World Of The Wicked

In the late ’90s, whilst struggling to become the worst cab driver in Croydon (but that’s another story), I wrote a short story for my kids. When I’d finished reading it to them, they both said “what happens next?” I said “It’s finished”. They insisted it wasn’t.

So began a strange adventure. I’d never before written without knowing what came next. Would the plot work? Would there be a plot? But each Thursday evening, I would read them the next instalment and they’d ask “what happens next?”

In this way, World Of The Wicked got written. To my astonishment, the plot not only worked, but was far more surprising than I could have contrived. Here are the first few chapters: World Of The Wicked

The Andy Parvin Story

While writing the World Of The Wicked instalments (and spending my days cab-driving innocent people to entirely the wrong address), I thought I could write a weekly chapter of another novel at the same time.

That was when the ‘weird thing’ happened.

23 years before, I’d been in South East Asia, on my honeymoon. Only, my wife had left me (not funny!). So I wrote a very bad, mad (distraught) novel about my life so far: The ‘Swinging Sixties’ in London and all my helplessly trendy friends.

Anyhow, upon my solitary return from Asia, I remember having a plastic bag with some salt tablets and the bad novel… But that’s the end of it. Somewhere between Leeds, Dumfries and London, the plastic bag disappeared. My life continued to seesaw between disaster and despair and decades passed.

So the ‘weird thing’ was, as I thought about another novel, I wandered across the room, opened a filing cabinet, picked up a folder that said ‘Bali Libretto’ and there it was, the bad novel!

You think I must’ve known, somehow? No way. It was a ‘weird thing’!

And so embarrassing to read. It was a jumble of passionate nonsense. But that younger version of myself wore his heart on his sleeve and he didn’t lie. So I got to work on The Andy Parvin Story. Here is the first chapter: The Andy Parvin Story

World Of The Wicked

1. A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

“Turn left just before the end of the corridor, then second right.”

Georgio kept the plan of the building in his mind. In the dark he had to feel his way. And silently. One sound and he'd be discovered for what he was. A thief.

He was just fourteen years old but with no money, no food, no home, how else was he going to survive?

He padded along the corridor, past the shadowy forms of paintings and jewelled swords. They'd be worth a fortune. But they'd be missed. The owner would suspect him. He'd be caught. But the gold! There was so much gold. No one would notice if he took some of it.

Suddenly a face loomed in front of him and he almost screamed. Just in time he realised it was his own face, reflected in a mirror.

He'd come too far. He was at the end of the corridor. Retracing his steps, he found the passage.

“It's down here,” he remembered. “Then second right, third room on the left.”

There was a faint click behind him. But Georgio didn't hear it. He didn't see the mirror swivel. He didn't see the tall figure in a cloak step out, into the dark corridor.

Silently, Georgio tiptoed through the house. Just as silently, the figure followed him.

Coming to the third room on the left, Georgio took a deep breath. He knew that anything could happen. The door handle might squeak as it turned. There might even be someone in the room.

Slowly he opened the door. No squeak. He stepped inside. No one in the room.

“Now be quick. Where's the gold?” he thought.

There it was, on a desk, hundreds, perhaps thousands of gold coins, shining even in the unlit room.

Before he could move, another door opened. A girl with a candle stood there staring at him. He stared back at her. She was about his age, with long, dark curly hair and dark, clever eyes.

“Who are you?” asked the girl.

“My name is Georgio.”

“I don't know you,” she said.

“The kind owner of this house let me stay for the night,” he explained, truthfully.

“What are you doing in this room?” she asked.

“I got lost,” Georgio lied.

Did the girl believe him?

“What is your name?” he asked.

“My name is Maria.”

Maria had never met anyone with red hair before. She studied the goatskin tunic he wore. He was obviously a poor farm boy. Many of them turned up in town without money or even shoes. They came seeking their fortunes. Some of them found work on the ships. Most of them disappeared back into the mountains.

“You must come from somewhere in the mountains. Do you?”

