We are at the end of Henry’s sojourn and nearly four months have passed, what seems like a lifetime for both.
Michelle is back at work and using drugs to deaden the experience.
Henry is dreading going back home, because he has nowhere else to go, and he will not be seeing Michelle. That ship, pardon the pun, has sailed.
Felix, The Turk’s enforcer (The Turk is the man who owns the parlours that Michelle and her friends work in, and the man to who Michelle has an obligation when he forgave her drug debt) goes to see him, and tells him Michelle is off to see Henry.
She had found out where and when he is returning and planned to meet him and tell him the truth, and maybe why they cannot be together. The Turk is sure she’ll return. Now she’s back on drugs, he says Henry will be disgusted and that’ll be the end of it.
In her current state, far from how she looked back in Morganville, he might be right.
It was the message left on my cell phone from Detective Inspector that sometimes threw work my way, usually difficult cases that didn’t have the usual clues leading to a resolution.
I’d been lucky in an old case I’d been researching for a mystery novel and discovered a pattern that, in the end, led to the discovery and resolution of seven other cases spanning thirty years.
It got me into Detective Inspector Clarissa Menzies’ world of criminal investigations, which benefited my research and writing, as well as provided her with another perspective on some of her cases.
I met her at the hospital and was surprised that it was outside a psychiatric ward.
“A little background first. The person you’re about to meet, Angela O’Brien, found herself in a relationship with a criminal, James Dyson, who was portraying himself as a businessman. Things were fine until she discovered who he was, and then, finding herself in too deep asked us to help find a way out. Unfortunately, the best of intentions didn’t quite go the way we planned it.”
“Don’t tell me. You recruited her to get the information you could use against him; you couldn’t resist having someone that close and not try to use it.”
Her expression told me that was exactly what happened. “It was not what I wanted, but to get our help, they wanted something in return.”
“Let me guess. Once she realised who he was and how dangerous he was, she changed. He noticed the change, and when she tried to get the information, he caught her.”
“She was lucky. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn’t get to see or take anything. He was just overly suspicious, realising that sooner or later, she would find out.”
“I’m assuming she is in the psych ward, which means…”
“The Barnsdale warehouse fire. He was using it as a processing centre for stolen goods inside the legitimate organisation trading in second-hand goods and claimed, out of spite, she burned the place to the ground. We found her there, covered in incriminating evidence, unconscious from a beam that fell on her as a result of the fire. The thing is, she has no memory of the night, how she got there, or anything. He’s made all the running in this case, accusing her of arson and demanding we charge her. The only problem is that there was another body in that fire, one of his associates, and we think he murdered him, and the way it’s going, if she can’t remember anything, she will end up paying for his crime. All she can remember is the word Kaleidoscope.”
“How will my talking to her make a difference if her memory is gone?”
“You will no doubt have a completely different perspective on the whole affair, especially since I’m not going to tell you anymore. Treat her as a suspect in one of your stories and ask questions. All you need to know is that it was a crime scene, a man was murdered, the fire is covering that up, and she has been set up to take the fall. It might end up being your next novel.”
“Will you be staying?”
“No. I’ll tell her you are helping us with the case and you have some questions.”
For a victim found in a burnt-out building, she seemed remarkably untouched. Except for bandages on her head and some red welts on her hands, there was little other evidence of her ordeal. She was middle-aged and had the appearance of a woman who had devoted herself to the job, forsaking marriage and children. Larissa hadn’t told me her circumstances, but I suspect she may have worked in his organisation, and he had targeted her. Or the circumstances might be totally different.
Clarissa introduced me and then left. I sat down, aware she was giving me the once over, her expression conveying curiosity and wariness.
“The detective says you might be able to help me remember. Are you a doctor?”
“No, but I do have a degree in psychology, not that I ever wanted to be a psychologist. It sometimes helps analyse people, more to put me at ease in their company than anything else.”
“You’re going to analyse me then?”
“Do you want me to?”
“If it discovers how I could have made such a stupid mistake, yes. I mean, I’m sure I knew there was something about him, but I just ignored it until it was too late.”
