I stood on the front portico and looked down at the array of cars parked, waiting to take guests home. A lot had already left, and both Darcy and I were among the stragglers. I had let her say goodnight to her new friend.
“So, the car hasn’t turned into a pumpkin yet.” She came up behind me, perhaps hoping her sudden arrival would scare me.
It might have if I had not had thoughts about the last dance with Emily.
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
“I saw you with the lass on the dance floor. You should take up the competition ballroom dancing. You two would kill it.”
“Or it would kill us, probably by one of the other contestants. It’s worse than rugby.”
“It was nice to see you enjoy yourself.”
“That wasn’t enjoyment, Darcy, it’s bloody hard work. I don’t know where this is going, but she’s going to be impossible, incorrigible, irritating, and in… well, I need a dictionary to find the word.”
“The joys of being a woman, Roger. We’re here for the specific reason to make your life impossible, to be incorrigible, and irritating beyond words. I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t”.
If and when I got the time to reflect on what just happened, it was going to be somewhere between living in a fairy tale and being caught up in a nightmare. My father had once told me, love, was one of those things that happened when you least expected it, usually with a woman that is way out of your league and is full of highs and lows, mostly lows,
But, he added, when there were highs, they could take you into the stratosphere.
I was still coming down. The morning was going to be like the night after a very alcoholic party. A morning that was going to be in about five hours.
The car stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and the chauffeur got out to open the doors.
“Our ride,” Darcy said. “And no, when I get home, I will not be singing, I could have danced all night.”
I looked at the bedside clock and it said it was 3:22 am. I couldn’t sleep.
It might have been the endless twirls of the Viennese Waltz, or I might be still dizzy from being so close to Emily. It might also have been that stolen kiss in the alcove on one side of the ballroom. The image of her in that ballgown was burned into my brain.
Why on earth did I go?
How could she possibly like me, let alone love me. I still had a feeling all of what happened was another of her dastardly plans to cause me grief.
And then, in the very next moment, I felt the exact opposite about her.
God, I was happier when I simply hated her.
My cell phone vibrated with an incoming call. ‘Private Number’. The torment begins.
“Who is it?”
“You know who it is.”
Emily.
“I can’t sleep,” she said. “I’m lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.”
“It was the waltz. I can’t sleep either.”
“What are we going to do. I feel like I’m on a runaway train.”
“Haven’t you been in love before?”
I suspect she had, many times, but who knows what love is, until the actual ton of bricks falls on you?
“Not like this. I don’t even know what this is, other than I feel sick, great, dizzy, sad, happy, sometimes all at once.”
“Don’t worry, when reality sets in you’ll hate me again, and everything will be back to normal.” Did I want that? What did I want? She had described almost exactly how I felt, and it bothered me that someone could do that to me.
It was better when I loved her and she didn’t know how I felt. That way I could suffer in silence, generally mope, and lament my station in life.
“Things can’t go back to the way they were.”
“I’m not going to treat you any differently, Emily.”
“I don’t expect you to. I realize now all the simpering suck-ups were only after one thing.”
“How do you know I’m not the same as all the rest?”
Xavier had made it quite clear when we first started University, one of the principal aims of all young men was to sleep with as many girls as possible. It was, he said, a rite of passage. Along with the parties, drunkenness, and acts of stupidity.
I tried to avoid all of them, except for two girls who for some inexplicable reason, seemed interested in me.
But, my university studies were over, and we were all about to graduate, some in better shape than others. I had concentrated on studies and achieving and had the opportunity to choose a job rather than be offered one.
“You know why you’re not.”
Perhaps not asking her to take me up to her room to show me her doll collection, yes, she really had one, with other ideas in mind had moved me up in her estimation. In fact, I had not tried to kiss her, either, and that solen moment was something that just happened, which made it all the more poignant.
It was how my mother said love would happen, suddenly, out of left field, and I would be totally unprepared for it.
“OK, so I’m a little slower than others. I think, tomorrow, we’ll just avoid each other, and see what the wagging tongues have to say.”
