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, s 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.
It was odd having a voice in your head, well, not really in your head as such, but in your ear, and sounding like it was in your head.
You could truthfully say you were hearing voices.
It was the next step after going through some very intensive training, having someone else as your eyes and ears when breaching a secure compound, and avoiding the enemy.
I’d signed on for this extra training thinking one day it would land me in the thick of the action. Some of the others thought I was mad, but someone had to do it, and the fact it was quite dangerous added just that extra bit to it.
But as they say, what you learn in training, and practise in a non-hostile environment, is nothing like being in that same situation in reality.
Now on was on my first assignment, part of an elite team, packed and taken to what was to everyone else, an unspecified location, but to us, it was the point of incursion.
The mission?
To rescue a government official (that was how he was described to us) who had been illegally detained in a foreign prison.
Our job?
To break him out and get out without the knowledge of the prison staff, or anyone representing that government. Yes, what we were doing was highly illegal, and yes, if we were caught it was more likely than not we would be executed as spies.
…
We were under cover in an abandoned farmhouse about three miles from the prison. We had been brought in under cover of darkness, and had only a few hours to set up, and then wait it out until the following night.
It was now or never, the weather people predicting that there would be sufficient cloud cover to make us invisible. Two of us were going in, and two remaining strategically placed outside to monitor the inside of the prison through a system of infrared scanners. We also had a floor plan of the building in which the prisoner was being held, and intelligence supplied, supposedly, by one of the prison guards who had been paid a lot of money for information on guard movements.
To me, it was a gigantic leap of faith to trust him, but I kept those thoughts to myself.
We had been over the plan a dozen times, and I’d gone through the passageways, rooms, and doors so many times I’d memorised where they were and would be able to traverse the building as if I had worked there for a lifetime. Having people outside, talking me through it was just an added benefit, along with alerts on how near the guards were to our position.
I was sure the other person going with me, a more seasoned professional who had a number of successful missions under his belt, was going through the same motions I was. After all, it was he who had devised and conducted the training.
There was a free period of several hours before departure, time to listen to some music, empty the head of unwanted thoughts, and to get into the right mindset. It was no place to get tangled up in what ifs, if anything went wrong, it was a simple matter of adapting.
Our training had reinforced the necessity to instantly gauge a situation and make changes on the fly. There would literally be no time to think.
I listened to the nuances of Chopin’s piano concertos, pretending to play the piano myself, having translated every note onto a piano key and observing it in my mind’s eye.
My opposite number played games of chess in his head. We all had a different method of relaxing.
Until it was 22:00 hours, and time to go.
…
“Go left, no, hang on, go right.” The voice on my ear sounded confused and it was possible to get lefts and rights mixed up, if you were not careful.
It didn’t faze me, I knew from my study of the plans that once inside the perimeter fence, I had to go right, and head towards a concrete building the roof of which was barely above the ground.
It was once used as a helipad, and underneath, before the site became a prison, the space was used to make munitions. And it was an exceptionally large space that practically ran under the whole of the prison, built above ground.
All that had happened was the lower levels were sealed, covered over and the new structures build on top. Our access was going to be from under the ground.
Quite literally, they would not see, or hear, us coming.
The meteorological people had got it right, there was cloud cover, the moon hidden from view, and the whole perimeter was in inky darkness. Dressed in black from head to foot, the hope was we would be invisible.
There were two of us heading to the same spot, stairs that led down to a door that was once one of the entrances to the underground bunker. We were going separate ways in case one of the other was intercepted in an unforeseen event.
But, that part of the plan worked seamlessly, and we both arrived at the same place nearly at the same time.
Without the planning we might easily have missed it because I didn’t think it would be discernable even in daylight.
I followed the Sergeant downstairs, keeping a watchful eye behind us. I stooped at the point where I could see down, and across the area we had just traversed.
Nothing else was stirring.
As expected, the door was seamless and without an apparent handle. It may have had one once, but not anymore, so anyone who did stumble across it, couldn’t get in.
Except us. We had special explosives that were designed to break the lock, and once set, would not make a lot of noise. Sixty seconds later we were inside, and the door closed so no one would know we’d broken in.
I was carrying a beacon so that the voice in my head could follow my progress. The sergeant had one too, and he led.
“Straight ahead, 200 yards, then another door. It shouldn’t be locked, but it might be closed.”
In other words, we had no way of knowing. Our informant had said no one had been down in the dungeons, as he called them, since the munition factory closed, and had been sealed up soon after the prison building had been handed over for use.
We were using night goggles, and there was a lot of rubbish strewn over the floor area so we had to carefully pick our way through which took time we really didn’t have. It looked as though our informant was right, no one had been down there for a long time. We were leaving boot prints in the dust.
We reached the door ten minutes later than estimated. Losing time would have a flow on effect, and this operation was on a very tight time constraint.
“Once you are through the door, there’s a passage. Turn left and go about 50 paces. There should be another passage to your right.”
“Anyone down here?”
“No, but there is a half dozen prison officers above you. Standard patrol, from guardhouse to guardhouse. Unless they can hear you through five feet of solid concrete, you’re safe.”
My instincts told me five feet of concrete were not enough, but I’ll let it ride for the moment.
The door was slightly ajar and it took the two of us to pull it open so that we could get past. Behind it was the passage, going left and right. Trusting my invisible guide was not getting mixed up again, I motioned right, and we headed down the passage.
Despite the fact we should be alone, both of us were careful not to make any noise, and trod carefully.
At 50 or so paces, the passage came into sight. The sergeant went ahead. I stayed back and kept an eye in both directions. The passage before us was the one that would take us under the cell of the captive we were sent to retrieve.
There would be no blasting our way in. The floor to the cell had a grate, and when removed, a person could drop down into the ‘dungeon’. Currently the grate was immovable, but we had the tools to fix that.
The sergeant would verify the grate was where it was supposed to be, then come back to get me.
Five minutes passed, then ten. It was not that far away.
I was about to go search when the voice in my head returned, but with panic. “We’ve been compromised. Get the hell out of there, now. Quickly…”
Then I heard what sounded like gunshots, then nothing.