“We are either willing to compromise in order to get what we want or not, and finish up becoming old and bitter. The fact that it turns out to be the wrong one, it’s just a mistake we learn from and generally move on from. Rarely does it end up like your current situation. But, in your favour, the Inspector doesn’t believe you are either a murderer or an arsonist, despite the circumstantial evidence. However, it would help if you remembered something, anything from that night. So, tell me the last thing you remember?”
“Getting ready to go out.”
“Was this when you realised, he was on to the fact you knew who he was.”
“It wouldn’t be hard, try as I might, I couldn’t get over the horror and knowing I’d been with such a terrible man.”
“Did he change in any way towards you?”
“Not that I could tell, but then he was a good actor.”
“Do you know where he was taking you?”
“No.”
“Was there a place you’d normally go?”
“Yes. A small restaurant owned by a friend of his. When things were good, we’d all dine together and talk about the future. He had been talking about spending a few months in Sorrento, Italy. He had relations there, he said. It would have been nice.”
I’d been there once. The place was nice, but the circumstances were not. I’d gone there to try and patch up a relationship, but it only made matters worse.
“It would be reasonable to assume he knew you were gathering information and was distancing you from his friends.”
“Do you remember him coming to get you?”
“No.” Then she closed her eyes and had the look of a person trying to squeeze those memories out of their hiding place. After a minute, and then two, with various pained expressions on her face, and then she opened her eyes and looked at me. “He looked worried, even frightened. I can see his face, whether it was that night or not, he was standing in the doorway. It might have been when he found out I had been to the police, it might not. Now that I come to think of it, he did mention once to his friend at the restaurant, that a certain other person was trying to move in on his business.”
“Which might mean that someone else burned down the warehouse and you were there by coincidence.”
“Perhaps. We often dropped in after hours and looked at the new stock that came in that day. I had no idea at the time that any of it was stolen goods, but a lot of it was high quality and worth a lot of money. It seems that he was filling orders; someone would come in and ask for a particular item, and he would go find it. Or, as I know now, steal it. Some of the people who worked for him didn’t look like nice people, and when I asked about them, he simply said he was doing civic duty, giving ex-prisoners a second chance. Oh, another thing I remember, he had a register where everything that passed through the warehouse was kept, including where it came from, who bought it, and how much. I saw it once; showed it to me and then put it away in a large safe. I knew the combination; I’d seen him open it. All I can remember now is that I was going to steal it. Somehow.”
“You had a plan?”
“No, it was going to be based on opportunity. But it was dragging out, because he never let me out of his sight, not after I think he realised what I was doing.”
“Any other places he would take you?”
“Little cafes, another restaurant run by another friend, not as good as the other, and several nightclubs. He would sit with other business owners, he called them, and the women, well in most cases girls that look like they still went to school, were shunted to one side. We didn’t want to hear about boring commerce. I didn’t want to listen to girls who could easily be my children, and they thought it strange he would date me, after his last girl, about 20 they said, had more class than I ever would. When I asked where she was, they didn’t know.”
“You told Clarissa this?”
“Yes. After seeing all of them for the first time, I had to wonder why he was dating me. If I was cynical, I’d say it was to make me a patsy. My guess is the guy they found dead in the ruins was the guy trying to buy him out.”
“What were the nightclub names, do you remember?”
She did, in part, but it was enough. If that was a usual haunt, maybe they’d gone to one first. It was a lead worth following.
When I suggested Clarissa and I go to a few nightclubs, I was not sure what her first thought was, but I hastily added that Angela may have visited one before she ended up in the warehouse inferno, she looked relieved. Perhaps she thought I might be trying to get a date with her, an idea that had passed through my mind, but I knew that would be impossible. Work, for the moment, was her priority, and trying to move up the ranks.
The first two had little to offer, and showing each of the bartenders Angela’s photo did not rouse any signs of recognition. I could tell, even if they were lying.
The third and last were bigger, brighter, and full of people. Clarissa recognised a few, from the other side of the law, as well as a few colleagues mixing with people they should not. It was called Axiom and had continuous blinking coloured lights, like, Clarissa suddenly said, a Kaleidoscope.