“There was a reporter at the ball. She saw us together. And she doesn’t like me, or my family. I’m sure you’ll get ambushed. It’s the price of having anything to do with us. We’re not going to say anything. You just be your usual grumpy incommunicative self.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
A flash of memory, an article I read several weeks back, decrying the vanity, selfishness, and stupidity of the city’s wealthy offspring who brought no value to the city, and who set a bad example to others. Emily had been at the top of the list, a character assassination, one that postulated her worth given her wasted time at university, and easy ride into her father’s business, starting at the executive level, when there were others, out of work, and far more qualified.
It was a bandwagon my father had jumped on, too. It was a surprise he allowed me to sup with the devil. Perhaps he had wanted me to see how the other half lived, and that it would make me contemptuous of them. It made me wonder what the Ball had been in aid of, other than just to bring together the rich to indulge in their privileged position.
“I forgot to ask, what was the Ball for?”
“Some charity things. All the people donated a few thousand towards a special children’s wing at the hospital, or something like that. Every year someone comes up with a good cause, and everyone contributes.”
More likely to ease their consciences after taking advantage of their workers, and charging extortion for products and services. My father explained it all once, and I couldn’t believe they were that cynical.
“A good cause.”
“Some don’t think so. Anyway, I’m tired now. I’ll try not to run into you. Night.”
Dealing with the reporters, and Angela Simpkin no less. I knew her, we spent a few days together, and it didn’t work out. She didn’t hate me, but now I was associated with Emily, and that could suddenly change.
I sighed. Going to the Ball was going to change my life forever.
I stood on the front portico and looked down at the array of cars parked, waiting to take guests home. A lot had already left, and both Darcy and I were among the stragglers. I had let her say goodnight to her new friend.
“So, the car hasn’t turned into a pumpkin yet.” She came up behind me, perhaps hoping her sudden arrival would scare me.
It might have if I had not had thoughts about the last dance with Emily.
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
“I saw you with the lass on the dance floor. You should take up the competition ballroom dancing. You two would kill it.”
“Or it would kill us, probably by one of the other contestants. It’s worse than rugby.”
“It was nice to see you enjoy yourself.”
“That wasn’t enjoyment, Darcy, it’s bloody hard work. I don’t know where this is going, but she’s going to be impossible, incorrigible, irritating, and in… well, I need a dictionary to find the word.”
“The joys of being a woman, Roger. We’re here for the specific reason to make your life impossible, to be incorrigible, and irritating beyond words. I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t”.
If and when I got the time to reflect on what just happened, it was going to be somewhere between living in a fairy tale and being caught up in a nightmare. My father had once told me, love, was one of those things that happened when you least expected it, usually with a woman that is way out of your league and is full of highs and lows, mostly lows,
But, he added, when there were highs, they could take you into the stratosphere.
I was still coming down. The morning was going to be like the night after a very alcoholic party. A morning that was going to be in about five hours.
The car stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and the chauffeur got out to open the doors.
“Our ride,” Darcy said. “And no, when I get home, I will not be singing, I could have danced all night.”
I looked at the bedside clock and it said it was 3:22 am. I couldn’t sleep.
It might have been the endless twirls of the Viennese Waltz, or I might be still dizzy from being so close to Emily. It might also have been that stolen kiss in the alcove on one side of the ballroom. The image of her in that ballgown was burned into my brain.
Why on earth did I go?
How could she possibly like me, let alone love me. I still had a feeling all of what happened was another of her dastardly plans to cause me grief.
And then, in the very next moment, I felt the exact opposite about her.
God, I was happier when I simply hated her.
My cell phone vibrated with an incoming call. ‘Private Number’. The torment begins.
“Who is it?”
“You know who it is.”
Emily.
“I can’t sleep,” she said. “I’m lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.”
“It was the waltz. I can’t sleep either.”
“What are we going to do. I feel like I’m on a runaway train.”
“Haven’t you been in love before?”
I suspect she had, many times, but who knows what love is, until the actual ton of bricks falls on you?
“Not like this. I don’t even know what this is, other than I feel sick, great, dizzy, sad, happy, sometimes all at once.”
“Don’t worry, when reality sets in you’ll hate me again, and everything will be back to normal.” Did I want that? What did I want? She had described almost exactly how I felt, and it bothered me that someone could do that to me.