A minute later there was a new voice. “I don’t know who you are, but I’d strongly advise you give yourself up to the guards. Failure to do so within one hour, I’ll execute the two men I now have in custody.”
Ahead of me there was a sudden explosion, followed by a cloud of dust and fine debris.
Hand grenade, or mine, it didn’t matter. The sergeant wouldn’t be coming back.
Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.
We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.
Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’. It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.
It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over. It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.
Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning. It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary. On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to. She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.
For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.
She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.
Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room. Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me. Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.
Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight. She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.
More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”
Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together. It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement. Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.
The battle lines were drawn.
Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it. Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.
The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it. And took the moment to look deeply into my soul. It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.
Then it was gone.
I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me. A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.
When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.” It was not a question, but a statement.
I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace. Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand. I guessed she was talking about the new job. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
She smiled widely. “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”
I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.
I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al. I tried it once and was admonished. But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not. It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.
Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil. As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in. I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.
And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them. I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand. And yet, apparently, Alison did. I must have missed the memo.
“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”
No secrets. Her look conveyed something else entirely.
The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us. It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me. We were going to need it.
Then, a toast.
To a new job and a new life.
“When did you decide?” Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.
Alison had a strange expression on her face. It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind. Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.
Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene. I knew what I wanted to say. I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison. This was not the time or the place. Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.
Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing. If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control. “It’s the little things. They all add up until one day …” I shrugged. “I guess that one day was today.”
I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real? Or; I told you he’d come around.
I had no idea the two were so close.
“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me. I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points. It was all I could come up with at short notice.
“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted. “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”
“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead. Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.
It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose. Care to join me, Al?”
A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend. “Yes.”
I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation. I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.
I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.
There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show. I was quite literally gob-smacked.
I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him. “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up. You know Alison is doing her law degree.”
He looked startled when he realized I had spoken. He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed. Or perhaps it was deliberate. She’d definitely had some enhancements done.
He dragged his eyes back to me. “Yes. Elaine said something or other about it. But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week. Perhaps I got it wrong. I usually do.”
“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.” I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again. “This week or next, what does it matter?”
Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart. It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies. If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?
We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”
“Trouble, I suspect. Definitely more money, but less time at home.”
“Oh,” raised eyebrows. Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details. “You sure you want to do that?”
At last the voice of reason. “Me? No.”
“Yet you accepted the job.”
I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him. Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him. “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another. To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”
“Barclay?”
“My boss.”
“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us. I thought I recognized the name.”
“How did Elaine get the job?”
“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”
“When?”
“A couple of months ago. Why?”
I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker. I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment. “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time. Too busy with work I expect. I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”
I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together. I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down. I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.
And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown. Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”
Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth. It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction. It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.
When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I. I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter. If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did. She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket. She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.
But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points. Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine. She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.
Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly. I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.
She had her ‘secrets’. I had mine.
At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me. It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me. I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse. When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.
It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three. But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.
I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree. It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.
We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side. But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer. She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong. It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.
She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it. Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.
And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.
It left me confused and lost.
I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.
And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.
Usually, from a very early age, you have some idea of what you intend to do with your life.
Those early choices of fireman, policeman, doctor, fighter pilot, slowly disappear from the list as the education requirements become clearer, and their degree of impossibility.
Then you have to factor in academic achievement or failure, hone situation, what blows life has dealt you, and your financial ability to fund any it all of your hopes and dreams, especially for that all-important university education, and even then, it has to be the right one.
Then there are the family aspirations where parents really want you to follow in their footsteps, as a doctor or a lawyer or in the military.
And if you get past all that, and everything has fallen into place, and you’re ready to head out on that highway of life, you should be fully imbibed with the knowledge and the drive to make everything happen.
…
Now I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling wondering at what point it all went wrong.
Right on the starting line where everything I had worked for was about to come to fruition, it had all come to an abrupt halt.
My memory got as far as driving home from a work party where we had been celebrating the company’s most recent success, and my progression to the next level of management, when a car failed to stop at a stop sign and T-boned me.
The car was a write-off. I was still not sure what happened to me, but I had heard someone say, in that murky twilight of pain medication, that if I was a horse, they would have to shoot me. It was the only thing I remembered between the car hitting mine and waking up in the hospital bed.
But that was not all the story, and I had plenty of time mull over everything that had happened in that last week. There was a certain symmetry to it all, as if one event led to the next, and then the next, and it was the last straw, on the last day, that broke the proverbial camel’s back.
…
And here’s the thing.
I would not have been in that accident had I not taken the car. I wasn’t going to, I had intended to take the train to a friends place and stay there for a few days, what the boss had told me would be a well earned rest.
Even then, I might have not taken the car, except for a cryptic text message I received from my sister, about needing to be ‘rescued’ from a bad date.
Nothing unusual for her, she was currently on a dating site binge, and after half a dozen bad experiences, I thought she had given up.
That was the thought that ran through my head as I watched her curled up in the chair next to the bed, half asleep.
Her first words, on arrival, and when she was allowed to see me, was to apologise, believing it had been her fault. She knew I hated driving in the city, so coming to get her, as I always did, had been preying on her mind, and I could see the tangible effects of it in the worried expression, and unkempt manner which was so totally unlike her.
“It was simply an accident, and could have happened to anyone,” I told her.
“You were going to Jeremy’s, I should have sorted my own problem out for once. IT’s not as if I couldn’t just call up an Uber, and now look what’s happened. I’m so sorry.”
She wouldn’t accept that it was not her fault, nor would she leave until she knew I would be OK. I didn’t understand what she meant by that because in the three discussions I had with the head doctor, I was going to make a full recovery.
He had used the work lucky more than once, and seemingly the sequence of events, and other factors like the car safety features, the angle the car had struck, and where, the fact the other driver had to dodge a pedestrian, all of it played a part.
Had they not, quite simply I would be dead.
My sister and her dating was only one aspect of how my life was being driven.
Another memory returned, from that week, that of another text message, from a girl I used to know back at University.
Erica.