“Yes,” answered Georgio.

“Why did you leave your parents?”

“I have no parents. I'm an orphan,” he replied.

“Do you expect to make your fortune here?”

“Perhaps.”

Maria came to a decision.

“Follow me,” she said. “We shouldn't be in this room.”

Georgio followed Maria. He remembered the gold but didn't look back. He didn't see the shadowy figure in the corner, watching them leave. As the door closed, the figure went over to the desk and locked away the gold.

2. GIRL WITH A CANDLE

Maria led Georgio along the corridor to her room.

“You say you are an orphan,” she whispered, “but you must have come from somewhere.”

“I come from Caro,” he replied.

“What is Caro?” she asked as they entered the room.

“Caro is a tiny village, high in the mountains,” he explained.

“It sounds beautiful,” she said.

Georgio stared around the room. Everything was made of gold or silver, studded with precious stones, hung with exotic silks. He gasped.

“It's beautiful!”

“If Caro is beautiful, why did you leave it?” asked Maria.

Georgio hardly heard her, he was so dazzled by all that he saw.

“Not beautiful,” he muttered. “Dangerous. That's how my parents died. There was a rock fall. It destroyed the little house we lived in. It covered our patch of land with boulders and stones. From then on, my only blanket was the starry sky.”

Maria was amazed. She tried to picture it.

“Do you mean that you slept in the open air?”

Georgio nodded.

“Every night?”

He nodded again.

But that's wonderful!” she said.

Georgio studied Maria.  Was she a fool?

“It isn't wonderful. It's freezing cold. There's nothing to eat. The other villagers gave me scraps but they were almost as poor as me.”

“Just how poor are you?” she asked, trying to understand.

Georgio turned out his pockets. They were empty.

“I've never met anyone that poor before. My father is one of the richest men on the islands.”

“You are lucky,” he said.

“I don't feel lucky,” she replied. “I live in this big gloomy house. Servants clean my clothes and make my meals. I can do anything I want, except leave.”

“Don't your parents ever take you out?” he asked.

“My father's always busy and I think my mother's dead.”

“Don't you know?”

“I’ve been told that she's dead. So I suppose she is. I've no memory of her. Her name was Perfidia. Pretty, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is pretty. But I don't understand. Everything is so easy and perfect here. Why would you want to leave?”

Maria stared at Georgio. Was he stupid?

“To see the world. Like you.”

“I don't want to see the world,” said Georgio. “I just want to see a beautiful room like this and have servants bring me food.”

Maria shook her head.

“You would get bored.”

Georgio had never been bored in his life. Frightened, yes. Never bored.

“I would never get bored,” he insisted.

“You would get bored,” she repeated, quietly but firmly. “And when you did, you would try to leave. You would discover that you weren't allowed to leave. Then you would start to go mad. Every moment of every day and every night you would plan your escape into the big, wide, beautiful world.”

Georgio burst out laughing. Maria was shocked. He was laughing at her. No one had ever laughed at her before.

“And what would you do in the big wide world?” he asked.

“I would be happy,” she replied, smiling for the first time.

It was Georgio's turn to shake his head.

“You would be frightened,” he told her.

Maria had never been frightened in her life. Bored, yes. Never frightened.

“I wouldn't be frightened,” she insisted.

“You would be frightened,” he repeated, quietly but firmly. “So frightened that you would come running home to your father and beg him to let you stay forever in this big, warm house.”

An idea popped into Maria's head.

“Perhaps we can help each other,” she suggested. “After all, you want to live in a big, warm house and I want to see the world.”

Georgio was stunned.

“Surely not,” he spluttered. “Surely your father would notice. I mean, I don't look anything like you.”

Maria looked at Georgio's bright red hair, his big blue eyes and burst out laughing.

“Of course Father would notice!”

“Then what do you mean?” asked Georgio, blushing.

Maria thought for a moment.