“Did you know she was referring to Axiom when she mentioned the word Kaleidoscope?” She had to yell about the white noise all around us, and the thumping music in the background.
“It was a long shot at best. When she mentioned he had taken her to places like this, it gave me the idea.”
Clarissa brought out the photo and went, one by one, to each of the bartenders showing the photo of Angela. Three recognised her, but it was east to see they were lying about it. The fourth said she had been in the night of the fire, with the man, and there had nearly been a ‘set to’ as she called it, resulting in the other man being thrown out.
That was when I discovered Clarissa had had dealings with the owners before, and she picked one out, sitting over the back of the club, surrounded by young women, and went straight over to him. He tried to distance himself from the girls, some of which looked underaged but failed.
“Phillip,” she said. “You do not appear to have learned anything since I was last here, have you?”
He glared at her, then stood. “What do you want, Clarissa?”
“CCTV for the night of the 3rd. There was a scuffle and an ejection. Show me, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You know I can’t do that. Privacy and all?”
“Then how about I arrest three of these girls and take them down to the station and find out how old they are?” She pulled out her cell phone and brought up the station house number.
“You look, then you go?”
“Of course.”
He took us out the back to a small room with a lanky young man named Wally lounging in a comfortable chair, watching half a dozen screens. He was, according to Phillip, watching for drug transactions. He ran a clean club wherever possible. Any perpetrators and buyers were instantly removed.
He told Wally to bring up the feed from the night in question, and the scuffle in question occurred about an hour and a half before the first report of the warehouse fire. Dyson was there, pushing and shoving back, he didn’t start the altercation, and then the bouncers moved in. Two takeaways from the footage, the other man was someone both of us had seen before, and Angela appeared to be very drunk. Only it looked more like she had been drugged.
Ten minutes later, both were caught on CCTV, leaving by the front entrance, Dyson supporting her as if she had too much to drink. Clarissa got copies of the footage for both events. Then we left.
Clarissa had what she believed was enough probable cause to bring Dyson in for an interview.
I was allowed to observe from a room where I could see him but he couldn’t see me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know others were nearby. He loomed over at the window and it was an eerie feeling.
He was in a jovial mood because he obviously thought that he had left no evidence behind. He hadn’t mentioned an altercation at Axiom with the business rival, now identified as Roger Davies’ and the dead man in the burnt warehouse.
Perhaps Dyson was hoping the body may have been incinerated, but it wasn’t.
Clarissa and her partner came in a sat down. She had a small file with her, perhaps deceptively so to make him think their evidence if any wasn’t enough to worry about.
His lawyer sat silently, like a man who didn’t want to be there. Did he know the truth?
“Mr Dyson, let’s go through your movements on the might of the warehouse fire.”
She glared at him, or perhaps it was a half grimace. He was, she had said privately to me, an obnoxious little toad.
“‘We’ve done this. If we’re going to rehash what non-evidence you’ve got…” he stood. “Then we’ve got better things to do.”
She shrugged.
“Then try telling us the truth, Mr Dyson. I rarely asked questions in a third interview when I don’t already know the answer, so I suggest you sit down.”
“You’ve got nothing…”
She pushed a button on her phone and the screen directly in his line of sight started with the altercation at Axiom.
“Sit down Mr Dyson, and while you’re doing so try not to conjure up any more lies.”
So I had an argument with some loudmouth fool.”
“The loud-mouthed foil that ended up in your warehouse, very dead, Mr Dyson.”
“Angela’s Co-conspirator perhaps I don’t know maybe they conspired together to burn the place down.”
His eyes didn’t leave the screen though because I was sure he knew what was coming next.
“About that Mr Dyson. How did the woman you see, quite obviously the so-called arsonist, completely out of it, and remain so even after she left the club? Not someone who couldn’t strike a match let alone perform the perfect set-up that would need the skills of a seasoned well-trained arsonist. Oh, and something else you need to consider. She was drug tested when she was brought in. A complete panel. The doctor in the hospital she was taken was overzealous in doing her job. Didn’t know until an hour ago. Rohypnol Mr Dyson. Now, let’s forget the histrionics, and blame others for your problem. From the top, let’s go through your movements on the day of the fire.”
