Dory's Avengers (2 page)

‘Who is this person?' asked Mortimer O'Reilly, who didn't follow sport. ‘Is he a threat to the Scheme?'

‘Elliot Farrell,' replied William, ‘promising footballer and Izzy's brother. Not only is he resisting Sponsorship, but he is rather vocal in his condemnation of the Scheme.'

‘Why not drop him then?' asked Mortimer.

‘Because he's damn good,' said David. ‘So good he's widely considered to be the most talented footballer this country has ever produced. Too good to ignore.'

‘What's he been saying?'

‘He reckons the Sponsorship Scheme stifles individuality,' said Isabelle before anyone else could reply. ‘He thinks we're creating a brainwashed society. Silly boy, he's only young. I'll speak to him again, get him to see sense. He'll listen to his big sister!'

William took his wife's hand and smiled at the company gathered in his huge room, bringing the formalities to a close as Isabelle's pulse rate gradually returned to normal.

‘That's settled then. Yes, my friends, we can all look forward to the New Year happy in the knowledge that the Sponsorship Scheme continues to go from strength to strength. Now, unless I am very much mistaken, dinner is imminent; so if you would all care to make your way to the dining room, I shall join you just as soon as I've kissed my daughter goodnight.'

Later in the evening, after everyone had enjoyed a magnificent dinner and most had departed for home, William invited Lysander, Mortimer, Steph and Fiona to join him in the drawing room for a nightcap. William would probably have named these people as his particular friends among the committee of Sponsors; even Mortimer, although not an obvious candidate for such an accolade, made the Scheme so much money that William regarded him as an integral part of life.

Isabelle St Benedict joined her husband and their friends in the drawing room after having helped Marie to settle a fractious Rosanna. As Isabelle sat down next to Steph and Fiona with her Persian cat on her lap, Mortimer O'Reilly decided the moment had come to make his prediction.

‘Unlikely though it may seem, I have the gift of second sight,' announced Mortimer, nodding solemnly. ‘I am a seer.'

‘You're a what?' asked Lysander Trevelyan. ‘A deer? Good grief, we haven't just eaten your brother for dinner, have we?'

Mortimer bristled, as much at William's ill-concealed amusement as at Lysander's words.

‘I am a seer; a seer, you fool! I have the gift of second sight, although sometimes it feels like a heavy burden… Trevelyan, just shut up! Shut up, will you!'

‘OK, OK,' said Lysander, controlling his laughter with a tremendous effort. ‘What have you seen?'

‘You've never liked me, have you?' shrieked Mortimer.

‘Is that it? Doesn't take a psychic to see that, does it? I'll tell you without the aid of crystal balls – I think you're a tosser of the highest order.'

‘Lysander, button it!' snapped William before Mortimer had the opportunity to reply. ‘Mortimer is a highly valued member of this committee; his financial expertise is second to none and has put the borrowing and lending of money in this country pretty much entirely under Sponsor control. I also consider him to be a personal friend, and would ask that you treat him with some respect. Mortimer, please continue with what you were saying. It sounds very interesting.'

As Lysander inclined his head in deference to William's words, Mortimer cast him a triumphant look before continuing:

‘There are powers afoot, mystical powers that no mere mortal can comprehend. I always suspected I had the gift of sight, and now it has manifested itself at a time when it is most useful. It has given me a warning, a warning pertinent to us all…'

Lysander let out an almighty snort of laughter.

‘Sorry, WSB,' he said, eyes watering. ‘Sneeze.'

Shaking his head slightly at Lysander, William himself pondered the possibility that a full moon lurked behind the clouds outside. The three women could barely contain their amusement. Heads bowed, they made a big show of fussing the ecstatic cat while listening intently to the conversation going on by the fireplace.

‘I'm sorry, Mortimer,' said William, ‘but an intelligent businessman such as yourself doesn't seem a very likely candidate to believe in all that hocus-pocus claptrap.'