“Supposing I take all my jewels and we escape from this house together. You could show me the big, wide world and I could give you some of the jewels so that you could buy a big, warm house of your own.”

Just as Georgio was considering this astonishing idea, a cock crowed and the first purple rays of sunlight shot in through the window. Maria gave a little cry.

“Too late,” she whispered. “We can't escape. The servants will be up and Father... You must return to your room.”

“Why don't we grab your jewels and make a run for it?” he suggested.

“Impossible,” she whispered, opening the door. “The guest room is second left, third right, first room on the left. Hurry!”

But Georgio's mind was full of jewels and Maria. He couldn't give up just like that. He challenged her.

“I don't think you want to escape. It's only a game to you.”

Maria's dark eyes flashed him a painful look.

“Perhaps, if you could stay another night, there would be time,” she whispered, trying to think quickly. “Ask my Father. But don't let him know we've met. Now go!”

She almost shoved him out. Georgio found himself alone in the corridor. He managed to find the way back to his room without bumping into anyone. Inside, he flung himself on the bed and fell asleep.

3. A SECRET

Sophia, the maid, was asleep in her tiny attic room, dreaming of what her life might have been like. When the cock crowed, she awoke with such a start that she banged her head on the ceiling.

Sophia was used to the pain. It happened every morning. Her master, Signor Alberto Laspari, would be waiting for her in the breakfast room. Why did he always have to rise so early? As usual, she ran down the first three steps and fell down the rest.

Signor Laspari raised his eyes from his papers and watched his maid gather herself up and stumble into the room, bowing.

“Is my daughter awake?” he asked.

“Yes signor.”

“She is?”

“No signor.”

“Then why did you say she was?”

“I don't know Signor.  I panicked.”

Laspari stared at his stupid maid.

“What are you?” he asked.

“Useless, Signor.”

He nodded.

“Worse than useless.”

“Worse than useless,” she repeated, dutifully.

“So, what should you do?”

“I don't know, Signor.  I think I was born useless.”

“Not about you, you fool.  My daughter's asleep. What should you do?”

Sophia thought about it.

“Wake her, Signor?”

“Exactly.”

Waves of relief flooded through Sophia's mind. She was to wake Maria. It was simple.

“Oh and Sophia, inform the lad in the guest room that I would like to see him.”

“Inform lad in guest room…” mumbled Sophia to herself, trying to take it in. “Two things. Lad in guest-room and the other thing. What is it?”

“Wake Maria!” thundered Laspari.

Sophia fled.

Laspari continued to study his papers. He was not only a very rich man, he was a very busy man. A very important man. Yet he waited patiently until Georgio entered.

“I hope you slept well.”

“Yes thank you Signor.

All Georgio could think of was the secret he shared with Maria. They would run away together with her jewels. But he needed to stay another night.

“Have some breakfast. You must be hungry,” Laspari suggested.

“Thank you Signor. I am hungry and still tired from travelling down through the mountains, sleeping on bare rocks in the freezing cold. So tired, I could sleep for days. I was wondering Signor, if I might sleep in the room for longer. Perhaps until tomorrow. One more night of sleep will make me strong enough to return to the cold harsh world.”

At that moment, Maria appeared. Remembering to pretend not to know her, Georgio gasped.

“Who is this beautiful young woman? Please introduce me.”

“This is my daughter, Maria,” said Signor Laspari.

“My name is Georgio.”

He stepped forward and bowed.

“Are you one of my father's merchant friends?” asked Maria, pretending she had never met him.

“No,” he replied. “I come from the mountains. Your father kindly gave me shelter for the night.”

“Oh Father, you're so generous,” said Maria, pouring herself some fresh fruit juice.

“I was just asking your father if - since I'm so tired - I might be allowed to sleep here another night. May I, sir?”

The question hung in the air. Maria drank her juice and Signor Laspari used his thumbnail to remove some food caught between two teeth.

Finally Maria said, “I'm sure Father will let you stay. He's always so kind. You will let him stay another night, won't you, Father?”