Just when you think that the story is done, and you’re on the third re-read, just to make sure…
Damn!
I don’t like the way that chapter reads, and what’s worse, it’s about the tenth time I’ve looked at it.
It doesn’t matter the last three times you read it, it was just fine, or, the editor has read it and the chapter passed without any major comment.
I think the main problem I have is letting go. For some odd reason, certain parts of a story sometimes seem to me as though they are not complete, or can be missing a vital clue or connection for the continuity of the story.
That, of course, happens when you rewrite a section that is earlier on in the story, and then have to make ongoing changes.
Yes, I hear the stern warnings, that I should have made a comprehensive outline at the beginning, but the trouble is, I can change the ending, as I’m writing it and then have to go back and add the hooks earlier on. Not the best method, but isn’t that what an editor is for, to pick up the missed connections, and out of the blue events that happen for no reason?
I find that often after leaving a finished story for a month before the next reading, the whole picture must formulate itself in my head, so when I re-read, there was always a problem, one I didn’t want to think about until the re-read.
Even then it might survive a second pass.
I know the scene is in trouble when I get to it and alarm bells are going off. I find anything else to do but look at it.
So, here I am, making major changes.
But, at least now I am satisfied with where it’s going.
When I first saw it I thought it was an old country estate, converted and expanded into a golf clubhouse.
It wasn’t. It is a purpose-built clubhouse and function center for corporate seminars and wedding receptions, as well as catering to the golfer, and golf tournaments.
It also has a very good outlook over the golf course.
But, in my writer’s mind, this will provide inspiration for a story that could be set in a large country house, with the central tower and lookout featuring in what might be a grisly death, and a group of guests who have gathered together to enact a mock murder that turns out to be very real.
Yes, the idea has been done to death over many many years, but I have a few new twists in mind.
Let’s pause a minute, in space, to get it some measurements right
…
Out there, in space, it’s not like being on the highway, going from one side of the country to the other.
That, effectively, is only a few thousand miles, or kilometres as we now measured distance, the influence of the European counties attached to the space alliance.
But late at night, and astrophysics, or astrology, or whatever the science of space is called, is not a subject to take up, particularly when you’re tired.
The other night I was tired, and confused, and hence got all my numbers muddled up. The thing is, when numbers go up to billions, with all them zeros, it could be confusing for everyone.
Or maybe it was just me.
But, the first constant is the speed of light. That’s approximately 1,079,251,200 km per hour, Pretty fast, eh.
But, as I’m told, nothing can go faster than the speed of light.
So, in this story, it’s a given.
Spaceship speeds, in this story, are measured as SSPD’s.
SSPD 1,000 is the speed of light.
This new spaceship will not go that fast. It is capable of SSPD 5, but even then, it’s not recommended. So, we are, from the beginning, are going to accept that it will go SSPD 4.
Trials got it to 4.5, but that was when the design engineers were aboard and could fix any problems.
So how fast are the SSPD increments?
SSPD 1 is 1,079,251 km per hour. SSPD 2 is double that. That’s the fastest cruising speed the current ships can travel.
This new ship goes twice as fast so at SSPD 4 it can cruise at 4,317,004 km per hour.
Now, where I got everything wrong, is the distance of the planets from earth, and the time it would take to get there.
Mars: about 56 million km when in line between the earth and the sun, but has a min of 54.5 million km
Venus: between 38 million and 261 million km
Mercury: averaging about 77 million km to a max of 222 million km
Jupiter: from a min of 588 million to a max of 968 million km
Saturn: from a min of 1.3 billion to 1.7 billion km
Uranus: from a min of 2.57 billion to 3.15 billion km
Neptune: from a min of 4.3 billion to 4.7 billion km
Since in the story it’s possible the ship might be stopping at Mars briefly, the time it could possibly take, given the position of mars at the time (about 60 million km), is about 14 hours.
As for the ultimate destination, Neptune, at 4.5 billion km approximately, it is going to take 1,042 hours, or 43.5 days.
Hopefully, I’m now over some of the confusion of distances between the planets, and will have some semblance of credible measurements and times.
