Oberon Wycherley left his City job as a management consultant about six o’clock one May afternoon, fed up and generally unimpressed with life, the universe and everything. After several years working abroad, he’d been back in the UK for six months, and it felt more like a century. He’d finally given in to the knee surgery he needed following a fall. Three months of recuperation had driven him part way round the bend then three months spent advising investors on mining companies’ stocks around the globe had taken him the rest of the way. It did not make for a thrilling existence. Talking about mining didn’t compare to being out there, on the ground, delving into actual holes in the earth.

He opted to walk home rather than face the hellscape that was the Tube in rush hour, and to give his knee some much needed exercise, but as he strolled along the road, it began to rain. The first gentle spattering soon turned into a persistent downpour.

“And of course today is the day I don’t have an umbrella,” he grumbled, turning up the collar of his jacket. “Perhaps weather forecasters would be more motivated to get it right if they were made to stand outside whenever they got it wrong.” In their underwear. Actually, that guy on breakfast TV is quite hot, I wouldn’t mind exploring his meteorological preferences. He was passing one of his favourite watering holes, Ye Olde Oak Tavern, and made a snap decision to stop in for a drink and wait out the deluge. He ducked into a narrow passage, which emerged into a courtyard boasting a cherry tree and a few scattered wooden barrels that served as tables in decent weather. Chance would be a fine thing. The Oak was one of those pubs that looked like it belonged to a forgotten age. It still sported a Victorian façade and had been there even longer than Victoria’s reign. Since 1546 in fact, and if its walls had the ability to speak they’d probably be able to spill some very juicy Elizabethan gossip.

Brushing the water from his shoulders, Oberon pushed his way through the heavy oak door then paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The interior space was divided into three small ground-floor rooms. Oberon went into the one housing the bar. Cups, beer mugs, and tankards dangled from the brown-lacquered ceiling. Bottles sat on a shelf at the top of the dark wooden panelling, which finished mid-way up the walls. Above them hung signs, drawings and Elizabethan memorabilia. Oberon liked the place because it was well hidden and attracted locals rather than tourists. Some of the old guys supping pints were as gnarled and stained as the ancient furniture.

He ran a hand through his soaked hair, grimacing at how wet he’d managed to get then went over to the bar. The barman, who would have made an excellent rugby prop forward, filled the small serving area completely. He spotted Oberon and grinned.

“Hey, blondie, running from the weather?”

“Evening, Marley, does it show?” Oberon took off his damp jacket. The water had soaked through to his shirt. Marley tossed him a bar towel.

“You look like a drowned rat. Try that.”

After a bit of cursory drying, Oberon passed it back. He tuned into the background music. “Do you ever play anything but reggae in here?”

Marley shook out his dreads. “Why would I want to do that? My momma gave me this name for a reason, ya know.”

“This isn’t Bob Marley though, it’s…Burning Spear.”

“My influence is finally getting to you.”

“I’ll have a glass of something red. You pick.” Oberon trusted his friend’s judgement when it came to wine. Marley was a collector and quite a connoisseur.

“Try this.” Marley poured him a large glass. “It’s a nice medium-bodied malbec, from one of Argentina’s oldest family-owned wineries.”

Oberon sniffed the glass, swirled the ruby liquid around then took a sip. “Nice. Really smooth.”

“Yeah, I bought in a few cases. I liked the fruity, spicy combo. Reminds me of me.”

Taking a longer drink, Oberon savoured the taste. “It’s excellent. Can you spare a couple of bottles?”

“Sure. I’m here to educate your palate as well as your ears. You look like you need cheering up. What’s going on?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Oberon settled onto a bar stool. “Depression. Malaise. General pissed-off-ness. I’ve been in the sun too long and this weather makes me miserable. My colleagues annoy me. I’m not getting enough exercise because of my stupid knee, and London’s nightlife seems a bit flat.”

“You’re not looking in the right places, my man.” Marley grinned.

“I’m a bit past quick hook-ups nowadays, Marley. The clubs are too loud. Fuck, I’m getting old, aren’t I? Thirty something must be the new eighty something.”

Marley’s deep, rumbling laugh shook his frame. “Sounds like you’re in a rut, Obi. You need some excitement to drag you outta there. Find yourself a cute twink who likes getting his ass spanked.”

“Tempting. Very tempting. Talking of twinks, how is the Doc these days?” Marley’s partner was a cute, bespectacled doctor who worshipped the ground Marley walked on.

“Good. Very good. Works too hard. Paediatrics can be tough, ya know?”

“I can imagine. Give him my best. Tell him I said to take a break and feed you grapes.”

“That has interesting possibilities.”

Oberon sipped his drink while Marley served other customers. The pub’s clientele covered the entire spectrum of the population. It was known as gay-friendly but attracted young and old, purple-haired to pink-rinsed. Oberon enjoyed the laid-back vibe, which had everything to do with Marley’s mellow personality.

“You look like you’re miles away.” Marley was back. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours? You back on a South African beach soaking up the rays?”