She was what some might have called a free soul. She didn’t conform to what I would have called normal. Her clothes sense was somewhat odd, she always looked as though her hair needed combing, and she never had any money.
And, for a while, she lived with me, in a small, cramped room ideal for single University students on a budge, but not for two. Yet, for some strange reason, she never seemed to get in the way, or mind the closeness of our existence.
In that short period, she became my first real love, but she had said that while we were together, it was fine, but she was not seeking anything permanent. Nor, she said, did she believe in monogamy. Until she left, studies completed, I wanted to believe she would stay, but a last lingering kiss goodbye and she was gone.
Now, the message said, she wondered if I was still free, and like to meet. Of course, ten years of water had passed under that bridge, so I was not sure where it would go. I hadn’t replied, and the message was still sitting on my phone.
That invitation, however, had been n my mind moments before the crash, and I had to wonder, thinking of her, contributed to it.
Then, on top of all that, there was my parents. Married for 40 years, and the epitome of the perfect marriage.
Or so I thought.
That morning, before I went to work, I had called in to see them after my mother had called the day before saying she wanted to talk to me about something.
Before I knocked on the door, I could hear yelling from behind the door, and it seemed the perfect marriage had hit a rocky stretch.
Or simply that my father had chosen to have an affair, and had been caught out by the simplest of means, my mother answered his phone when he was out of the room thinking it was important work matters, only to discover it was his ‘floozie’.
No guessing then why my mother had called me. After hearing all I wanted to, and not wanting to face an angry couple I just headed on to work.
My mother had yet to come to the hospital to see me. My father had been, but he made no mention of her, or anything else, except to tell me if there was anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask. Then he left, and hadn’t come back.
Then, last but not least, were the rumours.
The owner of the company I worked for was getting older and didn’t have an heir. One thing or another had managed to foil his succession plans, and in the end, he did not have a son or a daughter to pass the reins to.
With the latest success, the company was about to have a bigger profile which meant more work, and plans to open branches in other cities. It was too much for one man, now in his 70s, and looking to wind down.
A rumour had started about a week before the accident that he was looking to sell, and there were at least half a dozen suitors. There was supposed to be an announcement, but it hadn’t happened while I was at work, but, considering how long I’d been in hospital, and the two weeks in an induced coma, anything could have happened.
Louisa stretched, and changed positions.
“You look better,” she said.
“Relative to what, or when?”
“Half an hour ago.”
I shook my head. Sometimes Louisa was prone to saying the oddest stuff. “What’s the deal between our parents. Dad was here for all of five minutes. Where’s our mother?”
“She left.”
OK. Blunt, but plausible. “Why?”
“Dad was being an ass.”
“Does she know I was in an accident?”
“I told her.”
“So, you’re seeing her?”
“She calls. I don’t know where she is. I think she might have gone to stay with one of our aunt’s.”
I sighed. Louise had an awfully bad memory, and I was sure one day she was going to forget who I was.
There were four sisters, mother the youngest. She had a love hate relationship with the middle two, so the best bet would be the eldest sister, Jane. Jane was also the crankiest because she hated children, never got married, and was set in her ways.
Then, there was something else lurking in the back of my mind. Another item I’d overheard when I suspect I was not meant to be listening.
I might not have a job to go back to if the company had been sold, I might not have a home to go back to if my parents had split up, and I might not be able to do anything for a long, long time. Recovery might be complete, but it wasn’t going to happen overnight.
I had a sister who blamed herself for my accident, and an old girlfriend who wanted to see me, though I suspect not like this, broken and useless. What else could there be.
Oh, yes. Another snipped from the shouting match behind the door. And an explanation why my father had all but abandoned me. My mother had also had an affair, and his son, well he was not his son.
No surprise then I had a father who didn’t want to know me.
What else could go wrong?
There was movement outside the room, and raised voices, one of which was saying that whoever was out there couldn’t go into the room. It didn’t have any effect as seconds later, a man and a police officer came in. The officer stood by the door.
Louisa looked surprised, but didn’t move.
The man, obviously a detective, came over. “Your name Oliver Watkins?”
It was, and hopefully still is. “Yes.”
“I need you to answer some questions.”
“About the accident?”
He looked puzzled for a moment, then realised what I was referring to. “No. Not the accident. About the embezzlement of 50 million dollars from the company you work for. It seems you didn’t cover your tracks very well.” He turned around to look at Louisa, “You need to leave now, miss.”
“I’ll stay.”
He nodded to the officer, “You leave now, or he will remove you.”
She looked at me, a different expression, “You didn’t tell me you were a crook, Olly.”
“Because I’m not.”
The officer escorted her from the room and shut the door.
The detective sat in the recently vacated chair. “Now, Mr Watkins. It seems there is such a thing as karma.”
Usually, from a very early age, you have some idea of what you intend to do with your life.
Those early choices of fireman, policeman, doctor, fighter pilot, slowly disappear from the list as the education requirements become clearer, and their degree of impossibility.
Then you have to factor in academic achievement or failure, hone situation, what blows life has dealt you, and your financial ability to fund any it all of your hopes and dreams, especially for that all-important university education, and even then, it has to be the right one.
Then there are the family aspirations where parents really want you to follow in their footsteps, as a doctor or a lawyer or in the military.
And if you get past all that, and everything has fallen into place, and you’re ready to head out on that highway of life, you should be fully imbibed with the knowledge and the drive to make everything happen.
…
Now I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling wondering at what point it all went wrong.
Right on the starting line where everything I had worked for was about to come to fruition, it had all come to an abrupt halt.
My memory got as far as driving home from a work party where we had been celebrating the company’s most recent success, and my progression to the next level of management, when a car failed to stop at a stop sign and T-boned me.
The car was a write-off. I was still not sure what happened to me, but I had heard someone say, in that murky twilight of pain medication, that if I was a horse, they would have to shoot me. It was the only thing I remembered between the car hitting mine and waking up in the hospital bed.
But that was not all the story, and I had plenty of time mull over everything that had happened in that last week. There was a certain symmetry to it all, as if one event led to the next, and then the next, and it was the last straw, on the last day, that broke the proverbial camel’s back.
