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  DORY'S AVENGERS

  DORY'S AVENGERS

  Alison Jack

  Book Guild Publishing

  Sussex, England

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

  Pavilion View

  19 New Road

  Brighton, BN1 1UF

  Copyright © Alison Jack 2013

  The right of Alison Jack to be identified as the author of

  this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting in Baskerville by

  YHT Ltd, London

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  A catalogue record for this book is available from

  The British Library.

  ePub ISBN: 9781909716315

  Mobi ISBN: 9781909716322

  Contents

  Author's Notes

  Prologue: The Beginning of the Sponsorship Scheme

  Part One Applethwaite Awakens

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two Dory

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Three An Unsponsored Wedding

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part Four Unsponsored Revolution

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  My family and friends have given me tremendous encouragement from the moment I first decided to write Dory's Avengers, and I thank each and every one of them for this encouragement.

  Special thanks go to:

  My partner Andy for his endless patience, his unwavering support, and for walking mile after mile of south London's streets in search of the Unsponsored.

  My friend Wanda for being my number one critic, naming the book and helping to keep my feet on the ground.

  My enthusiastic ‘communications manager’ Bruce for spreading the word, taking the author photo and supplying my much needed IT training.

  Author's Notes

  Although set in some very real places, Dory's Avengers is entirely a work of fiction. As such, the ‘boring opening ceremony’ that heralds the Olympic Games in my story bears absolutely no resemblance to the spectacular show which opened the real London 2012 Olympic Games. Similarly, the ‘poor, stifled, sponsored gymnasts’ mentioned in Dory's Avengers are nothing like the magnificent Team GB gymnasts who made the UK proud during those Games.

  Applethwaite as portrayed in Dory's Avengers is purely fictitious and is not based on the village of the same name located in the foothills of Skiddaw.

  Prologue: The Beginning of the Sponsorship Scheme

  Success came naturally to William St Benedict. Having been born into a life of wealth and privilege, he had grown up with an unshakable sense of his own infallibility. At the tender age of twenty-three, William had taken over the running of the St Benedict family business following the death of his father, and his ruthless determination had transformed the already successful company into the country's dominant building firm. This would have been achievement enough for many people, but not for William. Having tasted power and found that he liked it, William wanted more. In short, he wanted to be the most powerful man that the United Kingdom, and perhaps even the world, had ever known. It was this ambition that led to William creating the Sponsorship Scheme.

  Doubt wasn't an emotion with which William was familiar, but even he was surprised by the phenomenal success of the Sponsorship Scheme. Within a year, Sponsor endorsement became synonymous with success, and the various Sponsor groups were inundated with applications for Sponsorship from all over the country. Conversely, being Unsponsored began to carry a stigma too horrible to contemplate, and the Sponsored became increasingly terrified of losing their status.

  Eleven years before the end of the millennium, when the Sponsorship Scheme was in its fourth year, William St Benedict was driving home through the dirty remains of the winter's first snowfall. The weather in London was bleak and cold, and it was already getting dark despite only being three o'clock in the afternoon. This didn't dampen William's spirits in the slightest; the five years since he had taken over St Benedict Construction had gone very much according to plan, and he was feeling extremely pleased with himself. Switching on his car radio, William was just in time to hear some news that compounded his happiness.

  ‘This just in, folks!’ said the radio DJ, his voice full of enthusiasm. ‘It would seem our very own William St Benedict, founder of the wonderful Sponsorship Scheme, is widely believed to be getting an honour from Her Maj when the New Year's Honours are announced. Sir William would be appropriate, don't you think? Or maybe Lord William; no title befits this fine gentlemen better than a lordship, hey, guys and girls? Am I right or am I right?’

  William was still dreaming about receiving an honorary peerage from the Queen when he arrived at his luxurious Kensington home. The founder members of the Sponsorship Scheme were already enjoying hot cups of tea and the warmth of the drawing-room fire as William paused briefly to look in on the family room. William's first child, eighteen-month-old Rosanna, was shrieking happily while her nanny, Marie, hung ornaments on a vast Christmas tree. Rosanna was already a beauty, with golden curls framing her pretty face and light-brown eyes, so like her father's, sparkling as she toddled over to receive his embrace. William's wife, Isabelle, uncurled herself from the easy chair by the fire and crossed the room to greet her husband.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she said, kissing William lightly on the cheek. ‘Our guests are already assembled in the drawing room. I've asked Mooreland to supply them with refreshments.’

  ‘Then let us go and join them, darling,’ replied William, passing Rosanna back to Marie and taking his wife by the hand.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ said William a few minutes later, entering the drawing room with Isabelle and greeting the people who had helped to pioneer the Sponsorship Scheme. ‘Thank you for making the journey to my humble abode in such inclement weather. Owing to the fact that the festive season is almost upon us we will make this an informal meeting; in fact, I would like to start proceedings with a cause for celebration.’

  William paused at this point to hug Isabelle closer to his side, before announcing, ‘Isabelle and I are expecting a second child. He's due at the end of June.’