Signor Laspari studied his daughter's face.

“Why should you want him to stay, Maria?”

“Because...”

She thought about it.  What would her father like her to say?

“...He seems kind, honourable, honest.”

“Honest?  How do you know that he's honest?”

Maria could sense that her father was cross but her words tumbled out as she tried to find the right things to say.

“I don't. But he's dressed in a goatskin and his hair is bright red and he hasn't got anywhere to go!”

“How do you know that?” her father demanded.

“I don't. I don't know.”

“How do you know that he isn't a cheat, a sneak, a thief?”

Georgio jumped from his chair.

“I have nothing but the clothes I'm wearing,” he insisted. “Look. Nothing in my pockets. I'm an honest orphan from Caro, Signor.”

“Are you? Supposing you had crept out of your room last night and headed straight for the room where I keep my gold - which you had seen earlier.”

“Are you accusing me?” asked Georgio, suddenly feeling scared.

Signor Laspari took no notice.

“Supposing, just as you were going to steal it, my daughter Maria appeared.”

“Father!” exclaimed Maria. “You were watching!”

She turned sadly to Georgio.

“Father has all sorts of passages, mirrors and ways of watching people.”

“Be quiet girl!” hissed Signor Laspari.

He fixed his piercing eyes upon Georgio.

“You were out to steal my gold.  Admit it, boy!”

“But I never took anything.”

“But you meant to!”

“How can you know what a person is thinking?” Georgio protested.

“Never mind how I know! Don't you think I've lived long enough to know how the mind of a thief works? If you have finished your breakfast, I think you should leave.”

Georgio hadn't had any breakfast but Signor Laspari rose from his chair and Georgio was obliged to follow.

“I'm innocent” he insisted.

“Don't add lies to your sins Georgio.”

Maria heard the front door slam shut. She was furious with her father. But Signor Laspari wasn't interested.

“How dare you take a complete stranger to your room in the middle of the night! And how dare you lie about it!”

He stared hard at her before storming off to make his plans and give his orders.

Maria sat for a while, sipping juice. Then she went upstairs to her room and packed a large bag. She would leave. Secretly. Even if Georgio were a thief, even if she never saw him again, it would be an adventure. Her life would begin!

As Georgio started down the road into town, he turned a corner and saw the port below. There were ships in the harbour, their sails fluttering in the breeze. There were islands beyond, shimmering in the ocean.

Seeing all these riches, Georgio made a promise to himself.

“One day I will be rich. Then I will call upon Maria and invite her to see the world with me. No one, not even Signor Laspari, will be able to stop me!”

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The Andy Parvin Story

Chapter One

Registration, upper sixth.

“Bell?”

“Present.”

Amanda Bell is giggling.

Next to her, Beatrice Moore smiles like the sphinx. She's gorgeous. Top of the girls, no question. Look at her every chance I get. Her parents are Jewish intellectuals from Rhodesia and her father is a leader writer for the Guardian. Beatrice Moore glows with confidence. She's way too high for me.

Amanda, all red hair and freckles, like a sunrise, is second, because she's Beatrice's friend and… Actually, I don't know why Susan of the pointy tits isn't second. Does intelligence or character also count? Confusing.

Anyway, I know the pecking order, right the way down from Beatrice to mumsy, sad-eyed Lorraine, whose Mum is a cleaner and whose Dad is in jail. Everyone knows that Lorraine is in love with Roy Carmichael. But that's like me fancying Beatrice. Impossible.

Roy is Head Boy. Not that his parents are posh or anything. Dad's a bus conductor I think.  Roy just works hard. Ever since I got up into the A stream six years ago, Roy’s been top of the class.  Also, the girls think he's handsome.  I don't like him. Always giving me dirty looks when I do things wrong.

“Parvin?”

It's me.

“Yes Sir.”

Laughter. Everyone looking at me.

“I mean yes Miss.”

“Not entirely present then, Parvin.”