It was better when I loved her and she didn’t know how I felt. That way I could suffer in silence, generally mope, and lament my station in life.
“Things can’t go back to the way they were.”
“I’m not going to treat you any differently, Emily.”
“I don’t expect you to. I realize now all the simpering suck-ups were only after one thing.”
“How do you know I’m not the same as all the rest?”
Xavier had made it quite clear when we first started University, one of the principal aims of all young men was to sleep with as many girls as possible. It was, he said, a rite of passage. Along with the parties, drunkenness, and acts of stupidity.
I tried to avoid all of them, except for two girls who for some inexplicable reason, seemed interested in me.
But, my university studies were over, and we were all about to graduate, some in better shape than others. I had concentrated on studies and achieving and had the opportunity to choose a job rather than be offered one.
“You know why you’re not.”
Perhaps not asking her to take me up to her room to show me her doll collection, yes, she really had one, with other ideas in mind had moved me up in her estimation. In fact, I had not tried to kiss her, either, and that solen moment was something that just happened, which made it all the more poignant.
It was how my mother said love would happen, suddenly, out of left field, and I would be totally unprepared for it.
“OK, so I’m a little slower than others. I think, tomorrow, we’ll just avoid each other, and see what the wagging tongues have to say.”
“There was a reporter at the ball. She saw us together. And she doesn’t like me, or my family. I’m sure you’ll get ambushed. It’s the price of having anything to do with us. We’re not going to say anything. You just be your usual grumpy incommunicative self.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
A flash of memory, an article I read several weeks back, decrying the vanity, selfishness, and stupidity of the city’s wealthy offspring who brought no value to the city, and who set a bad example to others. Emily had been at the top of the list, a character assassination, one that postulated her worth given her wasted time at university, and easy ride into her father’s business, starting at the executive level, when there were others, out of work, and far more qualified.
It was a bandwagon my father had jumped on, too. It was a surprise he allowed me to sup with the devil. Perhaps he had wanted me to see how the other half lived, and that it would make me contemptuous of them. It made me wonder what the Ball had been in aid of, other than just to bring together the rich to indulge in their privileged position.
“I forgot to ask, what was the Ball for?”
“Some charity things. All the people donated a few thousand towards a special children’s wing at the hospital, or something like that. Every year someone comes up with a good cause, and everyone contributes.”
More likely to ease their consciences after taking advantage of their workers, and charging extortion for products and services. My father explained it all once, and I couldn’t believe they were that cynical.
“A good cause.”
“Some don’t think so. Anyway, I’m tired now. I’ll try not to run into you. Night.”
Dealing with the reporters, and Angela Simpkin no less. I knew her, we spent a few days together, and it didn’t work out. She didn’t hate me, but now I was associated with Emily, and that could suddenly change.
I sighed. Going to the Ball was going to change my life forever.
For the last week before retirement, it was almost unmemorable.
I think I preferred it that way because the company was nothing like when I started, forty-five years ago. People said I should have been General Manager by now, but the truth was, I liked my ‘behind the scenes’ role better than taking on the responsibility of management.
Now, my role was obsolete. We no longer ran our own packing, dispatch and delivery service, each component of the department was slowly stripped away and outsourced, to the point now where we threw stuff into boxes and a couple of ruffians and a dilapidated truck came at the end of the day to take it all away.
Online. That was the catchword. There was no one over 21 in the company, except for me and the receptionist, who was also slated for retirement a week after me.
She, too, was obsolete. As an online store, there was no need to have a human interface, so I had no idea what she did with her day. I was meaning to ask, and that opportunity might just come sooner than I thought.
She just wandered into the tea room.
When she saw me sitting at the same table I had for the last forty-five years, she smiled. There was a spot for the dispatch teams, a spot for clerical, and once upon a time, the boys and girls had to sit at separate tables. Now, well, times have changed. Once, we all had uniforms, and everyone looked like they belonged. Now, it was difficult to tell the boys from the girls, and dress sense and decorum had long since disappeared. I wore mine, and Elsie wore hers, the last acts of defiance before we moved on.
She made her tea, the same as she had for many years, resisted the temptation of a doughnut, and then wandered over. She nodded to an empty chair opposite me, “May I?”