…
And here’s the thing.
I would not have been in that accident had I not taken the car. I wasn’t going to, I had intended to take the train to a friends place and stay there for a few days, what the boss had told me would be a well earned rest.
Even then, I might have not taken the car, except for a cryptic text message I received from my sister, about needing to be ‘rescued’ from a bad date.
Nothing unusual for her, she was currently on a dating site binge, and after half a dozen bad experiences, I thought she had given up.
That was the thought that ran through my head as I watched her curled up in the chair next to the bed, half asleep.
Her first words, on arrival, and when she was allowed to see me, was to apologise, believing it had been her fault. She knew I hated driving in the city, so coming to get her, as I always did, had been preying on her mind, and I could see the tangible effects of it in the worried expression, and unkempt manner which was so totally unlike her.
“It was simply an accident, and could have happened to anyone,” I told her.
“You were going to Jeremy’s, I should have sorted my own problem out for once. IT’s not as if I couldn’t just call up an Uber, and now look what’s happened. I’m so sorry.”
She wouldn’t accept that it was not her fault, nor would she leave until she knew I would be OK. I didn’t understand what she meant by that because in the three discussions I had with the head doctor, I was going to make a full recovery.
He had used the work lucky more than once, and seemingly the sequence of events, and other factors like the car safety features, the angle the car had struck, and where, the fact the other driver had to dodge a pedestrian, all of it played a part.
Had they not, quite simply I would be dead.
My sister and her dating was only one aspect of how my life was being driven.
Another memory returned, from that week, that of another text message, from a girl I used to know back at University.
Erica.
She was what some might have called a free soul. She didn’t conform to what I would have called normal. Her clothes sense was somewhat odd, she always looked as though her hair needed combing, and she never had any money.
And, for a while, she lived with me, in a small, cramped room ideal for single University students on a budge, but not for two. Yet, for some strange reason, she never seemed to get in the way, or mind the closeness of our existence.
In that short period, she became my first real love, but she had said that while we were together, it was fine, but she was not seeking anything permanent. Nor, she said, did she believe in monogamy. Until she left, studies completed, I wanted to believe she would stay, but a last lingering kiss goodbye and she was gone.
Now, the message said, she wondered if I was still free, and like to meet. Of course, ten years of water had passed under that bridge, so I was not sure where it would go. I hadn’t replied, and the message was still sitting on my phone.
That invitation, however, had been n my mind moments before the crash, and I had to wonder, thinking of her, contributed to it.
Then, on top of all that, there was my parents. Married for 40 years, and the epitome of the perfect marriage.
Or so I thought.
That morning, before I went to work, I had called in to see them after my mother had called the day before saying she wanted to talk to me about something.
Before I knocked on the door, I could hear yelling from behind the door, and it seemed the perfect marriage had hit a rocky stretch.
Or simply that my father had chosen to have an affair, and had been caught out by the simplest of means, my mother answered his phone when he was out of the room thinking it was important work matters, only to discover it was his ‘floozie’.
No guessing then why my mother had called me. After hearing all I wanted to, and not wanting to face an angry couple I just headed on to work.
My mother had yet to come to the hospital to see me. My father had been, but he made no mention of her, or anything else, except to tell me if there was anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask. Then he left, and hadn’t come back.
Then, last but not least, were the rumours.
The owner of the company I worked for was getting older and didn’t have an heir. One thing or another had managed to foil his succession plans, and in the end, he did not have a son or a daughter to pass the reins to.
With the latest success, the company was about to have a bigger profile which meant more work, and plans to open branches in other cities. It was too much for one man, now in his 70s, and looking to wind down.
A rumour had started about a week before the accident that he was looking to sell, and there were at least half a dozen suitors. There was supposed to be an announcement, but it hadn’t happened while I was at work, but, considering how long I’d been in hospital, and the two weeks in an induced coma, anything could have happened.
Louisa stretched, and changed positions.
“You look better,” she said.
“Relative to what, or when?”
“Half an hour ago.”
I shook my head. Sometimes Louisa was prone to saying the oddest stuff. “What’s the deal between our parents. Dad was here for all of five minutes. Where’s our mother?”
“She left.”
OK. Blunt, but plausible. “Why?”
“Dad was being an ass.”
“Does she know I was in an accident?”
“I told her.”
“So, you’re seeing her?”
“She calls. I don’t know where she is. I think she might have gone to stay with one of our aunt’s.”
I sighed. Louise had an awfully bad memory, and I was sure one day she was going to forget who I was.
There were four sisters, mother the youngest. She had a love hate relationship with the middle two, so the best bet would be the eldest sister, Jane. Jane was also the crankiest because she hated children, never got married, and was set in her ways.
Then, there was something else lurking in the back of my mind. Another item I’d overheard when I suspect I was not meant to be listening.
I might not have a job to go back to if the company had been sold, I might not have a home to go back to if my parents had split up, and I might not be able to do anything for a long, long time. Recovery might be complete, but it wasn’t going to happen overnight.
I had a sister who blamed herself for my accident, and an old girlfriend who wanted to see me, though I suspect not like this, broken and useless. What else could there be.
Oh, yes. Another snipped from the shouting match behind the door. And an explanation why my father had all but abandoned me. My mother had also had an affair, and his son, well he was not his son.
No surprise then I had a father who didn’t want to know me.
What else could go wrong?
There was movement outside the room, and raised voices, one of which was saying that whoever was out there couldn’t go into the room. It didn’t have any effect as seconds later, a man and a police officer came in. The officer stood by the door.
Louisa looked surprised, but didn’t move.
The man, obviously a detective, came over. “Your name Oliver Watkins?”
It was, and hopefully still is. “Yes.”
“I need you to answer some questions.”
“About the accident?”
He looked puzzled for a moment, then realised what I was referring to. “No. Not the accident. About the embezzlement of 50 million dollars from the company you work for. It seems you didn’t cover your tracks very well.” He turned around to look at Louisa, “You need to leave now, miss.”
“I’ll stay.”