I had in mind right about now to find all the reasons why this romance would not work.
Michelle is not telling him the truth about her situation. We want to believe she had found the love of her life, but is it that she has found something that she’s not had before, and it’s too late?
Her path was chosen for her, perhaps, when she allowed others to lead her down a path that eventually led to self-destruction. Yes, she has tried to escape, twice, but inevitably she finds her way back, thinking the city is large enough she can make a new start.
She is wrong. Why didn’t she move to the other side of the country, or even overseas? Perhaps it was an obligation she felt to help those who had helped her escape.
The big question here is whether we let our past define us. Do we try and find a way out of the wreckage, and try to get back on track? It seems the situation is hopeless, or so we are led to believe.
However, the last date was when she was supposed to tell Henry it was over, that she could not be his girlfriend., but couldn’t. He had to hear that from another source.
And, what he hears, leads him to believe there is no future for them.
Ships are great places to hide away from the rest of the world.
Henry has to endure a short period when he cannot bring himself to tell anyone what had happened, and then, at the end of the tour he takes a position on another ship, roaming the ocean for at least three months, island hopping.
He needs a sojourn, time to think, and any letters she sends, for what reason he cannot fathom, are consigned to the bottom drawer, unopened. He is, he tells himself, done with her.
But never far from his thoughts, he decided to learn as much about her as he can, and turns to the newspaper archives, and the reporter who wrote most of the articles, none very flattering about her, and then talks to her about Michelle.
High flying model, absolute success, met the wrong man, got into drugs, and spiralled downwards from there. She ended up addicted, and eventually a prostitute. Not exactly what he wanted to hear, but it explained everything.
And yet, the person he met, the girl he fell in love with, was so far removed from that description, he could not understand anything.
Meanwhile, Michelle, oblivious to the fact he had overheard her conversation, cannot understand why he does not communicate with her, and cannot be found.
Time passes, and she cannot keep the man who runs her life now at bay for much longer, and then, it’s back to the snake pit with her friends; and the drugs, sitting on the kitchen bench, are a strong reminder of how she used to shut it all out.
Will the temptation get the better of her?
It’s a pivotal part of the story, and in the traditional romance, it’s the ‘boy loses the girl’ usually to a misunderstanding.
It was as if Microsoft Word was sent down from that place in the universe where a group of torturers sit around a table to find new ways of making our lives just that little bit more difficult.
I mean, most of the time it works really well and behaves itself.
But…
Then there are the times, usually when you are stressed about a deadline, or you are nearly at the end of what you believe to be the most brilliant writing you have ever put on paper.
Then…
Disaster strikes.
It could be the power goes off, even for just a few seconds, but it’s enough to kill the computer. It could be that you have reached the end and closed Word down, thinking that it had autosaved, all the while ignoring that little pop up that says, ‘do you want to save your work’?
It’s been a long day, night, or session. You’re tired and your mind is elsewhere, as it always is at the end.
You always assume that autosave is on. It was the last time, it has been since the day you installed it however long ago that was.
So…
When the power comes back on, you start the computer, go into Word, and it brings back all the windows you had open when the power failed, and the one with the brilliant piece you just wrote, it’s just a blank sheet.
Or up to where it last autosaved, which is nowhere near the end.
Or it didn’t save at all.
You forget the software updated recently and that always brings changes. Usually unwanted changes.
By which time you have that sinking feeling that all is lost, deadline missed, brilliant work lost, it’s the end of the world.
You promise yourself you’re going to get Scrivener, or something else, where this doesn’t happen.
Or if you’re like me, you put the cat on the keyboard and tell him to sort the mess out.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
There was a clock tower not far from the hotel, and I heard it strike 12 midnight. It was time to go home before I turned into a pumpkin. Or perhaps I didn’t quite have it right. It didn’t matter. I needed sleep and it wasn’t going to happen here.
Nadia was being a temptress and not even realizing it.
“You need me on your team. I know the inside of the mall like the back of my hand.”
It didn’t surprise me. She used to run with a group of girls who could give Alex and Vince a run for their money in being cruel. I was positive now that she was in the mall at the same time we were, and quite possibly following us. After what Alex said earlier, there were going to be a lot of people following each other.