I nodded. She had more manners than all the others put together.
“Looking forward to retirement,” she asked.
“No. I have a big empty house that I’d rather not live in, and no one to share it with.” Mary, the woman I’d married, a company girl, and I had the privilege of living with had lasted forty-four of those years before succumbing to cancer, a year shy of beginning what we were calling our second life together. We had such plans, but plans were always destined to go awry.
“A shame,” she said. “Harry decided he didn’t want to wait to have a good time. Took off with a younger woman. A week later, he was dead. Bad heart, I’ll let you make of that what you will. Probably dodged a bullet, though.”
Pragmatic? Certainly practical.
“Do you have anything planned?” I asked.
“I’m going around the world in 80 days. Steam trains, steamships, hot air balloons, camels, elephants, and maybe even the proverbial slow boat to China. I saw a TV show, and even though you can probably do it in a day, even two, I like the idea of the longer the better. You?”
“We were going to Paris, Rome, Capri, but I can’t see the point of it now.”
“Well, there’s room for one more on our tour. You should come. It’s going to be wildly unpredictable, and at least there would be one familiar face. Give it some thought.”
I was giving it thought on the way back to my office, so much thought I bumped into Rodney, the boy who was about to take over my space.
I’d been asked to train him, but he told me quite emphatically there was nothing he could learn from an old fossil like me. Quite blunt and quite obnoxious. He was no different from the rest of them. Old people were simply the object of their scorn. It was not only me; Elsie also got her share of derision too. We were the dinosaurs.
I apologised, but that didn’t seem to placate him.
“Thank God you will be gone soon enough.”
“Yes, I will, and I’ll have plenty of time on my hands.”
He looked at me oddly. “You’re barking mad, you old geezer.” He gave me a sneer, then walked off.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I said to his retreating back.
Rodney was typical of that younger generation that took everything for granted. His life was wrapped up in his cell phone, like many others, and once when he thought he lost it, he almost went to pieces.
Not that I had anything to do with what happened, but it did give me ideas.
I made it back to the loading dock just in time for the boss’s special delivery, a half dozen paintings worth nearly twenty million dollars, paintings that were going to be hung in his new house if it ever got finished. He had been forced to take delivery of them early and decided to use the walk-in safe the previous owners of the building, a bank, had installed.
Not that it had been used in a long time, other than a place where the younger employees went to ‘play’. They thought no one saw them, but it was obvious what they were doing. Not that it was any of my business, it was more or less the same some forty years before, only a little more dignified.
It was a fascinating anachronism from a bygone age, and reputed to never been cracked, although several had tried. Now, though, it would be a doddle for a master safecracker. If they knew what was in there, which no one but the boss, and several staff members, namely me and Rodney, did.
But I did warn the boss that he should have made better arrangements, but he was tight with his money, which seemed at odds with the way his wife spent it. The safe, like me, was also obsolete, and I hoped he understood it was no substitute for having them stored in a proper facility.
About a half hour before I was due to leave, I saw Rodney with two men in the alley behind the loading dock. There was a white anonymous van parked not far from them, and it must be one of the suppliers dropping off a late delivery.
There were several cartons sitting on the edge of the dock.
The two men had baseball caps pulled down to obscure their faces, to avoid being clearly seen by the CCTV camera facing up the alley. Of course, it was only my suspicious mind that thought they were deliberately trying to avoid being identified.
Rodney saw me approaching the end of the dock and finished his business with them and they turned and headed towards their van.
“Late delivery,” I asked, as he came up the steps beside the dock.
“None of your business, Richards. Isn’t it time for you to go home?”
“Another half hour. Paperwork to be done.”
“I can finish up for the day. You can go, I’ll cover for you.”
Very generous, but he’d never done it before, why start now? If there wasn’t twenty million dollars worth of paintings in the safe, I might have taken up the offer. I just muttered a ‘thankyou’; and went back to the office.
A few minutes after that, I called a friend who worked for the police and told him what I’d seen. It might be nothing, it might be something. I just thought someone should know, just in case we were robbed.
At office closing time, I got a phone call from Elsie, a rather strange call, asking me to come to the front reception area. It was no longer used because we never got visitors, and if there were customer issues, they had to complain ‘online’. She was insistent, so I went.