He nodded to the officer, “You leave now, or he will remove you.”
She looked at me, a different expression, “You didn’t tell me you were a crook, Olly.”
“Because I’m not.”
The officer escorted her from the room and shut the door.
The detective sat in the recently vacated chair. “Now, Mr Watkins. It seems there is such a thing as karma.”
In the distance he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.
In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.
Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs, and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.
Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.
She was about mid-twenties, slim, long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.
Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.
All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.
Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”
Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back on his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!
“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.
He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.
“Good.” Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.
“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.
Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”
They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.
Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.
His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying? There was a tinge of redness.
Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.
No. That wasn’t possible.
Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later she realized she’s spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.
It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.
“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”
At least we agree on that, she thought.
It was obvious he was running away from something as well.
Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.
After getting through this evening first.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”
A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.
Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”
Slight abrupt in manner, perhaps as a result of her question, and the manner in which she asked it.
She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”
She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had actually said she was here for a holiday.
Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.
Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no possible way she could know than anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.
Was that what she was expecting?
Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.
Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for very different reasons.
On discreet observance whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced and he had no sense of humor.
This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.
Rebellion was written all over him.
The only other thought crossing her mind, and rather incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.
“Mr. Henshaw?”
He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.
“Then my name is Michelle.”
Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, then return to the kitchen.
“Staying long?” she asked.
“About three weeks. Yourself?”
“About the same.”
The conversation dried up.
Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, almost unbearably awkward.
Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.
“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”
Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”
“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”
You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked and she bustled off.
“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humor.
“Yes, so do I.”
Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought, when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.
It was five minutes before Mrs. Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.
Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”
“By car.”
“Did you drive yourself?”
And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.
“After a fashion.”
He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.
And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.
“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.
“Whatever for?”
“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”
“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.
“Do you drive?”
“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humor failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”
The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.
“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.
“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.
“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.
“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.
He had a feeling she was not particularly interested and it was just making conversation.
“I’m a purser.”
“A what?”
“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“And you?”
“I was a model.”
“Was?”
“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.
As the evening had worn on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close up, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark ringed eyes.
“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”
“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”
Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.
Dinner now over, they separated.
Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.
But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet the compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.
Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.
She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.
I was one of six people who answered a house-sitting ad. What stood out was the money, as was intended.
When I arrived at the interview, held in an accountant’s office downtown, there was no suggestion that it was a trick, or there were ulterior motives.
Just $5,000 for a week’s work. Move in, act like a security guard and check all entrances and exits, and all rooms that had windows to the outside every four or so hours, particularly at night.
The reason?
The owner had to maintain residence in the house for the week, as he was going away, under a clause in the sale contract. The reason for hiring civilians, that it was too expensive to get live in people from a security company.
The owner freely admitted he was a cheapskate.
But fir someone like me, the $5,000 was a lot of money and would help pay beck everyone I owed money to.
I earnestly pleaded my case, submitted myself to a background check and then waited to hear back.
When I didn’t hear anything by the due date I figured some other lucky person had pleaded a better case, then, exactly a week later I got the call.
The next day a courier delivered the keys to the house, and the address. My week started at exactly 9am the next morning.
…
The cab dropped Mr off at the front gate of the house, only it wasn’t a house so much as a mansion, and one that had seen better days.
It was at the end of the street, behind two large gates, and a high brick fence. I could see the driveway on the other side, and just make out the house behind the unkempt shrubbery.
I had a bunch of keys, and it took a few attempts to find the one that fitted the lock and chain preventing the gates from opening.
I just unlocked it when another car pulled up in the same place my can had, and a young woman got out. She rescued her sports bag from the trunk and paid the cabbie.
“Who are you,” she said.
“The caretaker for the next week. I might ask the same question.”
“The ex-wife with nowhere to go.”
No one mentioned an ex-wife that was part of the deal.
“I wasn’t told anyone else would be here, so it would be best you left.”
I slipped the lock back in place and stood my ground. She could be anyone.
She pulled out her phone and rang a number.
A heard the voice on the other end say hello.
“You can tell you dead head caretaker that I’m staying for a few days.”
Then I watched her expression turn very dark, and then the words, “I have nowhere else to go, and it will only be a few days.” Then silence and an accompanying ground, ending with, “You don’t want me to come after you because you know how that will end”.
She listened, then handed the phone to me.
“Hello.”
“I’m the owner requesting the service. You are not responsible for her, but if she becomes a problem, lock her in the basement.”
Then he hung up. It was not the best of answers to the problem.
“Are you going to open the gate?”
I shook my head and then pretended to fumble through the keys looking for the eight one. “You know this place,” I asked without turning around.
“No. The bastard didn’t tell me about a lot of the stuff he owns.” Her tone bristled with resentment.
I ‘found’ the key and opened the lock and started pulling the chain through the fence. I could feel her eyes burning into my back.
When I swung open the gate, she barged past, and kept walking. I stepped though, and immediately felt the change in the temperature. It was cold, even though the sun was out and I could feel an un-natural chill go through me.
By the time I closed and relocked the gate she had gone as far as, and round a slight bend in the driveway. I thought about hurrying to catch up, but I didn’t think it mattered, she didn’t have a key. Or perhaps I hoped she didn’t have one.
I headed towards the house at a leisurely pace. I didn’t have to be there in the next instant, and I wanted to do a little survey of the grounds. If I was checking windows, then I needed to know what the access might be like through any of them.
As I got closer to the house, the overgrowth was worse, but that might have been because no one could see it from the roadside, or through the iron gate.
Accessibility via the gardens would-be problematic for anyone who attempted it because there was no easy access. It was one less immediate problem to deal with.
The driveway widened out into a large gravel covered square outside the front of the house. It had an archway under which cars could stop and let out passengers under cover, ideal for ball goers, which meant the house had been build somewhere during the last century.
There were aspects that would warrant me taking a look on the internet about its history.
She was waiting outside the door, showing some exertion, and the mad dash had been for nothing.
“I take it you have a key?”
I decided to ignore that. I hoped she would disappear to another part of the house and leave me alone. I had too much to do without having to worry about where she was, or what she was doing. It seemed, base on the short time I spoke to him, that the owner had a mistake marrying her, if they were in fact married. Ex could mean almost anything these days.
