Chapter One

The cold autumn drizzle that had persisted throughout the night had given way to a heavier and seemingly relentless downpour. After a commendable four-hour battle against the elements, Arthur Thurman’s newly acquired triby finally succumbed to the forces of nature. It collapsed majestically around his head, taking on a close resemblance to a decomposing sea slug. The small reservoir of water that had collected in the immaculately folded creases of the once elegant, if wholly unfashionable, hat bowed to the laws of gravity, formed a channel between the collar of Arthur’s yellow, 100 per cent brushed cotton shirt and his white flecked skin, and flowed in a slow, steady trickle downwards.

Ice cold water slowly filled the artificial dam formed by the tenuous union between Thurman’s shirt and the brightly coloured boxer shorts given to him as a Christmas present by an elderly aunt whose fluctuations between extreme eccentricity and mild senility where as unpredictable as her gifts. Arthur reserved judgment on her exact state of mind when she had bought the silk garment embossed with Disney characters posing in positions more characteristic of an x-rated version of the Karma Sutra than the innocent characters that had dominated his childhood trips to the cinema. By wearing them, he had calculated that he was committing at least six civil and criminal offences ranging from copyright infringement to gross indecency. But with the washing machine on the blink and the rest of his clean clothes packed away for his journey, the offending article of clothing represented a final, if not desperate, rear guard action in his campaign to maintain at least a minimum standard of hygiene.

Tired, cold and utterly demoralized, Arthur shuffled forward across an enormous, almost empty car park towards the vast expanse of the newly built supermarket developed in what was once a thriving part of Southampton docks. His sodden moccasins barely rose above the ground, his step resembling the shuffle of a slippered geriatric entrapped behind an invisible, self-propelled zimmer-frame.

Derelict, red brick warehouses sported hoardings declaring their future regeneration into luxury flats, for the privileged few that could afford the over-inflated prices advertised. It seemed incongruous to Arthur that the very people clamouring to buy such property would not have been seen dead in this area while it played its vital role in establishing Britain’s economic and industrial might. A past empire that, with the exception of a few strategically placed rocks in parts of the planet no sane Englishman would ever choose to go, had been assigned to the history books. Now with few motor cars, industrial parts or pieces of engineering magnificence to load on to ships departing for distant shores, the area was to become home to wine bars, restaurants and luxury apartments. Vast sums of money would soon be exchanged for the privilege of having open views onto a lifeless expanse of grey water; the occupants no doubt, to include the very architects of this landmark of a nation’s economic demise.