I could see Elsie at her desk, and five others, three girls and two boys, all dressed to leave for the day. Had the time clock failed again?”
When I reached the desk, I saw what the problem was. Three men in balaclavas holding guns pointed at the group. They were understandably frightened.
The nearest gunman looked at me. “You Richards?”
That was Rodney’s surname. My suspicious mind first identified two of the masked men as possibly the two Rodney had been talking to in the alley, and if they were looking for him, was he going to open the safe? Or simply help them?
“He’s out back, quite possibly gone for the day.”
A look passed between two of the men.
“You’ll do then.”
“For what?”
“Move,” he motioned for all of us to go back the way I had just come, towards the rear. “And make it snappy. We haven’t got all day.”
No one moved.
He aimed his gun at the roof and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun was deafening, and part of the roof fell down.
“I won’t ask again.”
Elsie went first, the five others next, and then me, but not with several prods from one of the gunmen. I was hoping it wasn’t a hair trigger, or I’d get accidentally shot.
When we got to the safe door, he stopped us, put the others to one side with one of the gunmen watching them, and said to me, “I want you to open the safe.”
“It needs a key.”
“It’s in the top drawer over there. Get and it no funny stuff.”
Rodney, or someone, had told them everything they needed to know. It was the only reason he could know about the paintings. Rodney was conspicuous by his absence, though, and has asked me to go early, could not have envisaged I’d still be there to help them.
Had he planned it this way to absolve himself of blame?
“If I refuse.”
“That would be dumb. We’ll start shooting the hostages. Make no mistake, we will kill them if we have to,” he turned the gun on one of them, then just a fraction wider and pulled the trigger. Two girls screamed.
“OK, OK. I get it.” I did as I was told.
The door was very heavy and needed two people to move it. When the lock was open, I turned the wheel to disengage the bolts then stood back so two of the three could pull the door open. From there it took only five minutes to take the paintings.
When the operation was over, the leader motioned towards the inside of the safe. “Everyone inside.”
“Not a good idea,” I said. “Shut the door and lock it, there’s no oxygen. We won’t last longer than two hours.”
“Then pray someone comes to find you. In, or die prematurely out here.”
No one wanted to die so we all went into the safe. As he closed the door, one of his friends yelled out to wait, then a few seconds after that Rodney was pushed in, and the door closed The lock then made that clunking sound when it was engaged and that was it. Six juniors and two seniors in a dark space. The girls were close to hysteria. The boys were not far behind them.
Then a torch light, from one of the cell phones lit up a small space. We were all gathered just inside the door, but there was a lot of room inside, about the size of the kitchen. There were boxes sitting against the wall, too heavy to clear out when I had cleaned and swept the inside in preparation for the paintings.
Janine, one of the girls, said, “Is it true we’re going to run out of air?”
“Eventually. I suggest none of you goes into hysterics, it will use up the air far quicker than if we just sit still and wait.”
Elsie had already found a box to sit on, and I sat next to her. She didn’t have a cell phone, so I gave her mine after I put the torchlight on. She seemed oddly unfazed by the turn of events.
“We could use the phone and call the police, or someone to come and get us out.” James, I think. He was new. He had his cell phone in his hand. “Hell, no. No signal. What the…”
“The walls are two feet thick, with metal padding, and the door is eight inches thick steel, I’m not surprised there’s no signal,” I said.
“You’ve been here forever; you should be able to get us out of here.” Janine was probably the brightest of the six.
“That would be normally the case if we used the safe, but we don’t and haven’t, and this is the first time I’ve seen inside it for a long time. Not unlike some of you.”
They all put on their innocent faces. I didn’t really care.
Rodney had been trying to get a signal on his cell phone, walking around the inside, constantly checking for a signal. He would not get one.
“Did you read the induction manual like I asked you, Rodney,“ I asked him as he sidled past me?
“What induction manual?”
“The one that I said had instructions on how to get out of the safe if you got accidentally locked in. It apparently happened a lot to the previous owners.”
“You didn’t say anything about a safe.”
No, I probably didn’t, but dropping Rodney into the collective dismay would take their minds off their predicament.
