like flies more often now than ever in the business district, sometimes hitting one a fortnight and always causing a headache for everyone within a square mile.

What’s worse, despite his constant questions and pressuring for answers from the police barricading the roads, Arthur had never been given a single notion as to who jumps from these windows, from which buildings, or how long it would take for them to clear the mess left behind. For a man as nosey as he was, this was torture in its own right. Of course he refrained from calling himself that, and preferred to use the word ‘interested’. ‘It’s just a matter of personal interest!’ he would insist to whichever officer was present to block the roads that day, only to be turned away, forcing him to grumpily waddle back to his car.

The whole ordeal had left him rather miserable, hunched over grumpily in his Armani suit as the tube dragged through London Bridge station, a distant three stops from where he would then have to change to the District line at Westminster. His face, stretched out long by the angled window opposite him, surprised him; it made him look even more miserable than he felt. The tube made him feel sick.

Arthur watched impatiently as the carriage sluggishly rolled through Southwark and Waterloo before finally halting in Westminster, where he would rejoin what looked and felt like hundreds of cattle attempting to clamber onto the same escalator. It seems that the traditional appearance of commuters on the tube should look similar to that of one of the most despondent groups of people on the planet, and yet even amongst this motley crew Arthur seemed to be trumping the competition.

The misery would only continue as Arthur hopped onto the District line for the final leg of the journey. Well, not necessarily hopped. Squeezed, perhaps, pushing his way onto a carriage with limited open space between other sombre passengers clutching the moist poles for dear life such that they did not fall into anyone else as the train jolted from the station and jaunted towards St James’s Park.

There were dozens of newspapers scattered across the carriage, some tattered, a clear sign of being read by passenger after passenger as they boarded the train, browsed quickly, and left the paper as they had found it on the dusty seats of the carriages before leaving the train. Others were newer, freshly bought from the shops and smelling strongly of the presses they’d left merely hours beforehand. What was common throughout the front pages, however, was the fact that a rather large mugshot of Arthur’s face accompanied by columns about his company, Arbicon, seemed to dominate the first few pages of most of these national publications.

It was for this reason that Arthur was grateful for the rush hour traffic of bodies to keep him hidden. At that moment in time, his face was perhaps one of the most acknowledgable in the country. On this tube carriage, it was buried deep between the shoulders of three other passengers, eyes focused on the floor such that Arthur took on the figure of a low­headed businessman having a tough day. The last thing he wanted was to be recognised.

The train screeched to a halt at Victoria. Almost immediately as the carriages had stopped shifting and shunting, the door flew agape and a flurry of passengers appeared to fly from the carriage and onto the platform. The bodies knocked past Arthur in quick succession and suddenly he was exposed. No longer were three shoulders around him to protect his face from the eyes of other passengers. Bugger, Arthur muttered. It had been years since he had had to ride the tube, and in that time he had completely forgotten that the train almost always empties at Victoria station. Despite the fact that everybody looks as though their heads are down looking at their phones and newspapers and shoes, all riders of the tube are constantly secretly watching each other, and even the tiniest of movements can often be noticed by everyone on the carriage. It could take mere seconds for him to be recognised if he stayed up here holding this pole. In fact, he had noticed a seated passenger wearing a press pass as he had boarded the train, and God knows that was the last kind of thing he wanted to deal with right now. Without tilting his head too high above his shoulder, Arthur gave the carriage a quick scan, covering as much of his face as possible with his fist as though to mimic a cough.

That was the moment he saw his opportunity. An empty spot had just opened up on a chair just a couple of metres away from him. Without thought, he leapt for it. He would be able to rest his legs and cover his face when sat down, which was a double win from his perspective.

Unbeknowingly to him, he was seemingly racing a woman perhaps forty years his senior to this Priority Seat designated specifically for the elderly and disabled, and he had arrived there more quickly not only because he was slim and athletic, but also because she was shuffling across the carriage excruciatingly slowly and relying on a walking stick for balance. The moment his behind graced the grubby purple cover of the seat was when he detected her approach. It was also the moment his expression blushed a deep shade of crimson. Several other passengers were regarding him strangely, and with a brief and particularly embarrassing ‘Sorry’ he was stood gripping the moist poles once again.

Suddenly the press pass reporter was advancing towards him with an outstretched hand. “You’re Arthur Marshall,” the reporter gasped incredulously.

“Last time I checked,” Arthur joked, without laughing.

“Alan Godfrey,” he announced, shaking Arthur’s hand rather too violently. “The press conference, I was there with the Huffington Post. You did such an excellent job­”

“­I was simply doing my job,” Arthur interrupted. The reporter stopped for a moment, analysing Arthur from head to toe, looking for a cuff out of place on his suit or a nose hair protruding from his nostril. These reporters were always looking for imperfections.

“Well if I may say so, I thought you were very brave. Ridding of the tyranny in the company, giving it a fresh new start. I do look forward to seeing those horrid factories torn to the ground.”

So vocal yet so thoughtless, Arthur thought to himself. “If I may remind you, those factories were my father’s idea.”

“Apologies, sir, I do forget. My condolences for his death.” Arthur felt the floor stop moving beneath his feet. He had lunged from the train sooner than the reporter could utter another meaningless syllable. Sloane Square station. A single stop from where he longed to be. Even so, hailing a taxi would be a world better than remaining on that train. He had heard so many condolences in the past couple of weeks he was beginning to feel like a funeral director. He rushed into the pouring rain without an umbrella and waited in the puddles for a taxi to arrive. Getting wet did not faze him, he just wanted to be home.

It was only when Arthur arrived home, not to the smell of fresh home­baked stew but to his wife leaning forward on the edge of the sofa, her palms cradling her shaking head ­ that he realised something was wrong. Not immediately panicked, he meandered over to her calmly, first placing his umbrella into the bucket by the door and hanging his coat neatly upon its hook. The children were always playing truant and worrying his wife, and her friends were constantly remarking about her behind her back. I wonder what’s got on her back today , he thought.

Although, something seemed different today. Not only was Aleksei Novakov, his personal bodyguard, regarding him worryingly, but the way his wife almost refused to gaze upon Arthur rather than leap up to him for his support was peculiar. He wondered whether she might’ve found out about him and Nikita, and suddenly he was nervous.

Yet as he approached, it was not upset that Arthur saw behind her dewy hazel eyes. It was fear. A fear which made her pupils dilate the moment she saw her husband coming towards her. She gestured towards the television, where a breaking headline story displayed the story of a man who, just hours ago, had leapt from the seventy­fourth floor of one of London’s tallest buildings. Arthur recalled the barricaded roads and no entry signs which had forced him to endure such a gruelling journey on the tube.

“Selfish bastard,” Arthur noted. “What of it?” he shrugged towards his wife, who pulled herself away from him as though he was going to destroy everything within his reach. Arthur, in no mood for playing games, placed his cool hand gently upon the area between her neck and breast, pressing upon the sweating diamonds of her necklace. “Tell me.”

“The suicide,” she gasped, without saliva to moisture her throat. “It’s Perry Hart.” A heavy look of defeat immediately broke upon Arthur’s face as he turned backwards towards the television to see Perry Hart’s face appear. The picture they’d chosen was staring blankly at Arthur from the screen as though mocking him. A single word dominated his thoughts like a childhood memory he just couldn’t be rid of;

Shit.