‘Please, William; you must listen to me. You must ALL listen to me; our very future may depend on it. A child will be born in the north of England before the year is out. A blond child who will grow up to bring about the downfall of
all we hold dear, a fair-haired boy-child who will plot the destruction of the Sponsooorrrssshhhiiippp… …'

Never one to miss an opportunity for melodrama, Mortimer's voice degenerated into a wail. Expecting yet another outburst of amusement from Lysander, William was unprepared for what happened next. All mirth gone from his eyes, Lysander walked over to Mortimer and pretty much spat his words into the money man's face.

‘Well now, Mister Seer, as you well know, my first child is due to be born any day now. Let's SEE, shall we, if Nikki has a boy-child. Given that my wife and I are both fair-haired, I think it would be safe for Mister Seer to ASSUME our child would be born equally fair. Now if you'll excuse me, Mister SEER, I feel rather aggrieved at your mystical prophecy, which I regard as a feeble and unwarranted insult to my family. For me, all pleasure has gone from what has, until now, been a very pleasant evening.'

Turning his back on Mortimer, Lysander addressed the other occupants of the room.

‘WSB, Izzy, as ever your hospitality has been of the highest quality. Thank you both. Steph, Fiona, it has been a pleasure to keep you company once again. I bid you all goodnight.'

Lysander's departure was followed by a prolonged and uneasy silence, finally broken by Brian Mooreland asking whether further refreshments would be required. As the party spirit had died with Lysander's stinging words to Mortimer, the remaining guests politely declined and started getting ready to leave. As he said his farewells, Mortimer made one last attempt to appeal to William.

‘It's true, William. I did have a vision of the future. Of course, you're an intelligent man of the world, but don't disregard forces beyond even our comprehension. If my vision did indeed refer to Trevelyan's child, then he needs to be watched closely. What harm could it do to be cautious?'

‘What harm indeed,' replied William, patting the neurotic Mortimer on the arm. ‘Thank you for having the courage to speak to us on this matter, and please try not to worry. The Sponsorship Scheme is growing stronger every day, with the full backing of the government. Indeed, I met with the Prime Minister only two days ago, and she is delighted with the order that has come to society since we introduced the Scheme to the UK. By the time this child of whom you speak has grown old enough to be any threat, he will soon find he is taking on a formidable opponent.'

Once Mortimer, Fiona and Steph had departed for their homes, William turned to his wife.

‘What do you make of that, Izzy? Rather an unusual turn of events.'

‘I think Mortimer may have been at the herbal cigarettes again, Will. He certainly gave us girls a good laugh.'

‘Yes, I did notice,' said William, still looking thoughtful. ‘However, it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on Trevelyan's family, especially if the child is a boy.'

‘I suppose not, darling,' said Isabelle, her light tone and pretty smile masking the return of her unease.

By the end of the year two significant events had taken place. It turned out that the radio DJ had been spot on concerning the New Year's Honours List, and the head of the Sponsorship Scheme began the final year of the decade as Lord William St Benedict.

Two days after both the DJ and Mortimer O'Reilly had made their predictions, a baby boy was indeed born in the north of England. He was a healthy, if slightly unusual, child. It was only when Louis Trevelyan entered the world on a frosty day shortly before Christmas that Lysander and Nicola, his parents, discovered they both carried the albino gene.

Part One

Applethwaite Awakens

Chapter One

In Cumbria, the north-westernmost county of England, lies an area of outstanding natural beauty known as the Lake District National Park. The ancient landscape is enjoyed to this day by a variety of people, from the keenest walkers climbing to the high summits to those who prefer to explore the souvenir shops and quaint cafés of the towns nestling in the valleys. Dry-stone walls border lanes and paths, deep lakes charm visitors with their timeless beauty, and pretty meadows sit below majestic mountains. The air is clean and pure, the pace of life relaxed. Sometimes the only companions a solitary walker will have throughout the day are the ubiquitous sheep and the birds flying above. Those who have fallen in love with the Lake District are drawn back time after time, and it is a love that will be with them for life.

Lying beneath arguably the most stunning of the mountains, or fells as they are often called, is the little village of Applethwaite. Tucked in a hollow it is not visible from the main road into the national park, and surrounded as it is by woodland, affectionately known to the locals as ‘'Thwaite's Wood', it enjoys a sense of isolation envied by the better-known Lake District towns. Only the most dedicated of walkers will attempt the difficult descent from the fell into Applethwaite; but those who do are rewarded with a warm welcome, a pint of fine ale and, if required, a comfortable
bed for the night in the village's White Lion Inn. The village also enjoys a tremendous sense of community, and is an oasis for those who like to live their lives in peace and tranquillity.