“You know where the bodies are?”
A slight hesitation before she said, “I might.”
The question was whose bodies. Missing girls, Benderby’s enemies. Certainly not the archaeologist, but if there was a torture chamber down there, maybe some clues that would point the police in the right direction.
“Well, tempting as that sounds, but no.”
“What if I told you I think I know where they tortured that archaeologist guy.”
“Why would they, in fact, it’s the one thing in all of this that puzzles me. Rico might have had a reason simply because he’s little more than a blunt instrument, not an extractor of information, that required a little more refinement than he’s, and the Benderby’s, what on earth could he know that they needed it from him.”
“Try the exact contents of this so-called treasure.”
“No one could possibly know what that pirate, whatever his name was, actually had?”
Not unless he was with the captain when he buried it, which, of course, unless he was a time traveler, he wasn’t and therefore couldn’t know.
“No one could possibly know that.”
“I beg to differ.”
She knew something we didn’t. This was turning out to be a very interesting day.
“How?”
“Say for instance the pirate had a journal, a ship log I think it’s called, and in that journal, he noted everything he pillaged from all of the ships they attacked.”
“You’ve seen it?” I asked, slightly incredulously. This was the first I’d heard of one, and I doubted Boggs had either unless it was something he was not telling me.
“No.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Vince.”
“He’s pulling your leg. There’s no such journal or log in existence.”
“Oh, there is. That’s what the archaeologist had. And that’s what both Alex and Vince were trying to buy. And when he wouldn’t sell it to Alex, his men went a little too far with their persuasion tactics.”
“I bet Vince wasn’t happy.”
“No. He thinks Alex does know where it is, so they’re playing their games of cat and mouse. But it’s a waste of time. My source tells me the archaeologist never gave up the location of the journal. Both the Benderby’s and the Cossatino’s have been to his house but it was nowhere to be found.”
And if that was the case, then there would be no interior to the house left, one of the other would have stripped the walls in their search. But, if it was true and there was such a journal, two questions came to mind. The obvious was, where was it? The less obvious was why didn’t the archaeologist go looking for the treasure himself?
There was an answer, that he didn’t have the right map.
I cast my mind back to the only time Boggs showed me what he called the real map. It had been folded, and you could see the fold marks that had been there for a long, long time. Was it possible at some point the map was separated from the journal?
Had someone known about the map, and stolen it and rather than the journal?
“I can see the cogs ticking over in your head Smidge. You are going to need me, in the end. Especially if you find the treasure. You’ll want to know what both Vince and Alex are up to, and little old me with be right there between them.”
“You think that Alex doesn’t know what you’re up to?”
“You already know more than you did when you walked in the door. Either of them finds the treasure, I get nothing. You and Boggs find it, maybe I’ll get something. I don’t care what they think.”
She was dangerous, deceptive, and beguiling sometimes all at the same time. This was one of those moments.
“I think Boggs doesn’t entirely trust you, or anyone,” she said.
“That couldn’t possibly surprise you. Look what’s happened to him over the years. No one knows what happened to his father.”
“Maybe we can find out. How about you and I pay the mall a visit. I guarantee it will be a lot more interesting than finding a mannequin.”
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
I remember the last conversation I had with my father the day he died.
It had taken three months of my life, giving up everything to make sure his last days were bearable, all with the expectation that it would be a thankless task he would not appreciate. Three months of dismissive retorts, insults, insufferable behaviour, cryptic comments, and sometimes, in less lucid moments, ramblings about places he’d been, and discoveries made.
Neither of my brothers wanted anything to do with him, other than to wait for the selfish bastard to die and leave them their sufferance money, their expectation of an incalculable inheritance, and it was left to me, the youngest son, and in their eyes the one he cared about the most to take responsibility.
I didn’t have the heart, nor was I given the opportunity, to tell them I was not the golden boy they thought I was. Or the fact there was no incalculable inheritance.
But there was that conversation, one I never expected to have.
I’d left the room for a break, heading to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a croissant. Amelia, one of two dedicated nurses looking after my father, was there, having a coffee before she started her shift. We had become friends of a sort, each other’s go-to person when my father unravelled on us.
