The maid was the older sort, not quite the age of say Kenâs father, but not exactly a spring chicken. It was a habit of Abel to hire people who feel like theyâve got nowhere left to go, as much as he spoke about class and upbringing and the older women of Devilâs knot and afar were no exception. The mayor seemed to have a soft spot, deep down, buried beneath a million layers of gruff and harden skin. She offered a small cordial smile to Ken, her light blue eyes glinting in the glow of the large chandelier behind her as she swung the door open. âOf course, Master Ken, I know who are you. Your father is waiting in the parlour.â
The music would have met Ken before anything else, the sound of an old recording of a guitar echoing like a haunting ghost down the large hallway. After a few beats, it was joined by Abelâs deep baritone. It was laced with age, every other word cracking from an older pair of lungs and a scrappy throat marked by smoking, but it still sounded damn good. One could only imagine how the mayor would have sounded in his prime.Â
âItâs not time to make a change,
Just relax, take it easy
Youâre still young, thatâs your fault, thereâs so much you have to knowâŚ.â
Ken would likely recognise Cat Stevenâs instrumental and voice humming below his fatherâs and once he entered, he would find Abel lounged in his leather chair. It was the old man favourite chair, the same heâd sat on ever since his children could walk. It was placed smacked between a large stereo set, whose surround sound speakers formed a semi-circle around him to produce a sort of musical nirvana. As time went on, Abel had found that he often had to learn what he truly loved and envelope himself in it, and music was one of those things. Â
No matter what happened, whether it be war, poverty, hunger or loss, music would always be there in the end. Songs could change the mood of a room, could turn a poor day into a bright one and provide company to a lone soul. The eldest Hawker may be without a wife and his children had moved out, but he would always have his records. They towered over everything in the parlour room, huge bookcases just stuffed with disks dating all the way back to the early 20s. Each was meticulously placed in alphabetical order and never went beyond vinyl - Abel hated disk and its lack of character, even though he wasnât beyond listening to more modern songs, provided he could get them in the right format.
A plethora of playback devices were all hooked to the sound system, from grammar phones to cassette players, each taken care of with the utmost care and cataloguing Abelâs journey through music during the past 80 years.Â
He wore a hat over his head, its large brim brought down far each other his gaze was hidden and it was hard to tell whether he was sleeping or not. Only the twirling smoke of his pipe filling the room gave him away, as they formed little overlapping patterns and a faint scent of tobacco following.Â
Initially, thereâs only the voice of Cat Stevenâs between them, Abel not joining in this time.
âFind a girl, settle down,
If you want you can marry
Look at me, I am old, but Iâm happyâ
As the lyrics aired out, Kenâs father raised his leg in greeting, before letting it fall back onto his coffee table, words dry and filled with little emotion, as was often Abelâs way.Â
âHey kid, âbout time you came.â Ken would be kid until he was dead in the grave as far as the mayor was concerned. Abel reached for the remote balancing precariously on the arm of his lounger, switching off the song.
He didnât lean forward or remove his hat, just staying relaxed in his old pose, but nevertheless, Ken would know that his father was staring at him beneath that brim. Assessing and calculating, as he always would.
Every time Ken walked into the cavernous building, he was suddenly thrust back into his childhood. He could practically feel himself regressing with every step into the ancient structure. His nose wrinkled at the greeting, remembering just how much he hated the whole âmasterâ thing. He wasnât Bruce Wayne and any other connotation made his blood boil. It was one of the reasons he rarely brought Aisha or the kids to the house.Â
Soft melodies wafter through the hallways, a tell tale sign his father was somewhere reclining with a cigar and pretending the woes of the world didnât exist. For him, they probably didnât. Abel had a knack for compartmentalizing even the most tragic experiences. Sometimes Ken wished he shared that skill, other times he felt it made the older man too callous to do his job. Being mayor, some cases required a bit more feeling than Ken thought Abel capable of. But you couldnât argue with results. There was a reason Abel had been mayor for so long. He could be pretty convincing when he wanted to be.
Ken excused himself from the maid, knowing exactly where to find his father. Just follow the trail of Cat Stevens and billowing smoke. It was how heâd tracked him down thousands of times over the years. âWell, you asked for me, Pops.â He leaned against the old wood doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. âYou act like I never come âround.â A small smirk popped up on his face. âBut I believe youâre the one who hasnât come by for supper in...what is it, since March? Itâs almost like youâre too busy for your favorite kid,â he mocked, stepping forward and pulling out a plush armchair.Â
It had taken years, but Ken finally felt comfortable taking his own chair in the familyâs great study. Somehow he never felt like heâd earned it. Abel hadnât ever explicitly told him that, but he insinuated as much. Able could tell novels in just one sharp look, a trait Ken had picked up over the years, much to his own childrenâs chagrin.Â
âSo, you gonna take a break from Mr. Stevens and tell me what was so important I had to come all the way out here? Iâm tryinâ to find a kid, you know. Mr. Mayor.â
