Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  PERFECT DAY

  By Kris Lillyman

  Text copyright © Kris Lillyman 2016

  The right of Kris Lillyman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means without permission.

  For Netty, Scarlett and Dexter

  Part One:

  Profit And Loss

  Chapter One

  Cambridge, England 1993

  Sam had been awake for hours, unable to sleep from the excitement of it all, his stomach full of butterflies as he contemplated the day ahead.

  Yet for the sake of his flat mate he had stayed in bed, quietly listening to the dawn chorus with the curtains closed, waiting for the sun to rise and cast its warm glow on the darkened room.

  By 7.30am it was completely light outside; the start of what was sure to be another bright, beautiful July morning and even though Sam knew Vas would not thank him, he could wait no longer.

  Jumping out of bed, he crossed over to the window and threw back the curtains to let the sunshine in. He then stepped two paces into the small kitchen area and clicked on the radio, turning the volume up loud to break the silence of the bedsit with a deafening blast of rock music.

  “Jesus, turn it off!” Groaned Vasily, his flat mate, knocking a couple of empty beer cans onto the floor from the night stand between their two single beds as he pulled the blankets up around his ears. “It’s not even morning yet!”

  By way of a pre-celebration, they had both been boozing the night before so Sam knew his friend might well be feeling a bit delicate even though his own head was surprisingly clear.

  “Come on, Vas!” He yelled, his face beaming with joy, “It’s a beautiful, sunny day - time to get up!”

  With the music blaring, he then leapt up onto his friend’s bed, wearing just his boxer shorts, and began dancing to the music like a crazed lunatic; excited, energised and gloriously happy.

  Because today was the day.

  As he danced, Sam sang along loudly to the words of the song.

  “Shut up!” Growled Vasily grumpily from under his bedclothes as Sam jumped up and down, purposely trying to rouse him.

  “Hey, man - pack it in!” Vasily complained. “Some of us are trying to sleep!”

  “Come on, Vas - get up and dance,” Sam laughed. “Today’s the day, man. Today’s gonna be the best day of my life!”

  “Fine. Okay. You win,” blurted his best friend as he dramatically threw off his bedclothes.

  “That’s it, I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” Sam laughed as he jumped down onto the floor and grabbed Vasily by the hand.

  With frustrated resignation, Vasily allowed himself to be pulled up onto his feet. His hair was all messed up, his eyes were still blurry from sleep and his head ached like a son of a bitch, but he got up nonetheless. Then, wearing only a pair of hideous brown Y-fronts, he began to dance as well; his white, chubby body in complete contrast to the tanned, slim physique of his flat mate’s, but he did not care.

  If Sam wanted him to dance then he would dance because that’s what friends did.

  Benedict Samuel Beresford II, who went by ‘Sam’ to avoid any confusion with his famous father, and Vasily Voronin had hit it off on their first day at university and had been firm friends ever since.

  Sam was the only son of the American media tycoon, Benedict Beresford Senior, and his high society wife, Meredith - a wealthy woman in her own rite who hailed from an old money New Hampshire family.

  Conversely, Vasily was the youngest of three brothers and son of the notorious Russian businessman Vladimir Voronin - a former high-ranking K.G.B. official and currently one of the main players in the burgeoning Moscow underworld.

  Having excelled at school and college, Sam could have chosen any of the elite American universities but had opted, instead, for Cambridge as he was keen to stand on his own two feet and step out from beneath the long shadow of his extremely successful parents.

  Although his mother and father were saddened by his decision, they had respected it. Indeed, they greatly admired his resolve to make a life for himself on his own merits and without their financial backing.

  What is more, they knew how easy it would have been for him to accept a generous monthly allowance and live the playboy lifestyle safe in the knowledge that one day he would be the sole beneficiary of their vast fortune. But that was not his way.

  Nor was it for Vasily, who had come to England to make an honest life for himself. His father, Vladimir, and his two older brothers were all deeply immersed within Russian organised crime, embroiled in a variety of nefarious activities and, had he wished it, Vasily could have taken his place alongside them, earning a sizeable chunk of the ill-gotten profits for himself.

  But he had been determined not to.

  His father had respected this completely; immensely proud that his youngest son wanted to forge his own path.

  Vladimir and his other two sons were all tough, very physical men with particular skill sets well suited to their chosen line of work. But Vasily was different.

  He was much more of an academic and extremely clever - some might even say a genius - and Vladimir knew that his talents would be squandered if Vasily stayed in Moscow with him.

  Indeed, Vas had the ambition and mental agility to actually make something of himself - something good, not rotten or corrupt. So when he was offered a place at Cambridge it seemed the perfect opportunity for him and Vladimir supported it without reservation.

  Now Sam and Vasily shared their small flat in the old university city; an American and a Russian living together in a strange country but neither of them could have cared less.