Again, I made a show of trying to find the right key, though in the end it was hit and miss, and it took the fourth of fifth attempt to find it.
The door was solid oak, but it swung open easily and silently. I had expected it to make a squeaking sound, one associated with rusty hinges. This time she was a little more circumspect when she passed by me. I followed and closed and locked the door behind me.
Inside was nothing like I expected. Whilst the outside looked like the building hadn’t been tended to for years, inside had been recently renovated, and had that new house smell of new carpets and painted walls.
There was a high vaulted roof, and a mezzanine that was accessed by a beautifully restored wooden staircase and ran around the whole upper floor so that anyone could stand anywhere n ear the balustrading and look down into the living space, and, towards the back, the kitchen and entertaining area.
The walls had strategically place paintings, real paintings, that looked old, but I doubted were originals, because if they were similar to those I’d seen in a lot of English country estates they would be priceless, but not left in an empty building.
I had also kept her in the corner of my eye, watching her look around almost in awe.
“What do you think these paintings are worth?”
Was she going to suddenly take an inventory?
“Not a lot. You don’t leave masterpieces in an abandoned house. I suspect nothing in here would be worth much, and really only for decorative purposes so the owner can have a better chance of selling the place. Empty cavernous buildings do not sell well.”
“What are you again?”
“No one of any particular note. I’ve been asked to look after the place for the next week until it is handed over to the new owners. Aside from that I know nothing about the place, nor do I want to. According to the note I got with the key, there are bedrooms off that mezzanine you can see up there.” I pointed to the balustrading. The kitchen has food, enough for the few days I’ll be here, but I’m sure there’s enough to share.”
“Good. You won’t see me again if I can help it.”
I watched her walk to the staircase and go upstairs. The mud map told me there were bedrooms up of the mezzanine, and also across from this area. There was another large room adjacent to this, a games area or room big enough to hold a ball, a part of the original house, and which led out onto the side lawns. I’d check later to see what the access was like, because eI suspected there would be a few doors that led out from the hall to the garden.
When she disappeared along the upstairs passageway, I headed towards the next room. IT was large, larger than that next door, and had another grand staircase leasing down to the dance floor. I guess the people used to stay in rooms upstairs, get dressed, then make a grand entrance down those stairs.
I hadn’t expected this house to be anything like the old country estates, and it was a little like icing of the cake. I would have to explore, and transport myself back to the old days, and imagine what it was like.
…
She was true to her word, and I didn’t see her the next morning. I was staying a world away from her. I was in the refurbished old section and she was staying in the newly renovated and modernised part of the house.
I did discover, on the first day of getting my bearings and checking all of the entrances and windows ready for my rounds, that above the bedrooms on the second floor of the old section, there was a third floor with a number of smaller rooms which I assumed were where the servants lived.
I stayed in one of those rooms. The other main bedrooms, with ornate fireplaces and large shuttered windows smelled a little too musty for me, and I wasn’t about to present someone with an open window. The views form the balconies was remarkable too or would have been in the garden had been kept in its original state.
In the distance I could see what might have once been a summerhouse and promised myself a look at it later. A long day had come to a tiring end, and I was only destined for a few hours sleep before embarking on my first midnight run. I was going to do one at eight, after eating, another at midnight, and another at six in the morning. I’d make adjustments to the schedule after running the first full night’s program.
…
I brought my special alarm with me, the one that didn’t make a sound but was very effective in waking me. It was fortuitous, because I had not been expected someone else to come along for the ride, and didn’t want them to know where and when I would be doing the rounds.
It had taken longer than I expected to get to sleep, the sounds of the house keeping me awake. Usually a sound sleeper, perhaps it was the first night in different, and unusual surroundings.
I shuddered as I got out of bed, a cold air surrounding me, a feeling like that when I walked through the gate. I had the sensation that someone was in the room with me, but in the harsh light after putting the bedside light on, it was clearly my imagination playing tricks.
I dressed quickly, and headed out.
The inside of the house was very dark, and the light from my torch stabbed a beam of light through what might have been an inky void. The circle of light on the walls was never still, and I realised that my hand had acquired a touch of the shakes.
Creaking sounds as I walked across the flooring had not been discernible the previous night, and it was odd they only happened at night. A thought that the house may be haunted when through my mind, but I didn’t believe in ghosts, or anything like that.
The creaking sounds followed me as I started my inspection. I headed downstairs, and once I reached the back end of what I was going to call the ball room. Before I went to bed the previous evening, I drew up a rough map of the places I would be going, ticking them off as I went.
The first inspection was of the doors that led out onto the lawns. The floor to ceiling windows were not curtained, and outside the undergrowth was partially illuminated by moonlight. The day had been warm, that period in autumn leading into winter where the days were clear but getting colder. Outside I could see a clear starry night.
Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the flash of a torch light in the gardens. I stopped, and looked more carefully, but there was nothing. I waited for about ten minutes, but there was still no movement.
I was going to have to park my imagination before starting rounds or I’d never get the job done.
I went out of the room and into the living area. There seemed to be lights all arounds me, those small pilot lights that told you appliances were on standby.
I was heading towards the stairs when suddenly there was a blood curdling scream, followed by what sounded like a gun shot, a sharp loud bang that, on top of the scream, made me jump.
The woman.
I raced as fast as I could up the stairs. The sounds had come from there, but when I reached the top of the stairs, I realised I had no idea in which direction it came from. Pointing the torch in both directions, there was nothing to see.
I could see a passage which might lead to the bedrooms on this level, and headed towards it, moving slowly, keeping as quiet as I could, listening form anything, or if someone else was lurking.
I heard a door slam, the echo coming down the passage. I flashed the light up the passage, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness. I moved quickly towards the end, half expecting to see someone.
Then I tripped over, and as I tried to get to my feet, realised it was a body. I flashed the torch on it, and it was the woman.
Dead, a gunshot wound in the chest, and blood everywhere.
