As Mike Oldfield's 'Tubular Bells' filled the room with sound from the strategically placed speakers, Adam reclined his chair further and extended the leg-rest. This wasn't all about pleasure, this was work he thought, smiling to himself. On certain days he would repeat this scenario, a different piece of music each time. He had hundreds of albums, an eclectic mix of rock through to classical and everything in between. He would sit and listen and relax, his eyes closed as he allowed the music to wash over him, waiting for that moment when hopefully a chord or riff, maybe even a beat, triggered something in his head. Sometimes initially, it was hard to focus, the picture not clear. A hazy mist would partially hide it from view until certain notes unlocked his thoughts and then his mind would fly with the music as it painted pictures and scenes inside his head
Adam was a games developer and the music told him a story in stills and moving clips which he dictated into his Dictaphone as they appeared, so fast and furious that his hand could never have kept up if he'd tried to write it down. He had worked like this for the last five years earning him a substantial amount of money and several games titles in the top ten charts each of those years. He was just approaching the part of the album he loved the most, waiting for the voice to start its monologue when the purity of it was shattered as his phone rang. He killed the music, knowing there was now no point in returning to it again today, once that reverie was shattered, he could not just jump back in.
He answered the phone, surprised to find his mother on the other end. Mentally, he tried to calculate how long it had been since he had last spoken to her. He always meant to call, but then forgot as he became engrossed in his next new idea. As a child, he had been focused and driven, knowing exactly what he wanted to do, to the point that he excluded all around him. He was happiest being alone, lost in his thoughts, conjuring worlds and peoples from nothing. At twenty-eight he was single and unattached and that was the way he liked it. Thanks to his single-mindedness, he owned the luxury apartment he was currently sat in and full of all the latest tech. In the garage area underneath the apartments was his Aston Martin, he had promised himself one of those when as a child he had watched his first "James Bond" film, and like the apartment, it was also paid for.
'Hi mum, it must be a while since we have spoken, is everything alright?' He asked her, still trying to fathom when they had last had a conversation.
'Hello Adam, yes, it is a while. It is over twelve months since you last decided to call me, anyway, I need you to do me a favour.' She immediately had him on the back-foot, how could he refuse her request when it was apparent that for a long time, he had made no effort to see or contact his family.
'Sure mum, what can I do for you? Anything at all, it's no trouble.' Little did he know that those words would be the start of something that would change his life.
'Did you know that Moira and her husband have split up?' She asked him, Adam, not having a clue what was happening with the rest of his family.
Moira was his elder sister and at thirty-one, was three years older than he was. Growing up, they had never got on, he thought her snobby, pushy, self-centred and arrogant while she thought he was a nerd and a geek. It must be a least seven years since he had seen her, probably at her marriage which against his better judgement, he had been forced to attend.
'Anyway, she's left Davy and has come home. The only trouble is Adam, I've nowhere to put her. So, I wondered, can she come and stay with you for a couple of weeks until I get things sorted?' She asked.
He could feel himself break out into a cold sweat, the thought of Moira here for an hour sending shivers down his spine, let alone for a couple of weeks. It wasn't that he did not have the room. Besides his bedroom, there were two guests' rooms, which in the time he had lived here, had never been used. It was just the thought of her and the way they had acted towards each other in the past, invading his private space which made him fearful.
'Of course, mum, it's no trouble,' he lied. 'When does she want to come over?' He listened as she told him of the arrangements and when he could expect his sister, and any other family news while she had him on the line.
'Don't be a stranger Adam, at least call me. Better still, come and see me.' He felt guilty, he never meant to neglect her. She was his mum and he loved her, he just sometimes found it hard to live in the real world, happy to escape it at every opportunity.
Moira sat in her mother's lounge awaiting the outcome of the call with trepidation. She had arrived home the previous day to find Davy in bed with Sonia, her supposedly best friend. After blacking her husband's eye and ripping lumps of hair from her ex-friends head, she had packed a case and headed for her mothers, spending last night on the couch.
There just wasn't enough room in the house for her to stay longer than maybe a couple of nights, which was why her mother had rung her brother. The thought of staying with him was Moira's worst nightmare, thinking back to when they were both teenagers and how they had fought like cat and dog.
He'd had spikey unmanageable hair, wore prescription glasses and was skinny as a rake. Getting him to utter more than two words was a chore and he would go out of his way to annoy her, especially in the presence of her friends.
Her mother returned and gave her a slip of paper, 'This is Adam's address, he said it's ok for a few weeks and is expecting you. Please, for my sake, try and get on.'
Moira packed up her few belongings from last night, stuffing them into her bag and taking it out to the car. She hadn't a clue where her brother lived so put his address into the sat-nav, surprised when it told her that it was an eighty-mile journey to the city.
Moira lived in the next town to her mother, and while over the years she had visited the city a few times, it was not somewhere she frequented. The afternoon was warm and bright as she put the roof down on the coupe, tying a headscarf in place to protect her hair and donned her sunglasses.
The journey took her just over an hour and a half, the roads busy as she came into the city outskirts. Following the directions, she skirted the suburbs, advancing nearer and nearer to the centre. She had imagined that her brother lived in a high-rise block or perhaps one of the old townhouses that had been sub-divided into flatlets.
Imagine her surprise as the sat-nav declared that she had arrived at her destination, looking up at the modern glass and steel building. Outside was a "drop off only zone" and she was unsure where to park as a smartly dressed doorman approached her.
'Can I help you, Madam?' He politely asked, directing her to do a left and left again which would bring her to the visitor parking bays.
Putting the roof back up, she locked her car and made her way back around to the front, the concierge holding the door open for her and giving directions.
'Apartment 8 Madam. The lift is just around the corner and you need the fourth floor.'
As the lift rose, Moira took stock of her surroundings. Surely her mother had got it wrong, there was no way Adam was living in something like this. A 'squat' she decided, was more his style.
Leaving the lift, she could have turned left or right, the sign on the wall opposite, pointing left for apartment seven and right for apartment number eight.
She walked slowly down the short corridor, pushing the doorbell button and hearing the soft melodic chimes from within. It took a moment before the door was opened by a young man, Moira staring at him in surprise, 'Adam?'
'Hello, Moira!' She picked up on the hint of surprise in his voice as he stood back and invited her in, leading her down the hall and into the lounge.
Is it really you?' She had to ask because there was no way that the young man stood in front of her, resembled the brother that she remembered.
Dressed in a white polo shirt that fitted him like a glove and teamed with beige trousers, he looked every bit like one of those well to do, upper-class people, that you would see on the TV.