“Anyone got a signal,” He yelled out.
No one had.
Half an hour passed, and it was interesting to watch people who had no practical experience in problem-solving. Nor did they understand, as a group, they had a better chance of survival, than individually.
The girls cried for a few minutes, the shock of their situation, and what might happen finally dawning on them. They were certainly critical of the boys who didn’t know what to do, other than twirl the locking wheel one way then the other, a waste of time unless the key had been used. Two and three of them tried to push the door, though I was not sure what they were hoping to achieve.
By the end of that half hour, they were all sitting, conserving oxygen, and silently analysing how they were unlucky enough to get into this mess.
I looked at Elsie. She had the right idea, she was asleep, or pretending to be. It was a good idea if we ran out of air. It wasn’t going to be pretty when it happened. I remembered one of two times we had sneaked in here ourselves, all those years ago.
Then, suddenly Janine asked, “How did the thieves know there were paintings here?”
Time was one of those enemies, you were able to think, over and over, on a single topic.
Rodney said, “Someone told them. It could be any one of us. I doubt the boss would tell anyone.”
I was not so sure. He was having liquidity problems and the insurance on those paintings would solve a lot of those problems.
We went through all the ‘it wasn’t me’s’, until it got to Rodney who was quite emphatic it wasn’t him.”
“So, those men out in the alley before, Rodney, the two who looked exactly like two of the thieves, you didn’t tell them everything they needed to know?”
“I can see what you’re doing. Took the opportunity to top up your retirement plan, and now we’re all going to die because of your greed.”
It sounded plausible, and it got the desired result, the others were not looking at him as the guilty one.
I shrugged. “Well, we’ll soon find out.”
An hour and a half after being locked in, the air was getting depleted, and breathing was getting more difficult.
I was floating on the edge of consciousness, and Elsie had dozed off which would help her rather than hinder her.
The others were in various stages of panic, but to their credit, there were no histrionics.
Other ten minutes, I heard the key in the lock, and the bolt being moved. A minute after that the door opened accompanied by a whistling sound as the air was sucked out, and more breathable air replaced it.
Everyone was too weak to move.
My friend, the policeman, came in and surveyed the bodies, all now in various stages of recovery. Rodney was getting up off the floor when he took him by the arm. “I have a few questions,” he said, then escorted him outside.
Elsie woke and looked at me, then the open door. “What happened?”
“A rescue.”
“Good. Didn’t want to end my days in this room.”
When we exited the safe, the boss was there. He apologised to each of the five, Elsie, them me. He said the thieves had been caught, and identified Rodney as the informant, and they were all under arrest.
The paintings were on their way to a more secure location.
He pulled me aside, and asked, “What made you call the police? No one else noticed anything.”
“It’s an old fossil thing. We notice things because our noses are not buried in technology. We don’t trust everybody, and certainly, anyone new hanging around a fortune in paintings. I guess I’ll never change.”
“Don’t. And thanks. I’ve made arrangements for a supplement to your final payment in appreciation.”
“Thank you, sir”
It turned out to be enough to join Elsie on what I discovered was called the ‘obsolete tour’.
For the last week before retirement, it was almost unmemorable.
I think I preferred it that way because the company was nothing like when I started, forty-five years ago. People said I should have been General Manager by now, but the truth was, I liked my ‘behind the scenes’ role better than taking on the responsibility of management.
Now, my role was obsolete. We no longer ran our own packing, dispatch and delivery service, each component of the department was slowly stripped away and outsourced, to the point now where we threw stuff into boxes and a couple of ruffians and a dilapidated truck came at the end of the day to take it all away.
Online. That was the catchword. There was no one over 21 in the company, except for me and the receptionist, who was also slated for retirement a week after me.
She, too, was obsolete. As an online store, there was no need to have a human interface, so I had no idea what she did with her day. I was meaning to ask, and that opportunity might just come sooner than I thought.
She just wandered into the tea room.
When she saw me sitting at the same table I had for the last forty-five years, she smiled. There was a spot for the dispatch teams, a spot for clerical, and once upon a time, the boys and girls had to sit at separate tables. Now, well, times have changed. Once, we all had uniforms, and everyone looked like they belonged. Now, it was difficult to tell the boys from the girls, and dress sense and decorum had long since disappeared. I wore mine, and Elsie wore hers, the last acts of defiance before we moved on.