Louis Trevelyan was someone who dearly loved to live his life in peace and tranquillity, but he was beginning to feel more than a little stressed as he viewed his surroundings from an unusual angle. Body inverted, his arms held him solid above a pair of parallel bars while his muscles increasingly screamed at him to give them a rest. Although the day was bright and sunny outside, none of the sunlight found its way past the heavy curtains covering the windows, and the electric light was dimmed to its lowest setting.

‘Gideon,' said Louis between heavy breaths, ‘can I stop now?'

Silence from his companion.

‘Gideon? Are you asleep?'

More silence. With a fluid movement, Louis righted himself and dropped gracefully from the bars to the floor. Crossing to the light switch, he simultaneously turned up the light and placed dark glasses over his eyes, before turning to the slightly built man in the wheelchair.

‘GIDEON!' yelled Louis, his face inches from that of his mentor.

‘WHO THE BLOODY HELL TOLD YOU TO GET DOWN?' roared Gideon in reply.

‘You did,' said Louis, smiling as he opened a bottle of water for himself and handed one to Gideon. ‘You talk in your sleep.'

‘You were rubbish today,' grumbled Gideon, accepting the water with barely a grunt of thanks.

‘So why continue to teach me then?' asked Louis, not for the first time. ‘I'm never going to compete in the Olympics or anything, so what's the point?'

‘You're damn good, that's why, Trevelyan; and I for one
think it's only right to nurture a talent such as yours. You're damn lucky, and I'd thank you to remember that not all of us have the gift of movement.'

Long used to Gideon's strange moods, Louis settled himself on one of the large window seats and squinted out into the street below.

‘Do you want to go for a walk, Gid? It's a gorgeous day out there, and I've got my sun block…'

‘Three things, Trevelyan. One, no to your question. Two, never
ever
call me Gid again. Three, you're late.'

‘Shit!' Louis's head snapped round and he looked, crosseyed, at the clock above the door. After watching Louis failing to focus on the clock face, Gideon finally said, ‘It's nearly three, Louis.'

‘Shit!' said Louis again. Grabbing a towel he headed for the studio's showers, and by the time he had showered and dressed there was no sign of Gideon.

‘I'll lock up again, shall I, Gid?' said Louis to the empty room. ‘Shall I, Gid? Gid! Gid!'

Giggling childishly, Louis made sure the studio was secure before donning a wide-brimmed sunhat and heading off to Applethwaite Primary School. It never occurred to Louis to ponder the fact that Gideon Wallis, once world-renowned gymnast until a freak car accident confined him to a wheelchair seventeen years previously, had moved to Applethwaite simply to train Louis. Gideon had bought and equipped a studio with high-quality bars, pommel horse and rings simply to train a gymnast who, although talented as Louis undoubtedly was, would never compete in any tournament. Even had Louis's natural shyness not been enough to prevent him from entertaining the idea of performing publicly, it was not something that Gideon ever encouraged. Although Louis often questioned the older man's reasons for continuing with his daily training, the question was always intended only to goad Gideon into paying Louis one
of his rare compliments. Louis didn't question the strangeness of the situation because he didn't actually find it strange. It was the only situation he had ever known.

By the time Louis arrived, breathless, at Applethwaite Primary School's gates, the lessons had been over for a good ten minutes. Jenny Trevelyan, Louis's six-year-old sister, was waiting patiently for him to arrive. Blonde and pretty, although not as fair as her brother, Jenny was extremely proud of the gap where her two front teeth used to be and the imminent arrival of ‘grown-up teeth'. Waiting with Jenny was the Trevelyan's neighbour, Jane Radcliffe. Good old Jane, Louis thought. He could always rely on her and her little girl, Jenny's best friend Alex, to wait with Jenny whenever he was running late.

As Louis reached the school gates and his weak eyes finally focused on the scene before him, he saw that Jane and Alex had already departed for home, and that Jenny had actually been keeping company with Abilene Farrell.