  Both were twenty-one, intelligent and from very affluent backgrounds. They also shared a keen sense of humour and an enthusiastic love for life. But that was where their natural similarities ended.

  Whilst Sam was tall, blonde and athletic, Vasily was shorter, dark-haired and thick-set, but it mattered little as they just seemed to get along.

  What is more, anyone who was not familiar with them would never have guessed that they each came from privileged, yet very different upbringings as they lived the simple, everyday lives of ordinary students.

  Their small College-owned flat was on the top floor of a medieval, on-campus block which featured shared kitchen, bathroom and laundry facilities. It was cramped, constantly messy and always littered with piles of books.

  Indeed, determinedly eschewing help from their respective families, Vasily worked part-time in a book shop and Sam served pints in a local bar to help them get by.

  The bar work enabled the pair of them to eat and drink reasonably cheaply thanks to a generous staff discount. As such, the pub soon became the focal point of their social life which was how Sam met Claudette, the twenty year-old economics undergraduate he was madly in love with.

  Claudette Sekibo was, in his eyes, an African princess although, in reality, she was a diplomat’s daughter from Niger.

  She had skin the colour of polished mahogany and tightly cropped hair which emphasised her finely carved cheek bones and large, dark eyes. Tall and lean with long, graceful legs, a tiny waist and small, plump breasts, Claudette was an incredibly striking woman.

  And Sam knew, without doubt, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  They had been together for eighteen blissfully happy months and she and her equally beautiful best friend, Miriam Dufour, had become almost semi-permanent fixtures at Sam and Vasily’s small flat on the top flo
or.

  But Vasily did not mind, he liked the company of women having grown up in a household full of men.

  He and Miriam, a medical student from France, both enjoyed a good debate and would often spend long hours discussing various topics, she in her quietly alluring Parisian accent and he in almost perfect English.

  However, as much as they enjoyed each others company, there was no attraction between them as Vas had a penchant for large, powerfully built women whilst Miri preferred men who were slimmer and more sporty.

  In fact, had Claudette not seen him first, then she might well have set her sights on Sam herself.

  What is more, had Sam not been so initially blinded by Claudette, then he would have almost certainly fallen for Miri, too, as she was more typically his type. Furthermore, her sweet-natured personality and good-humoured disposition perfectly complimented his own.

  Yet it was not to be.

  Sam had met Claudette first and now only had eyes for her. As such, Miriam would never dream of spoiling their happiness or do anything to damage the close friendship she had formed with both of them.

  As for Claudette, she had become something like a sister to Vasily in the short time they had known each other, helped in no small part by her marvellous skills in the kitchen.

  Whenever the four of them were not eating at the pub, Claudette conjured up some truly remarkable meals for them at the flat using only the barest of ingredients. She and Miriam, who usually helped her, both jabbering away in French - the language native to each of them even though they were from different countries.

  Nevertheless, when it got late, Miriam would always return to her own flat just a few minutes walk away, whereas Claudette would usually stay with Sam.

  For most of the week she would share his bed, the two of them snuggling together just an arm’s length from where Vasily slept in the adjacent bed. However, they kept their frequent love-making to the times when they were alone or, very quietly, to when Vas could be heard snoring soundly asleep.

  Claudette would have been there on that morning, too, had her father not been visiting London from Niger on business.

  She had taken the train down to London from Cambridge a week ago to spend whatever time she could with him in between his busy working schedule.

  Indeed, they were eager to see each other but knew it would be difficult as her father had a hectic few days planned and his time would be very limited.

  Nonetheless, it was Claudette’s hope that she might find an appropriate moment to tell him the news she had revealed to Sam just a couple of days prior to her trip - the news that she was thirteen weeks pregnant.

  Sam had been elated and had wanted to go with her to meet her father, so that they might tell him the news together, but Claudette had been adamant.

  Her father was a serious man of great power and influence and the news would not be as welcome to him as it had been to Sam. She needed to break it to him gently, convince him that it was what she wanted and assure him that Sam’s intentions were entirely honourable. Maybe then, on her father’s next visit to England, after she had laid the ground work, Sam could finally meet him.

  Against his better judgement, Sam had given in to her wishes, agreeing not to mention it to his own parents until Claudette’s father had been informed of the situation.Indeed, Sam suspected that his mother and father would not be so delighted with the news either as the circles they moved in were very white, very Anglo-Saxon and extremely old-fashioned.

  It would be deemed highly inappropriate for someone of his ‘breeding’ to be involved with a black African woman no matter her social status or how much they loved each other.

  But Sam did not give a damn about appearances or race or breeding. Furthermore, he knew that even though his parents would lecture him and blow a lot of hot air, they would eventually come around. And as for their snobbish society friends, well they could go to hell for all he cared.

  Claudette was all that mattered and with her by his side he could take on the world.

  In the short time since discovering that he was going to be a father, Sam had decided that he and Claudette should get married.

