The top floor. 1pm. Stark’s nerves jangled. Possibly down to a mixture of things. Lack of proper sleep, the profound impact of his dream, the general nervousness any employee would experience when meeting the senior partner of a prestigious law firm.
There was another reason. Perhaps the most compelling, and one which he chose not to divulge, not even to his sister.
He got to the foyer. There, a single door. He knocked, entered. A corridor, the walls bare, at the end of which, another door. He did the same again – knocked, entered.
Before him, a large room, the focal point a real fire, crackling under a glossy black-marble fire surround. The walls were dark oak cladding, the floor underfoot a thick carpet the colour of red wine. There – a grandfather clock. Beside it, a polished writing bureau. On one side, an elegant black leather couch, black leather chairs. An impressive cabinet, tall and wide, constructed of the same dark oak as the cladding, containing books, crystal ornaments, other oddments. Lighting was supplied by three antique copper chandeliers, casting a soft amber hue.
At the far end, an oval desk, with a green leather top, brass handles on the drawers, decorated with crossbanding, strapwork borders, intricate pendant garlands on the oak panelling. Stark had never seen a desk quite like it.
Behind it sat Edward Stoddart. He stood when Stark entered. He was smiling. Stark took him for a man who looked older than he was, face gaunt and parchment pale, stooped shoulders. Wire-thin, hair unnaturally black, slicked back from his forehead, lying close to his head like a patch of oil. A sharp beak of a nose. Stark was reminded of a predatory bird. He inspected Stark with eyes like flint.
“Punctual,” he said. “I like punctuality.”
“Thank you.”
Stoddart made his way round the desk, met Stark, shook his hand. He reckoned they were about the same height. Six one, though his stoop made him appear smaller.
“Our brand-new trainee,” he said. “Jonathan Stark.” He continued his stare with an intensity Stark found unnerving.
Stark reacted with a modest shrug of his shoulders. “That’s me.”
Stoddart’s handshake was firm and assured. “Good to have you on board. It’s refreshing to meet young blood. It uplifts the spirit.”
Stark was unsure how to respond. He said nothing.
Stoddart beckoned him to one of the leather chairs. “Sit, please.”
Stark sat. Stoddart sat on a chair opposite. Between them, a coffee table. On it, a single spherical piece of quartz stone, the size of a fist.
“My great grandfather – William Stoddart – used it as a paperweight. I could never bring myself to get rid of it.”
Stark nodded. “Sentimental value.”
Stoddart leaned in closer. “Imagine stone could talk.” He picked the object up. “The things it’s seen, the secrets locked away in its stony mind. That would be interesting, yes?”
Stark gave a lame smile. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response to such an observation.
Stoddart placed the stone back on the coffee table.
“How are you finding things here, at the wondrous firm of Stoddart, Jeffrey, Pritchard and Sloss? Or should I say SJPS, which sounds much more slick and trendy.”
“I think I’m doing okay,” replied Stark. “At least no one has shouted at me yet. Or threatened me with expulsion.” Except Paul Hutchison. He kept that particular meeting to himself.
Stoddart gave a rattling laugh. “You will get shouted at. That’s a given. And usually by clients, or sour-faced judges. Or irritable partners. My advice? Embrace it. All part of the learning curve. Toughens you up. Because that’s what this game is about. And not just the law. Everything. Having the strength to tough it out. Have you got that strength, Jonathan?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I hope so.”
“I hope so too, Jonathan.”
Stoddart kept his gaze. More of an inspection, thought Stark. A silence followed, which Stark tried to fill. He made a show of looking about.
“You have a beautiful office. A real fire. You don’t see that too often.”
“I find it therapeutic,” said Stoddart. “And I’m cold, even in the summer. A consequence of age. And other things. You come from Eaglesham?”
Stark hesitated at the abrupt change in conversation.
“Yes.”
“You were born there.”
Stark wasn’t entirely sure whether this was a statement or a question.
“Yes.”
“It’s a quiet little place.”
“It has its moments.”
“I’m sure,” said Stoddart. “And its secrets, I dare say.” His eyes glittered.
“Like everywhere,” said Stark.
“And you said at the interview you have a sister?”
“Maggie. She’s a doctor. A and E. I think she’s in permanent stress mode.”
“You’re close to your sister. That’s a good thing, Jonathan. There’s nothing more important than blood. Blood binds.”
“Do you have family, Mr Stoddart?”
Stoddart’s lips curled upwards into something approaching a smile, showing the tips of his teeth.
“Please. Edward. I gave up on formality when I realised it was such a waste of time. My wife died five years ago. I have…” he swallowed, licked his lips as he spoke, “…one son. As I get older, I realise how precious a child is. Blood binds, Jonathan. You hungry?”
Stark realised he was. He’d skipped breakfast, and so far had survived on a gallon of coffee and chocolate biscuits taken from a tin in the ground-floor kitchen.
“Follow me,” said Stoddart. He got up, went to the far wall, opened a concealed door, similar to the door in the waiting room.
“Agatha Christie would love this place,” he said.
“I dare say she would.”
They entered a room, as large as the conference chamber on the first floor. Same dark panelling, same thick carpet, chandelier lighting. Two arched windows, allowing in the dreary afternoon sun. A long wooden dining table, shining to a sparkle. Two places had been set. Also, a buffet of heated silver trays containing a variety of food, and a silver canister of water.
“I had caterers prepare. I didn’t know what you liked, so I told them to make a mixture.”
“Thank you.”
They sat. Stark began to dish food onto his plate. Stoddart watched him.
“I have to be careful what I eat,” he said. “I have cancer, Jonathan.”
Stark put his knife and fork down. “I’m sorry…”
Stoddart raised a hand. “Please. I only mention this as an explanation as to why I’m not joining you. It’s a particularly aggressive sort. My diet, I fear, is restricted to pills and drugs and tasteless liquids. Which is why I asked you here.” Again, that glittering gaze.
“This firm needs new energy,” he continued. “I heard what you had to say at your interview. You’ve been through a great deal. More than most. Much more. And here you are. You’re a strong young man, Jonathan. You have spirit. And courage. And I think this firm, and the world generally, needs a little more of these qualities. Please, eat.”
Stark’s appetite had diminished. Having Edward Stoddart inspect him as a vulture might inspect a carcass, was unsettling. He picked at his food. Stoddart asked him a few further questions, of a mundane sort. Stark got the impression his sheer presence was more important than any conversation. At 1.45, Stoddart stated he felt unwell. The lunch was over. Stoddart saw him out, shaking his hand.
“New blood,” he said. “You’re the future of this firm, Jonathan. I can feel it.”
Stark could think of no adequate response. He merely nodded, thanked him for lunch, and made his way down the stairs.
His phone beeped. He checked the number. It was Maggie. He answered.
She skipped the niceties.
“Are you bullshitting me?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“When do you finish?”
“Sixish?”
“I’ll come round to the flat. Your dream. It all happened. It’s all true. And I’m scared, little brother.”