Yesterday’s revelations were about his will, and which one, if there was one, was current. His mind changed weekly, including who was in and who was out, which made it especially interesting because he sometimes didn’t remember any of all of us. Or the fact his wife, our mother, had died twenty years before after being dragged along on one of his archaeological adventures.
Yesterday, I was getting nothing, his rant about the child, not knowing I was in the room with him. He simply didn’t recognise me. Everything, he said, was going to Elroy, the eldest brother, who, apparently, was in the room with us.
The brain tumour was affecting him more each passing day, and symptoms and behaviour the doctors had told me from the outset, would demonstrate indescribable and at times confronting behaviour. I think, in that three months, I’d seen it all.
“Another day, not another million dollars, eh Steven?” She smiled. She’d caught the last of the spray he gave me. She was amused by my eligibility as a so-called wealthy bachelor, which changed from week to week. This week, it was zero wealth, no eligibility.
“I was hoping to propose, but once again, I can’t afford the ring, the wedding, or the honeymoon.”
“You know what I expect, a soda can ring pull, my parent’s backyard, and a B and B in Yonkers. If I’m lucky. My parents might charge rent for using their backyard.”
We joked about it, but I’d thought more than once in the last few weeks to ask her on a date, but after telling me about her last breakup and the horrid man, she’d sworn off dating for life. She was the only light in days of darkness.
“Everything comes to he or she who waits. I’m sure the right one is out there somewhere.”
“We can only hope. He had a quiet night, I’m told, and the end is near. Twice the night nurse had thought he’d died. Maybe he’s finally done.”
I could only hope. “Got anything lined up for the weekend?”
She grimaced. I knew that look. Duty and obligation led to an inquisition.
“Going home to visit mum and dad, and see the perfect sisters with their perfect families, each with their perfect husband with perfect jobs, and why I’m not married, have no children in a dead-end job. I sometimes wonder if I should ask you to pretend to be my perfect husband just to get them off my back. What do you think?”
It was an idea that sent a shiver through me when it shouldn’t.
“I’m not perfect.”
“Nobody is, Steven, except in my family. Tell you what, the more I think about it….” Then she shook her head. “I think I’m going mad. I’ll see you later.” She rushed off, and I was not sure if she was late starting or embarrassed by thinking out loud.
It was an idea. Maybe I’d mention it later.
I opened the curtains covering the windows and looked at the frail man either asleep or feigning sleep. It was hard to tell. He was, after the ravages of age and illness, now only a fraction of what he used to be, a big, strong force of nature.
I arranged the array of newspapers I’d brought with me, just in case he wanted me to read stories from them, or just one. I had several Dickens novels, which I’d read to him at night. He liked the classics and Dickens in particular. I had a bottle of scotch, which we had a drink of sometimes. Other times, I was not allowed because he thought I was too young. It was amusing.
Every morning was a waiting game, where I would wait until he spoke to me unless one of the medical staff interrupted this charade. It seemed to amuse him, and because he was dying, I played along.
Reading the newspaper while waiting, I found a story on page 6 of the local rag, my father’s description of it because he had never anything nice to say about it, or the reporting because the editor was an arch enemy if his, about his impending demise, and how he had been the counties most distinguished archaeologist and celebrity. It refrained from mentioning he could be and often was abrasive.
“Alfred Biggins in serious condition.” Followed by a catchy subtitled, “Not expected to live.”
It was rather a belatedly written story written by a friend, of sorts; “stodgy”, so named because his journalistic talent was simply writing the facts. It was a mishmash of everything he’d got from me in a bar the previous Friday in what he thought was a well-disguised interrogation. It was not. Having every intention of trying to keep the wolves from the door, I managed to head off an assassination piece; those would come from various sources after his death.
“Is that you, Steven?” My father was awake, and I braced myself.
I put the paper down and looked over to see him sitting up. If I was to guess, he didn’t look ill or half mad at all, just his usual self. “It is me. What can I get you?”
“Nothing I can’t get for myself. What are you doing here? What am I doing here?”
