The Ascendant

Chapter One

Editorial note

My brother wrote this tale back in 2002. I've edited-it-up (ever so slightly) for an actual audience at last. Enjoy the trip through exclusive business sector doors and London nightlife. It's quite an experience to be able to share ...

Butetown, Cardiff, Tuesday 12th November 2001

Checking over my shoulder for anyone who would find my manner suspicious, I crossed the road into Atlantic Wharf. I was close, but not so close that I could become complacent. My breathing was heavy, and although I was muttering nonsense under my breath in the poorly lit streets, it was no big deal; the freezing, damp night had taken a desirable effect on the locals. I stopped to take a brief rest and adjust my sleeve: it isn't easy carrying a crowbar under an overcoat without it either digging into your palm or tearing through several layers of clothing. I rubbed my palm to soothe the pain and continued on my way.

A head emerged from a doorway thirty yards further along. Cigarette smoke, or condensed breath clouded his or her features and I squinted as I tried to get a better look, to ascertain if I was likely to be confronted. As I got closer, I was relieved to see a woman staring back at me, weighing me up as I walked towards her. I could sense her wondering whether I was bad news or maybe worth the risk. My guess was she'd see me shuffling awkwardly and nervously along and decided that I was just another harmless weirdo. As long as she let me pass without contact or incident I really didn't give a shit.

The woman continued to watch me and I prayed that fate was on my side. I lowered my gaze and kept walking.

'Stay cool', I muttered into my scarf, but my frenetic heart responded by pumping blood and adrenaline through me ever faster, hastening my stride. I was no more than ten yards away from the woman when she stepped out of the doorway and onto the pavement.

I looked up to see her leaning against the doorway in which she'd been standing and gave her what I hoped was a reassuring but disinterested look. With this she raised the hem of her skirt to show me a gruesome middle aged thigh, cellulite and varicose veins oozing through the nets of her stockings. She said something to me, more smoke or breath billowing from her mouth, but I couldn't hear it; I was too panic-stricken to listen or understand. I just had to get past her, to keep going to where I needed to get. She smiled at me but her eyes were expressionless, and I wondered where and when did her ambition perish ...

I broke into a trot as I cleared her. I was so close now, I just needed to stay calm and avoid attracting any further attention to myself. I marched rigidly into Bute Street, turning sharply into the second alleyway running off it, enjoying the sense of relief at having got this far without detection. I allowed the crowbar to drop from my sleeve and caught it with my free hand ... smoothly does it.

I moved up the alleyway, skipping and skating through dog shit and countless cigarette-ends as I went. When I reached the end, I carefully placed the crowbar on top of the wall and leapt over it, landing awkwardly on the other side. I held my breath and hopped around in the dark until the pain had gone and my ankle had regained some of it's usual flexibly. I was in the rear courtyard of large and disused house with only the glimmer of the moon as my guiding light; using the hand torch now would have been an unnecessary risk. Collecting the crowbar from the wall, I walked across the yard towards the building, cursing myself for not finding a less hazardous way of dealing with  proceedings.

All the windows were covered with steel shutters. I placed the forked end of the crowbar under a shutter covering a ground floor window, but as I forced the bar down the shutter creaked distressingly; these things aren't designed to be prised-off without a fuss but I still flinched as every tightly sprung chime called out like a siren to every last watchman across the city: 'here he is, the guilty man!'

I levered out the bottom rivets first before working on the top ones. Finally, after too much heaving, grunting and clattering, the shutter came loose in my hand, revealing a sash window with three broken panes. I carefully stretched my arm inside to ease the lock before lifting the lower section of window. Taking the torch from my pocket I directed the beam inside to check for any nasty surprises lurking within. It was grim and potentially sinister but there were no obvious footfalls.

I placed the torch and crowbar on the sill and clambered in through the opening. Sensory overload: the stale stench of damp and dust lingered in my nostrils and I could feel my heart pounding in my ears and throat, my breath sounded shaky and my fear was tangible enough to taste. I had to remind myself that whoever, or whatever I encountered between here and the front door, I was the one with the crowbar.

Pointing the light towards the door frame and deep into the house, I advanced cautiously into the hallway, looking this way and that. It was frighteningly dark and the torch couldn't dart around quickly enough as danger engulfed me from every angle. Walking on, I reached the stairway. Cobwebs meshed between each of the newel posts, and lit up the front door ahead of me. The door was of solid looking timber construction which seemed to have withstood more than its fair share of vandalism since dereliction had set in. I diverted the torch's beam to the hollow where the welcome mat would once have been and saw two letters laying there. I stepped forward to pick them up and held my breath, as I shuffled them to check the senders and the addressees.

The handwriting on the first envelope was instantly recognisable as my own, while the second had been typed and stamped with a corporate insignia. Both had been addressed to Professor Arthur Hailsham of the English Faculty, University of Wales, Cardiff.

Placing the letters in my inside coat pocket, I turned and hurried back towards the open window.