Chapter One: Avenging Angels
Finn wondered if his Uncle Derek might just be watching from heaven, as he strode across the court to take his place for what would surely be the final game of the match. If only he could have spoken to the great man one last time before his abrupt and inexplicable suicide, perhaps the sorrow now suffusing his soul could have been averted.
Two aces were followed by a serve-and-volley with a sliver of spin, his own clever renewal of tennis’ weariest concept. Derek had always a high regard for the unexpected, so would have approved. After crashing another volley into the net imprudently - meriting sotto voce invectives - Finn closed out the match with a sublime forehand winner: 6–1, 6–2. The first qualifying round had been navigated without difficulty. He pointed towards the sky.
Finn boasted an unusually broad palette of shot-making abilities, the full range of which would be needed if he stood a chance of qualifying for the prestigious Ceefax Championships in August. What could Derek have wanted more? Yet to dive into the world of competitive sport was to engage oneself in a long, hard slog, with unknown likelihood of emerging on the far side appreciably fulfilled.
Some miles across the coast, cousin Clayton and his mother Barbara were in their cottage, trawling through the multitude of unopened letters addressed to Derek, accompanied by a large percolator of coffee and their languorous cat. Amongst several messages of condolence were three pieces of correspondence from a ‘Mr Grimbold & Partners’ - claiming Derek owed several hundred pounds to their firm, in a tone less than cordial.
“Mr Grimbold? Who the bloody hell is that?”
“I’ve no idea, love. Derek never mentioned that name.”
“Let me ring the number, see what this guy wants.”
Clayton strode over to the landline on the pristine escritoire and did as he said, only to hear the voice of the operator:
“This number is currently engaged. To use ringback, press five.”
Clayton rolled his eyes and sighed.
“For God’s sake! Don’t they think we’ve got enough on our plate dealing with a tragedy without all this? Who are these people? What do they want?”
On the very top floor of Bluebell Towers, the usual Saturday night rave was deep into the realms of the superbly surreal. As 6am struck on the ancient grandfather clock in Josh’s front room - flanked by a luminescent lava lamp and a Bush CD player - the seventeen guests and their host were a hazy amalgam of sensations, the euphoria attenuated by a teeth-grinding disorientation. The crew were all too aware that a former member of theirs was proving them wrong on the tennis circuit, for whom appearing at the Ceefax Championships was now inching into achievable territory. No more sophisticated than the target they sought to abominate, the revellers conducted a barely coherent conversation on how to go about thwarting their bête noire.
“He’s gonna be hard to track down now”, Callum pointed out.
“Mayne one of us could pose as a reporter, invite him to an interview in a secluded location?” posited Lloyd.
“You know, that might be our best---” yelled Josh, before Denley interjected:
“I don’t care about that nincompoop anymore, just pop another E and stick on Disc Two!”
On and on went their staggeringly extravagant rave, as Disc Two of their compilation CD was indeed stuck on and a furtive young man appeared at the door to proffer more heart-shaped blue pills to those inside.