“I’ve been out of the country so long, I think I built a picture of what it was going to be like here and it isn’t living up to expectations. I made decent money abroad, didn’t have much to spend it on and planned to enjoy myself for a while. I thought I’d settle here, you know? Now, I’m not so sure.”

“You left as a child, didn’t you?”

“Haven’t been back for more than brief visits since I was six,” Oberon said. “My father was a diplomat and worked all over the world. I was home-schooled then went to Colorado School of Mines for my degree. I’ve worked in South America, Australia and all over Africa.”

“And now you’re back to wet weather, endless conversations about how wet the sodding weather is and tea. All the tea.”

“Yeah. I’m done with sight-seeing, restaurants and theatres. I’ve caught up with odd remnants of family but they don’t know me and they have their own lives. I’m thirty-five, I have a nice but temporary roof over my head, I’m in decent shape and I’m bored.”

Marley poured another glass of wine. “Job not cutting it?”

“It pays the bills. I’m freelance for now, and consulting isn’t the same as being out there getting my hands dirty. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so grumpy. I have it good compared to a lot of people. I shouldn’t be whining at you.”

“Part of the job, mate, listening to people moan.” Marley took the sting out of his words with a chuckle.

“I’m gonna go sit in the corner and browse my phone like a normal human.” Oberon paid for his drinks and the wine he’d be taking home with him then took his glass and snagged a table in the corner next to the window. His job meant keeping an eye on the news so he could justify a bit of doom-scrolling as work. The media sites were full of the usual rubbish about the royals, D-list celebrities and the cost of living. Oberon browsed anything he could find that was remotely related to mining and mining companies. There was a particularly interesting piece about deep seabed mining for polymetallic nodules. Potato-sized lumps containing copper, cobalt, nickel and manganese…hmm, all crucial to battery manufacture. The mention of potato was enough to make his stomach rumble. He took his glass back to the bar, said goodbye to Marley, who handed him a bag containing his bottles of wine, then headed for home.

The rain had stopped, leaving a fine, clear evening. Everything smelled freshly washed. As Oberon walked back to his flat near Portland Place, the crowds surged around him, busy and chattering, snapping pictures of anything and everything. He envied their easy-going camaraderie and excitement even if he didn’t understand the attraction of countless selfies. The shop assistants, office workers in sharp suits, street cleaners and buskers all had things to do and places to be. He gave a few pound coins to a homeless guy hunched in a tatty sleeping bag in a closed-down shop doorway because he saw him yawn; he was a fellow-sufferer. At Oxford Circus, Oberon looked up at the sky and made a vow. I’ll give this place another week and if nothing exciting happens, I’ll stick a pin in a map and buy a one-way flight.

His short-term home was on the first floor of a newish block behind Langham Place. He was flat-sitting for a friend who’d taken a six-month engineering contract in Brazil and the rent he was charging Oberon was peanuts compared to the going rate in the area. The building was upmarket enough to merit a security desk in the entrance hall, along with mailboxes and a well-maintained noticeboard. The lobby smelled of lemons.

His friend had a cleaner who came in three times a week and though Oberon didn’t make enough mess to justify it, he didn’t want to take the woman’s income. Magdalena traded light duties for baking, leaving him Polish sweets and pastries that did nothing for his waistline. There was a lift, which Oberon rejected in favour of the stairs, thinking of those pastries.

He was fitting his key into the lock when another man made his way up the stairs. He moved quietly and his sudden appearance made Oberon start. He was slim, with a short reddish-brown beard, orange-streaked hair and washed-out grey eyes. He was half a head shorter than Oberon’s six feet one.

“You’re my upstairs neighbour, aren’t you?” Oberon recognised him as the occupant of a flat on the next floor. They’d exchanged hellos once or twice in passing but nothing more.

“I am, Mr. Wycherley. I’ve been hanging around waiting for you,” the man said. “Can I come in for a minute?” He seemed to be making an effort to steady his voice, and he reached for Oberon’s arm but didn’t touch him. “My name is Art Carew. I won’t take up much of your time.”

Oberon didn’t feel he could refuse. He got his door open and motioned Art in. No sooner was Art over the threshold than he made a dash for the kitchen, where he peered out of the window before coming back.

“Is the door locked?” he asked, not waiting for a response before fastening the security chain in place himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m taking advantage, but you look like the kind of man who might understand. I’m in trouble and I need a favour. It won’t cost you anything.”

Oberon debated throwing him out there and then but he was bored and the man was intriguing, if a bit odd. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll listen. Can I get you a drink?” He looks like he needs one.

“That would be kind and very welcome.”

There was a tray of decanters and glasses on a table next to the couch. Oberon poured his visitor a generous neat whisky. Art downed it in one. “Another?”

“Thank you but no. I should keep a clear head, but that one helped steady the nerves.”

“My landlord appreciates a single malt. Take a seat. I’ll just be a minute.” Oberon carried his wine through to the kitchen then took off his jacket before returning to the living room. “So, tell me what’s going on.”

“Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I?” Art said. “I’m a bit shaken up and not thinking straight. You see, I’m dead.”