Someone is digging a pencil in my back. I ignore it.

“Pssst! Parvin!”

Shit. It's Roy.

“Afterwards Parvin,” he whispers.

What's he going to do?  Just for saying “sir”? What else have I done? Black cloud descends, frothing with fear, indignation and blind panic. What am I going to do?

End of registration.  Mooch out, as if I've forgotten.  Wander casually over to the door, through the door and...

“Parvin!”

As Roy strides up, Beatrice appears at his side and slips her arm around his waist, causing me even more confusion. Are they together now? How come? Just because he's Head Boy?

He's talking to me, something about Kit Hogarth having a birthday party.  What's it got to do with me? I haven't even been invited.

“I haven't even been invited.”

Roy tutts. “I've just told you.”

“What?”

Beatrice smiles at me and I can't help smiling back.

“It's a secret,” she purrs.  “Tonight.  His mother's organised it.”

I look to Roy for confirmation.   He gives a short, brusque nod. I can't believe it.  They're King and Queen of the school and they're secretly inviting me to Kit Hogarth’s party. I look around, hoping others are noticing.

“So, no one else knows,” I whisper.

“Everyone else knows!” hisses Roy, through clenched teeth.

“I don't get it,” I confess.   “If everyone knows, how come it's a secret?”

Beatrice Moore lays her hand upon my lower arm.

“It's a secret from Kit,” she explains.

The penny drops.

“Kit! Right! Got it!”

“Ssssh!”

“No, it's fine. I understand. It's Kit's secret bir...”

Roy leaps on me, throws me to the floor and wraps his hand over my mouth. I'm furious. I can't breath. I'm flapping about, trying to break free when he grabs my hand and yanks me up.

“What did you do that for?” I wheeze.

He jerks his head sideways.  Is he brain-damaged? Then I notice Kit Hogarth, not three yards away, chatting with new boy, Jules Marsden-Hunt, a tall, posh, spotty geek with a soft, cultivated voice.

My blazer's all dusty and my asthma's come on. Beatrice dusts me down.  She's so kind and beautiful. I fumble for my inhaler, press, suck and hold my breath. When I breathe out and open my eyes, Kit and Jules are halfway down the corridor and Roy's saying something.

“Anyway,” he says, “will you do it?”

“I'd love to come. Where is it?”

Roy throws his hands in the air. “I give up. Thick as two short planks. Come on Beatrice. We'll ask someone else.”

But Beatrice holds him back.   She turns and shines her light on me.

“Andy” she says, her voice like honey, “we want you to do something very special for us, as a favour.”

Wow!

“We want you to waylay Kit after school for an hour - to give the rest of us time to get there.”

My mouth falls open. A special task.

“Will you do it?”

I nod and they're gone.

I float all the way to double English, where Hamlet has to kill the King but he can't, so Ophelia goes mad. When it's my turn, I have to read the lines

Hamlet     Get thee to a nuttery, farewell.

“Nunnery, Parvin.”

Hamlet     Nunnery. ...Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a food.

Laughter.

“Fool.”

I look up. He means me. What have I done now?

“Marry a fool Parvin.”

More laughter, especially Amanda, who's Ophelia. Luckily Mr French gives my part to the new boy, Jules, who whispers. When it's Amanda's turn, she reads

Ophelia    Heavily powders restore him.

“Heavenly powers - Bell!”

Amid the laughter, Amanda gives me a wink. Does she think I got it wrong on purpose?

I start getting that frightened feeling. Just formless worry at first.  Then it comes to me: How can I prevent Kit Hogarth from going home? Kit's a wiry little artist-type with dark angry eyes. He doesn't suffer fools gladly and that's the problem.

I'll fail. He'll go straight home. The party will be a disaster. It'll be my fault and no one will ever give me another chance.

Change of lessons.  Kit is deep in conversation with Jules.  I saunter over.

“Do you fancy doing something after school?”