OK. Something was very wrong here. This person in the bed was not my father. “You have a brain tumour and you’ve been in a very bad way. In fact, the night nurse had thought you’d died. Twice.”
“Died? Brain tumour? There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”
Then I remembered what the doctor had said a month or so ago when we went through a similar phase. This moment of clarity wouldn’t last.
“Dad, believe me, you are unwell, and this is just a temporary remission. The doctor will be here soon and will explain it.”
“Then if I’m ill as you say, where are your brothers?”
“They wanted nothing to do with you once you were put in here. They delegated me to keep you company. I’m sure you don’t remember any of this, but it’s been three months now, and it’s getting worse.”
He shook his head and went quiet. It was as if he was taking in the enormity of it, or just that he didn’t believe it could happen to him. A few minutes passed, and I wondered if he had slipped back into the fog.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. “Yes. Some of it I remember, firstly going down like a sack of potatoes in Cairo, waking up in some damn hospital with a witch doctor trying to peer into my soul. Said I had a tumour and it needed to be seen to, said I had six months, at best to live. Of course, I laughed at him, came home, and then the last thing I know was falling over in the study at home.”
“It’s where I found you. It was a day before I came home. Scared the living hell out of me.”
“How long since that day?”1
“Three months almost to the day.”
“Plus the three before that, that’s the six months. I’m on borrowed time. There’s a journal in the study. I don’t remember where I put it, but it’s in a safe place. If I remember before I die, I’ll tell you, but I think that’s a long shot at best. The will is in a copy of the 1933 Guide to Touring Egypt. Basically the money goes to the other two, and the house goes to you. They don’t need a house and they’d only sell it if I left it to them. The money with more than compensate them. I should change it and leave the money to a lost dog’s home, but it’s too late. I’m sorry for a lot of things Steven, but what’s in the journal will make up for everything. Two things, don’t tell anyone about it, or what’s in there. Ever. The other, watch out for Professor Moriarty. Yes, I know it sounds stupid because he’s a foe of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not joking. The man is dangerous. and he’s after the same thing you are. Now, be a good boy and get me some cold water.”
I looked at him, trying to fathom if he was having me on. It wouldn’t surprise me. Whether or not this was one of those lucid moments, or he was just a very good actor, I couldn’t tell. But Professor Moriarty? Please. That was where I drew the line. I took the jug and headed to the cold water dispenser.
Amelia passed as I was filling the jug. “How is he today?”
“The weirdest thing. Until he mentioned Professor Moriarty, I thought he’d woken and was lucid again. Certainly, the conversation was better than anything we’d had before, even before being admitted to the hospital.”
“Maybe some of it was, and his mind just wandered. Ask him again when you see him. I’ll be there soon.”
I’d just picked up the jug when I heard a scream, and it sounded like it came from my father’s room. I left the jug and ran. I arrived at the same time as the doctor and two nurses, to see him trying to get out of bed, yelling, “He’s trying to get me, he’s trying to get me, Help.” He was literally fighting the doctor and nurse off.
Suddenly he went limp in their arms, and they managed to get him back on the bed. With one look at him, the doctor immediately checked for a pulse. A minute later, with a shake of the head, he looked at the clock on the wall. “Time of death, 8:43 am.” He turned to me. “Your father just passed. I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll give you a moment alone with him.”
It grieved me in the sense that I had not been with him in his last moments alive. But, it also surprised me that I didn’t feel more now that he was dead. All those years of making us children a second priority perhaps had made us more immune from his loss than it should. I sat for a minute and held his hand, quite cold, but not because of death. His hands had always been cold.
It was then I noticed the piece of paper under the pillow, just showing. I pulled it out. He must have made a note in those moments of clarity.
I pulled it out and read it.
“If I am dead, then leave. Now. Don’t wait around because it will only invite trouble. Go home. Look for the journal. Trust no one.”
I might have ignored that note had it not for the sound of raised voices coming from the nurse’s station, one being a man who was demanding to see my father.
A last look at him, a memory of a man who no longer looked like my father, and I left. Just about to leave by the side exit I could hear the doctor saying, “You cannot be here, Professor Moriarty, and if you persist, I will call the police.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 