I scrambled to my feet, and ran towards the end of the passage, and stopped at what appeared to be a dead end. With nowhere to go, I turned.
I wasn’t alone, just hearing before seeing the presence of another person, but it was too late to react. I felt an object hitting me on the back of the head, and after that, nothing.
…
I could feel a hand shaking me, and a voice coming out of the fog. I opened my eyes, and found myself in completely different surroundings.
A large ornate bedroom, and a four-poster bed, like I had been transported back to another age. Then I remembered I had been in a large house that had been renovated, and this was probably one of the other bedrooms on the floor where the woman had been staying.
Then I remembered the body, being hit, and sat up.
A voice beside me was saying, “You’re having that nightmare again, aren’t you?”
It was a familiar voice.
I turned to see the woman who I had just moments before had seen dead, the body on the floor of the passage.
“You’re dead,” I said, in a strangely detached tone.
“I know. I’m supposed to be. You helped me set it up so I could escape that lunatic ex-husband of mine.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry. The doctor says your memory will return, one day. But, for now, all you need to do is rest. All you need to know is that we’re safe, thanks to you.”
I was one of six people who answered a house-sitting ad. What stood out was the money, as was intended.
When I arrived at the interview, held in an accountant’s office downtown, there was no suggestion that it was a trick, or there were ulterior motives.
Just $5,000 for a week’s work. Move in, act like a security guard and check all entrances and exits, and all rooms that had windows to the outside every four or so hours, particularly at night.
The reason?
The owner had to maintain residence in the house for the week, as he was going away, under a clause in the sale contract. The reason for hiring civilians, that it was too expensive to get live in people from a security company.
The owner freely admitted he was a cheapskate.
But fir someone like me, the $5,000 was a lot of money and would help pay beck everyone I owed money to.
I earnestly pleaded my case, submitted myself to a background check and then waited to hear back.
When I didn’t hear anything by the due date I figured some other lucky person had pleaded a better case, then, exactly a week later I got the call.
The next day a courier delivered the keys to the house, and the address. My week started at exactly 9am the next morning.
…
The cab dropped Mr off at the front gate of the house, only it wasn’t a house so much as a mansion, and one that had seen better days.
It was at the end of the street, behind two large gates, and a high brick fence. I could see the driveway on the other side, and just make out the house behind the unkempt shrubbery.
I had a bunch of keys, and it took a few attempts to find the one that fitted the lock and chain preventing the gates from opening.
I just unlocked it when another car pulled up in the same place my can had, and a young woman got out. She rescued her sports bag from the trunk and paid the cabbie.
“Who are you,” she said.
“The caretaker for the next week. I might ask the same question.”
“The ex-wife with nowhere to go.”
No one mentioned an ex-wife that was part of the deal.
“I wasn’t told anyone else would be here, so it would be best you left.”
I slipped the lock back in place and stood my ground. She could be anyone.
She pulled out her phone and rang a number.
A heard the voice on the other end say hello.
“You can tell you dead head caretaker that I’m staying for a few days.”
Then I watched her expression turn very dark, and then the words, “I have nowhere else to go, and it will only be a few days.” Then silence and an accompanying ground, ending with, “You don’t want me to come after you because you know how that will end”.
She listened, then handed the phone to me.
“Hello.”
“I’m the owner requesting the service. You are not responsible for her, but if she becomes a problem, lock her in the basement.”
Then he hung up. It was not the best of answers to the problem.
“Are you going to open the gate?”
I shook my head and then pretended to fumble through the keys looking for the eight one. “You know this place,” I asked without turning around.
“No. The bastard didn’t tell me about a lot of the stuff he owns.” Her tone bristled with resentment.
I ‘found’ the key and opened the lock and started pulling the chain through the fence. I could feel her eyes burning into my back.
When I swung open the gate, she barged past, and kept walking. I stepped though, and immediately felt the change in the temperature. It was cold, even though the sun was out and I could feel an un-natural chill go through me.
By the time I closed and relocked the gate she had gone as far as, and round a slight bend in the driveway. I thought about hurrying to catch up, but I didn’t think it mattered, she didn’t have a key. Or perhaps I hoped she didn’t have one.
I headed towards the house at a leisurely pace. I didn’t have to be there in the next instant, and I wanted to do a little survey of the grounds. If I was checking windows, then I needed to know what the access might be like through any of them.
As I got closer to the house, the overgrowth was worse, but that might have been because no one could see it from the roadside, or through the iron gate.
Accessibility via the gardens would-be problematic for anyone who attempted it because there was no easy access. It was one less immediate problem to deal with.
The driveway widened out into a large gravel covered square outside the front of the house. It had an archway under which cars could stop and let out passengers under cover, ideal for ball goers, which meant the house had been build somewhere during the last century.
There were aspects that would warrant me taking a look on the internet about its history.
She was waiting outside the door, showing some exertion, and the mad dash had been for nothing.
“I take it you have a key?”
I decided to ignore that. I hoped she would disappear to another part of the house and leave me alone. I had too much to do without having to worry about where she was, or what she was doing. It seemed, base on the short time I spoke to him, that the owner had a mistake marrying her, if they were in fact married. Ex could mean almost anything these days.
Again, I made a show of trying to find the right key, though in the end it was hit and miss, and it took the fourth of fifth attempt to find it.
The door was solid oak, but it swung open easily and silently. I had expected it to make a squeaking sound, one associated with rusty hinges. This time she was a little more circumspect when she passed by me. I followed and closed and locked the door behind me.
Inside was nothing like I expected. Whilst the outside looked like the building hadn’t been tended to for years, inside had been recently renovated, and had that new house smell of new carpets and painted walls.
There was a high vaulted roof, and a mezzanine that was accessed by a beautifully restored wooden staircase and ran around the whole upper floor so that anyone could stand anywhere n ear the balustrading and look down into the living space, and, towards the back, the kitchen and entertaining area.
The walls had strategically place paintings, real paintings, that looked old, but I doubted were originals, because if they were similar to those I’d seen in a lot of English country estates they would be priceless, but not left in an empty building.
I had also kept her in the corner of my eye, watching her look around almost in awe.