  Whether his parents or her father approved or not, they would be together and Claudette would be his wife.

  And, when she returned today, he was going to ask her.

  In celebration of this momentous occasion, Sam and Vas danced right through to the end of the record; twisting, gyrating and trying, hilariously to out do one another with their outlandish moves. Both almost naked yet bopping away and giving it their all as if their very lives depended on it.

  When, at last, the record finished, Vas simply collapsed back into bed, pulled up the covers and shut his eyes once more. He had done his bit, now his friend was on his own.

  Sam silently saluted Vas’ efforts, then turned on his heels and headed for the shower, eager to make the most of the hot water in the shared bathroom before anyone else beat him to it.

  However, before leaving the room, he crossed over to the window again and looked out at the cloudless blue sky.

  As golden shards of warm sunlight streamed into the room, Sam smiled happily to himself.

  It really was going to be a perfect day.

  ***

  The message was received by Locke the day before. It was short notice but fortunately he was already in London having just completed another assignment.

  He met The Fixer on the South Bank of The Thames and was passed an envelope containing a photograph and an address.

  “She’s pretty,” He remarked after opening the envelope and studying the photo with his piercing blue eyes.

  “She is at that,” The Fixer remarked. “Feel free to have some fun with her if you like, just so long as you get the job done.”

  “I always get it done.”

  “I know. But this one’s important.”

  Locke was impartial. “Aren’t they all.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said The Fixer with resignation. “However, my client wants this one to be a bit special - somewhat showy in its execution. Five or six men should do it nicely I would think.”

  “He wants something with impact, right? Something bloody?”

  “Exactly,” agreed The Fixer. “He’s attempting to send a message, I believe - yet one that needs to be understood only by the person for whom it is intended, do you understand?”

  “Sure,” Shrugged Locke. He was tall and lean with a muscular frame and a military bearing, although his methods were considered too extreme for most armies.

  “We must also give the police a bogus motive to focus on,” continued The Fixer. “Something to send them in the completely wrong direction without so much as a hint of the true objective - is that possible?”

  “I guess.” Shrugged Locke, examining the picture of the girl once more. “Any ideas?”

  “My client thought something appearing to be racially inspired - and I am inclined to agree. It certainly seems like the obvious solution, does it not? Simple yet effective,” The Fixer glanced at the photo and smiled. “It would also allow you a certain amount of creativity - and I know how much you would enjoy that.”

  “How long have I got?” Locke asked, the appeal of what The Fixer was suggesting already causing the excitement to pump through his veins.

  “A little less than a week I’m afraid. Does that present a problem?”

  Locke frowned. “Doesn’t give me long to assemble a team of that many men.”

  “But it can be done?” Queried The Fixer.

  “Sure,” said Locke. “As it happens, there’s a couple of guys available at the moment, who are already here in the U.K. - I’ve worked with them before and I know they’ll get a kick out of this sort of thing. But I might have to use some outsiders, too. The kind of work you’re looking for calls for a very specific type - although I reckon my guys c
ould recommend a few who would be up for it.”

  “So long as whoever they choose can be relied upon to do the job and keep their mouths shut afterwards then I don’t envisage a problem with that,” said The Fixer.

  “Price will go up due to time constraints.” Locke stated, his voice flat and emotionless.

  “Naturally,” replied the other man.

  “In that case,” said Locke, slipping the envelope into his jacket and relishing the task ahead, “consider it done.”

  “Good. Then I’ll leave the details to you,” said The Fixer turning to leave. “The money will be wired when I receive confirmation, as usual.”

  Locke nodded his approval. “Fine,” he said, looking out at The Thames as the sound of the other man’s footsteps faded away.

  ‘James Locke’ was not his real name but it suited well enough for the time being, as did his appearance, but both could be easily changed.

  Presently his hair was a bleach blonde crew cut but after tomorrow he would dye it back to its natural colour then head back to The States where another contract was waiting.

  Firstly, however, he had to assemble a team who liked the kind of messy work required and there was not much time.

  With that in mind, he turned on his heels and headed for the nearest phone box to make some urgent calls.

  ***

  By 10.30am, Sam was at the station to meet Claudette’s train.

  It was mid July and already hot even though the sun had not yet reached its peak. Sam was in a T-shirt and knee length denim cutoffs, a pair of rubber flip-flops on his feet and a pair of black Ray-Bans pushed up on top of his head. His blonde hair was short with a long fringe that had been casually swept back and his tanned skin bore testament to the outdoor life he so enjoyed.

  Growing up, he had spent his summers cruising the Caribbean on his father’s yacht and at school he had been a star on the track. Both smart and sporty, people believed Sam to have it all.

  He was, indeed, a lucky man and as he watched Claudette step off the train and onto the platform his luck had never been more apparent than it was at that precise moment, especially when she saw him waiting for her and smiled.