Powerstone

© Malcolm Archibald 2011

The author asserts the moral right
to be identified

as the author of the work in
accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying,

recording or otherwise, without the
prior permission of

Fledgling Press Ltd,

7 Lennox St.
,
Edinburgh
,
EH4
1QB

Published by Fledgling Press 2011

www.fledglingpress.co.uk

ISBN: 9781905916399

First Published in paperback by
Fledgling Press Ltd 2008.

Cover by Fledgling Press

With the exception of historically
recognisable people, all the main

characters in this book are purely
imaginary. Any resemblance to real

people, living or dead is
coincidental. Some places are real, others in

the imagination of the author.

Any errors are those of the author.

‘Johnnie Armstrong was one of the
greatest warriors
Scotland
ever produced,’ John Armstrong
said earnestly. ‘He kept the border between
Scotland
and
England
safe and he was so powerful that
nobody ever crossed him. They say that he had fifty men ready to ride at any
time, day or night.’

Irene Armstrong listened to her
father through the hammer of the
North Carolina
rain on their trailer roof. She had heard this tale so
many times that she knew it off by heart, but enjoyed the feeling of family
closeness and the sense of belonging to a long line of ancestors.

‘Then the King came to call. He
was James Stuart, King James V of
Scotland
and he envied the power that Johnnie Armstrong had. One day he rode
down from his capital at
Edinburgh
to the Borderland and called
Johnnie to him.’

Irene nodded, clinging to every
word as she imagined the scene. She thought of the knights in their splendid
armour, the Scottish king with his prancing horses and men at arms, and Johnnie
Armstrong, bold and brave, coming to see his king.

‘Of course, Johnnie had no idea
that James was jealous. He rode happily to see the king whose border he had
guarded for so long. When King James saw him, so proud and confident and well
dressed, he turned to his men and growled: “what wants yon knave that a king
should have.”’

John Armstrong bent over his
daughter. ‘That means that our ancestor was as brave and bold and handsome as
any king.’

‘Yes, father,’ Irene said
dutifully.

‘And then King James ordered that
Johnnie should be taken away and hanged.’ John Armstrong always paused after
that, and Irene always cuddled closer to him for mutual support.

‘Johnnie was astonished. He
assured the king that he was a loyal man and that he had never robbed in
Scotland
but kept the border safe from
English raids.

“Hang him,” said the king.

‘Johnnie offered his services and
his men. He even offered to ride deep into
England
and capture any Englishman, of any rank and bring him to King James
as a sign of his loyalty.

“Hang him,” said the king.

‘Eventually, Johnnie realised that
he must die, so he faced the king bravely and gave his last words.

“I have asked grace at a graceless
face, but there is nane for my men and me” he said, and added that if he had
known the king’s intentions he would have lived free on the Border, for no king
could have caught him unless by treachery.

John Armstrong held his daughter
tight for a long minute. ‘So you see, Irene, our family were rich once, but we
were betrayed by a tyrant king.’

‘I hate that King James!’ Irene
shouted, breaking free.

‘I have no doubt you do,’ John
Armstrong told her seriously, ‘but hatred does not pay the bills. You must go
to school and work hard and get yourself a better life than I ever gave you.
You must strive to be as bold and brave and strong as Johnnie Armstrong was.
Now,’ he looked closely at his daughter. ‘Do you promise me that?’

Irene smiled into his tired,
defeated eyes. ‘I promise, daddy,’ she said. ‘But I still hate James Stuart.’

New York
, October

‘Here we go, then.’

Irene tried to ease her tension
with a deep breath and glanced sideways at her competitor. She was glad that he
appeared equally nervous, shuffling his feet as he winked at her. The waiting period
was always the worst and Irene felt her gaze drawn to the largest of the three
empty chairs on the opposite side of the table. Standing between its
neighbours, the seat and arms were of green leather, while the headrest was
elaborately carved with the logo of the Manning Corporation.

She allowed her eyes to drop,
aware that the television cameras were running and might even now be
concentrating on her face, searching for arrogance or weakness or any other
emotion that would raise the viewer ratings. The lights burned above, prickling
the top of Irene’s head.

‘Not long now,’ she whispered.

Kendrick nodded. ‘Good luck.’

Irene took the hand that he
offered. It was large and soft, with surprising strength. ‘You too.’

A cameraman murmured in the background
and somebody softly laughed. There was a hum of machinery and a faint cough
from the invisible audience behind the screen. Paper rustled irritatingly. Both
contestants stiffened as footsteps sounded to their left, but nobody appeared
and they tried to relax, false smiles forcing away their nerves.