“What do you think these paintings are worth?”
Was she going to suddenly take an inventory?
“Not a lot. You don’t leave masterpieces in an abandoned house. I suspect nothing in here would be worth much, and really only for decorative purposes so the owner can have a better chance of selling the place. Empty cavernous buildings do not sell well.”
“What are you again?”
“No one of any particular note. I’ve been asked to look after the place for the next week until it is handed over to the new owners. Aside from that I know nothing about the place, nor do I want to. According to the note I got with the key, there are bedrooms off that mezzanine you can see up there.” I pointed to the balustrading. The kitchen has food, enough for the few days I’ll be here, but I’m sure there’s enough to share.”
“Good. You won’t see me again if I can help it.”
I watched her walk to the staircase and go upstairs. The mud map told me there were bedrooms up of the mezzanine, and also across from this area. There was another large room adjacent to this, a games area or room big enough to hold a ball, a part of the original house, and which led out onto the side lawns. I’d check later to see what the access was like, because eI suspected there would be a few doors that led out from the hall to the garden.
When she disappeared along the upstairs passageway, I headed towards the next room. IT was large, larger than that next door, and had another grand staircase leasing down to the dance floor. I guess the people used to stay in rooms upstairs, get dressed, then make a grand entrance down those stairs.
I hadn’t expected this house to be anything like the old country estates, and it was a little like icing of the cake. I would have to explore, and transport myself back to the old days, and imagine what it was like.
…
She was true to her word, and I didn’t see her the next morning. I was staying a world away from her. I was in the refurbished old section and she was staying in the newly renovated and modernised part of the house.
I did discover, on the first day of getting my bearings and checking all of the entrances and windows ready for my rounds, that above the bedrooms on the second floor of the old section, there was a third floor with a number of smaller rooms which I assumed were where the servants lived.
I stayed in one of those rooms. The other main bedrooms, with ornate fireplaces and large shuttered windows smelled a little too musty for me, and I wasn’t about to present someone with an open window. The views form the balconies was remarkable too or would have been in the garden had been kept in its original state.
In the distance I could see what might have once been a summerhouse and promised myself a look at it later. A long day had come to a tiring end, and I was only destined for a few hours sleep before embarking on my first midnight run. I was going to do one at eight, after eating, another at midnight, and another at six in the morning. I’d make adjustments to the schedule after running the first full night’s program.
…
I brought my special alarm with me, the one that didn’t make a sound but was very effective in waking me. It was fortuitous, because I had not been expected someone else to come along for the ride, and didn’t want them to know where and when I would be doing the rounds.
It had taken longer than I expected to get to sleep, the sounds of the house keeping me awake. Usually a sound sleeper, perhaps it was the first night in different, and unusual surroundings.
I shuddered as I got out of bed, a cold air surrounding me, a feeling like that when I walked through the gate. I had the sensation that someone was in the room with me, but in the harsh light after putting the bedside light on, it was clearly my imagination playing tricks.
I dressed quickly, and headed out.
The inside of the house was very dark, and the light from my torch stabbed a beam of light through what might have been an inky void. The circle of light on the walls was never still, and I realised that my hand had acquired a touch of the shakes.
Creaking sounds as I walked across the flooring had not been discernible the previous night, and it was odd they only happened at night. A thought that the house may be haunted when through my mind, but I didn’t believe in ghosts, or anything like that.
The creaking sounds followed me as I started my inspection. I headed downstairs, and once I reached the back end of what I was going to call the ball room. Before I went to bed the previous evening, I drew up a rough map of the places I would be going, ticking them off as I went.
The first inspection was of the doors that led out onto the lawns. The floor to ceiling windows were not curtained, and outside the undergrowth was partially illuminated by moonlight. The day had been warm, that period in autumn leading into winter where the days were clear but getting colder. Outside I could see a clear starry night.
Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the flash of a torch light in the gardens. I stopped, and looked more carefully, but there was nothing. I waited for about ten minutes, but there was still no movement.
I was going to have to park my imagination before starting rounds or I’d never get the job done.
I went out of the room and into the living area. There seemed to be lights all arounds me, those small pilot lights that told you appliances were on standby.
I was heading towards the stairs when suddenly there was a blood curdling scream, followed by what sounded like a gun shot, a sharp loud bang that, on top of the scream, made me jump.
The woman.
I raced as fast as I could up the stairs. The sounds had come from there, but when I reached the top of the stairs, I realised I had no idea in which direction it came from. Pointing the torch in both directions, there was nothing to see.
I could see a passage which might lead to the bedrooms on this level, and headed towards it, moving slowly, keeping as quiet as I could, listening form anything, or if someone else was lurking.
I heard a door slam, the echo coming down the passage. I flashed the light up the passage, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness. I moved quickly towards the end, half expecting to see someone.
Then I tripped over, and as I tried to get to my feet, realised it was a body. I flashed the torch on it, and it was the woman.
Dead, a gunshot wound in the chest, and blood everywhere.
I scrambled to my feet, and ran towards the end of the passage, and stopped at what appeared to be a dead end. With nowhere to go, I turned.
I wasn’t alone, just hearing before seeing the presence of another person, but it was too late to react. I felt an object hitting me on the back of the head, and after that, nothing.
…
I could feel a hand shaking me, and a voice coming out of the fog. I opened my eyes, and found myself in completely different surroundings.
A large ornate bedroom, and a four-poster bed, like I had been transported back to another age. Then I remembered I had been in a large house that had been renovated, and this was probably one of the other bedrooms on the floor where the woman had been staying.
Then I remembered the body, being hit, and sat up.
A voice beside me was saying, “You’re having that nightmare again, aren’t you?”
It was a familiar voice.
I turned to see the woman who I had just moments before had seen dead, the body on the floor of the passage.
“You’re dead,” I said, in a strangely detached tone.
“I know. I’m supposed to be. You helped me set it up so I could escape that lunatic ex-husband of mine.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry. The doctor says your memory will return, one day. But, for now, all you need to do is rest. All you need to know is that we’re safe, thanks to you.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 