Giving me a withering look that means “What makes you think I would ever spend time with you?” and wanders off with the new boy. I'm stuck in the doorway, unable to think, everyone pushing passed me, when I remember: It's doughnut time.

Running down the corridor, jumping over a heap of rubble where the walls are collapsing, I make my way to the music block. The school's only been up eight years and already it's falling down. That's why we sell doughnuts at break.  To make the music block safe.

There are over two thousand kids at this super-modern, central London comprehensive school and they all want doughnuts. For fifteen minutes I'm busy, serving the sons and daughters of dukes and dustmen.

Clearing up, I remember my failure with Kit and manage to guzzle about twenty doughnuts without anyone seeing, which makes me fart all through double history.

It isn't until lunchtime, in the middle of conducting the second orchestra, that I come to my senses. Here I am - leader of the school orchestra and in charge of the second - I'm not a quivering, cowering nobody. I can deal with Kit.

I bring down my baton and the entire second orchestra strikes up with the glorious opening bars of Mussorgsky's Great Gate Of Kiev.

Or, at least, it should. What actually happens is a horrible racket. Most of them are second or third formers who can't play their instruments yet.

The fiddles are not in tune.   The woodwind are neither in tune nor in time and the incredible noises coming from the brass section suggest that they've got the wrong page and are blundering through Ballet of the Unhatched Chickens.

I'll just keep conducting. Maybe it'll come right.

“One! Two! Three! Four! One! Two! Three! Four!” I yell.

No.  If anything, it's getting worse. I put the baton down but it makes no difference. The only ones to notice I've stopped conducting are two second-violins who take the opportunity to start a sword fight with their bows.

Kids in the playground are pressing their faces against the windows and visually expressing their response to the music. When I try to tell the brass section that they've got the wrong piece, I'm interrupted by a piercing scream.  Corrinna has stabbed Toby in the foot with her 'cello spike and Toby has to be rushed to the medical block.

Takes the full half-hour to get the opening phrase almost right.  Nonetheless, being in charge makes me feel confident and able to solve the problem of Kit.

Because Fareham's away, there's no one to do music history with us. Polding tells us to revise Beethoven but I go upstairs to the end music room and practice violin. Czardas by Monti and Elgar's Idyll, both of which I like.

I've just got the hang of making music, rather than simply reading the instructions. Trick is to disappear inside the sounds. Strange, frightening feeling. I'll be leaving school in the summer. It's like a black hole. All my thoughts go into that black hole and none of them come out.

Bang on the door makes me jump.   Mr Polding sticks his head round.

“Aren't you going to go home Parvin?”

What does he mean? What time is it? Christ - Kit!

Violin, bow, chin rest, music away. Grab satchel and blazer. Run like the wind. But where? He could've had art.

Through the dinner block, where one of the mashed potato vats seems to be on fire. Up three flights to the art department. No Kit. Only Mr Reece, snogging someone beside the kilns. Christ, it's Susan of the pointy tits.

Into the north playground, pushing my way through the milling, swarming, teeming, footballing, kisschasing, yo-yoing rabble. Past the technical block and out the main gates, wretched with thoughts of failure. I'll never find him.  And my asthma's come on.

Out of the gates, it's a different world. Kids out of school, free at last to have punchups, throw stones and cause traffic accidents. They form a gushing river of maroon blazers all the way down the hill.

There he is!  Strutting along the middle of the road, long hair flowing behind him, like some angry dwarf genius.  Thank god he doesn't wear uniform.

“Kit!”

Some bloody first-year gets his yo-yo wrapped round my arm. In my rush, I pull him over. He starts crying. A great big hairy bloke with tattoos, who used to be at the school, retrieves the yo-yo and punches me in the mouth.

“Kit!” I scream trying to get up from the trampling feet.

“Kit!”

He hears me.

“Stop!”

He sees me.

“Kit!” I wheeze, running up and falling in a heap in front of him.

“What?”

“Er, where are you going?”

“Home, you fat fuck,” he replies and bounds off down the hill.

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