  ‘I can't guarantee a boy, Will,’ said Isabelle, laughing at her husband's certainty. ‘He so wants a son and heir,’ she continued for the benefit of the assembled company, who were rising as one from their seats to offer their congratulations.

  ‘Wonderful! Wonderful!’

  ‘Splendid news!’
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  ‘Marvellous! A little brother or sister for the lovely Rosanna.’

  Hugs, kisses and more congratulations followed. Brian Mooreland, the head of the St Benedict household staff and beneficiary of the Sponsorship Scheme, appeared with chilled bottles of champagne, and toasts were offered to the parents to be.

  After the champagne and the congratulations, William called for a short period of calm in order that business could be discussed. As promised, William kept the proceedings informal, and the meeting was more a mutual back-slapping session as one by one his colleagues reported success after success.

  ‘We now have all the major banks on board,’ Mortimer O'Reilly, head of Finance Sponsorship, reported proudly. ‘One or two were a little suspicious to begin with, but the obvious benefits of endorsement have persuaded them to join in our venture.’

  ‘That is indeed great news,’ said William. ‘We can't have too many allies in the money world. Fiona, I hear things go from strength to strength in the medical branch of the Professional Sponsor Group.’

  ‘Absolutely right, William,’ replied Dr Fiona Turnbull, placing her glass on the table. ‘The Turnbull Health Centres are spreading far and wide across the country, with new centres due to open shortly in Oxford, York and Glasgow. Pro Spo now sponsor over one and a half million families, with some promising medical students due to graduate in the summer. The Best Friend veterinary surgeries are also highly successful countrywide, and I've been working with Steph to ensure a Feathers and Fur shop opens adjacent to each Best Friend premises.’

  The Steph mentioned by Fiona was Stephanie Rogers, head of the Retail Sponsorship Group. William had the greatest respect for both women, admiring their professionalism and dignity. He recalled the day that the Scheme had been born, when Steph had taken on the running of Retail Sponsorship.

  ‘Jolly good,’ he'd said in response to her eager acceptance of the post. ‘I have no doubt you'll excel in the role. After all, you women do love to shop!’

  ‘Indeed,’ Steph had replied smoothly, ‘almost as much as you men love to stereotype.’

  For over three years now, Stephanie had never failed to deliver even more than William could have hoped. She was currently busy sifting through the multitude of applicants wishing to open stores in St Benedict Construction's brand-new development: a high-class shopping arcade in the fashionable Docklands area of London.

  ‘Lysander,’ said William, addressing the memorably named Lysander Trevelyan, ‘Leisure and Fitness?’

  ‘What about it?’ replied Lysander, blue eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Oh, do you want a report? I was enjoying a rather pleasant little snooze here by the fire.’

  ‘Of course he wants a report, you imbecile,’ snapped Mortimer, astounded that anyone would have the nerve to give any backchat to William St Benedict.

  ‘Relax, Morti old chum. William knows I like a little joke, don't you, WSB?’

  William regarded Lysander and Mortimer with some amusement. The two men couldn't have been more different. Mortimer: red-faced, anxious, slightly plump; undoubtedly a genius with figures but lacking somewhat in social skills. Lysander: confident, athletic and handsome; his blond hair attractively tousled, clothes always well-fitting and immaculately stylish. That the pair despised each other was plain for all to see; they never missed an opportunity to score points off each other, the quick-witted Lysander usually emerging the winner.

  ‘I hate being called Morti…’ whined the money man, but he was interrupted smoothly by Lysander.

  ‘Leisure and Fitness, though I say so myself, is fantastically successful. People these days work hard, and we encourage them to play equally hard. The people we sponsor have grasped the concept with enthusiasm; forgive me for not having exact figures for you, but as of November we were sponsoring well over three million. It is a figure that is swelling all the time, with youngsters all over the country keen to train as fitness coaches, beauty therapists and hair stylists. There are waiting lists to join all our gyms and sports centres, and the health farms are fully booked at least until the end of February. We at Leisure and Fitness are working in conjunction with David and Julia of the Sport Sponsorship Group to meet the ever-increasing demand for top-quality sport and fitness facilities. We will, of course, keep you posted every step of the way.’

  ‘Lysander; I don't doubt it, nor do I doubt for a moment your ability to meet the demand levelled at you. David and Julia, your success with the sportsmen and women is already reaping its rewards with that nice trophy the country celebrated so wildly in the summer.’

  ‘Yes, that was fabulous, wasn't it?’ replied David Foster. ‘But I'm afraid to say the little problem of which we spoke a few weeks ago is far from resolved.’

  ‘Ah yes, the stubborn young footballer. You may speak freely in front of my wife; she is aware of the situation.’

  A roomful of curious eyes turned upon Isabelle St Benedict, who kept her expression neutral despite the sense of foreboding she suddenly felt.

  ‘My gobby little brother?’ she said lightly. ‘I'm sure he'll grow up soon and learn to keep his silly ideas to himself.’

  ‘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.