The table curved gently away from
them, with the three empty chairs on the concave side seeming to symbolise an
inner circle of acceptance. If she was successful tonight, Irene told herself,
she would be a member of that inner circle. Drawing strength from the thought,
she smoothed a hand over the highly polished mahogany. ‘This is Ms Manning’s
own property,’ she said, ‘brought in especially for the show.’

Kendrick nodded. ‘It once belonged
to John Witherspoon,’ he said softly. ‘He is meant to have drafted the
Declaration of Independence on it. Imagine that. The Declaration could have sat
on this very piece of wood.’ He was silent for a minute, and then grinned
across to her. ‘I wonder if we will ever meet again.’

‘I hope so,’ Irene said softly.
‘You’d be a good employee.’ She smiled toward him, allowing her eyes to
crinkle.

Kendrick’s bass chuckle was nearly
as familiar as his grin. ‘So would you,’ he parried easily, ‘as long as you
remain under control.’

‘Do you think Ms Manning is
keeping us here to increase the tension?’ Irene glanced at her watch. The
minute hand seemed to have been hovering between eleven and twelve for at least
a half hour.

‘Undoubtedly. Watching us suffer
makes for good viewing.’

Spotlights flared blindingly as a
drum began to beat a staccato rhythm. Irene stiffened into attention. ‘Here we
go,’ she whispered again as a door opened and three people walked in. Irene and
Kendrick immediately stood as a gesture of respect. The men on the left and
right exuded power and responsibility with their immaculate Giorgio Armani
suits and their bulging leather briefcases, but they were inconsequential
compared to the woman that walked between them.

The top of Rhondda Manning’s head
barely reached the shoulder of either man, but there was no doubting who was in
charge. Every step she took snapped the grey skirt against her legs, while her
simple jacket clung to a gym-trim figure. Even although Irene had studied every
possible detail of Rhondda Manning’s life, she still found it difficult to
believe that this small woman, who dressed with such simple style and spoke so
quietly, could have built up one of the largest corporate empires in the world.

When the elder of the men pulled
back the central seat, Ms Manning sat with a single fluid movement. She smiled
across to both candidates as music sounded softly in the background and a
camera rolled into position. Completely unscented by perfume, she looked across
at Irene; her eyes grey and direct and startlingly clear.

Irene swallowed the sudden nervous
lump that had risen in her throat. She could feel the heat generated by
Kendrick’s body, but was unable to detach her eyes from those of Ms Manning.

‘Welcome to the last episode of
The
Neophyte
,’ Ms Manning said. Despite her wealth and success, her accent
still contained the slow syllables of the Mid West. ‘Within the next thirty
minutes, you will both be walking out of this show for the last time. Thirty
minutes to decide your destiny. Thirty minutes.’ She allowed the words to hang
as a promise and a threat as she looked at each in turn. Irene kept her
expression neutral as she felt those grey eyes probing inside her.

Ms Manning continued, speaking
slowly. ‘By that time I will have made my decision. I will have chosen one of
you to be groomed as my successor, and the other will be on the streets.’

Irene contained the nervous
shudder. Her memory still held the words ‘on the streets, on the streets,’ that
the audience was encouraged to chant every time one of the candidates was
rejected. Then would followed the Walk of Pain, when the loser had to discard
their Manning Corporation green jacket and pass through the audience as they
left the studio. Nobody was permitted to leave by the back door, for the
millions of television viewers loved to view the loser’s anguish.

After enduring so much to reach
the final, Irene could not bear the thought of undergoing that ritual
humiliation. She must win.

‘First we will review your
progress,’ the younger of the two men said. Laying his brief case on the table,
he clicked it open and slid out a thick file of notes. ‘Kendrick Dontell,’ he
smoothed out the syllables. ‘You are a graduate of
Harvard
Business
School
and have worked in the New York
Stock Exchange for three years. You have performed admirably in each task that
you have been set, working honestly and diligently to overcome every
difficulty.’ He looked up, unexpectedly friendly. ‘Harvard, eh? You will have
stood underneath the Johnston Gate then?’

‘Many times, sir,’ Kendrick
confirmed. The Johnston Gate, with its red brick columns and ironwork archway,
was the first gate ever erected at Harvard and had been a popular meeting place
for his class. He smiled as the man nodded.

‘I have too, Kendrick. That’s
where I met my wife.’

Kendrick’s smile broadened. ‘So
did I,’ he said.

Irene glanced at Ms Manning,
uncomfortable at this display of college bonding in which she could not
participate.

Ms Manning may have caught her
unease. ‘Carry on, Peter,’ she ordered, softly. ‘The clock is ticking. Twenty
eight minutes.’

Twenty-eight minutes; the words
resonated through Irene’s mind. In twenty-eight minutes she would know her
future.

‘You have been asked to perform a
number of tasks, Kendrick, each one escalating in difficulty,’ Peter continued.