She made her tea, the same as she had for many years, resisted the temptation of a doughnut, and then wandered over. She nodded to an empty chair opposite me, “May I?”
I nodded. She had more manners than all the others put together.
“Looking forward to retirement,” she asked.
“No. I have a big empty house that I’d rather not live in, and no one to share it with.” Mary, the woman I’d married, a company girl, and I had the privilege of living with had lasted forty-four of those years before succumbing to cancer, a year shy of beginning what we were calling our second life together. We had such plans, but plans were always destined to go awry.
“A shame,” she said. “Harry decided he didn’t want to wait to have a good time. Took off with a younger woman. A week later, he was dead. Bad heart, I’ll let you make of that what you will. Probably dodged a bullet, though.”
Pragmatic? Certainly practical.
“Do you have anything planned?” I asked.
“I’m going around the world in 80 days. Steam trains, steamships, hot air balloons, camels, elephants, and maybe even the proverbial slow boat to China. I saw a TV show, and even though you can probably do it in a day, even two, I like the idea of the longer the better. You?”
“We were going to Paris, Rome, Capri, but I can’t see the point of it now.”
“Well, there’s room for one more on our tour. You should come. It’s going to be wildly unpredictable, and at least there would be one familiar face. Give it some thought.”
I was giving it thought on the way back to my office, so much thought I bumped into Rodney, the boy who was about to take over my space.
I’d been asked to train him, but he told me quite emphatically there was nothing he could learn from an old fossil like me. Quite blunt and quite obnoxious. He was no different from the rest of them. Old people were simply the object of their scorn. It was not only me; Elsie also got her share of derision too. We were the dinosaurs.
I apologised, but that didn’t seem to placate him.
“Thank God you will be gone soon enough.”
“Yes, I will, and I’ll have plenty of time on my hands.”
He looked at me oddly. “You’re barking mad, you old geezer.” He gave me a sneer, then walked off.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I said to his retreating back.
Rodney was typical of that younger generation that took everything for granted. His life was wrapped up in his cell phone, like many others, and once when he thought he lost it, he almost went to pieces.
Not that I had anything to do with what happened, but it did give me ideas.
I made it back to the loading dock just in time for the boss’s special delivery, a half dozen paintings worth nearly twenty million dollars, paintings that were going to be hung in his new house if it ever got finished. He had been forced to take delivery of them early and decided to use the walk-in safe the previous owners of the building, a bank, had installed.
Not that it had been used in a long time, other than a place where the younger employees went to ‘play’. They thought no one saw them, but it was obvious what they were doing. Not that it was any of my business, it was more or less the same some forty years before, only a little more dignified.
It was a fascinating anachronism from a bygone age, and reputed to never been cracked, although several had tried. Now, though, it would be a doddle for a master safecracker. If they knew what was in there, which no one but the boss, and several staff members, namely me and Rodney, did.
But I did warn the boss that he should have made better arrangements, but he was tight with his money, which seemed at odds with the way his wife spent it. The safe, like me, was also obsolete, and I hoped he understood it was no substitute for having them stored in a proper facility.
About a half hour before I was due to leave, I saw Rodney with two men in the alley behind the loading dock. There was a white anonymous van parked not far from them, and it must be one of the suppliers dropping off a late delivery.
There were several cartons sitting on the edge of the dock.
The two men had baseball caps pulled down to obscure their faces, to avoid being clearly seen by the CCTV camera facing up the alley. Of course, it was only my suspicious mind that thought they were deliberately trying to avoid being identified.
Rodney saw me approaching the end of the dock and finished his business with them and they turned and headed towards their van.
“Late delivery,” I asked, as he came up the steps beside the dock.
“None of your business, Richards. Isn’t it time for you to go home?”
“Another half hour. Paperwork to be done.”
“I can finish up for the day. You can go, I’ll cover for you.”
Very generous, but he’d never done it before, why start now? If there wasn’t twenty million dollars worth of paintings in the safe, I might have taken up the offer. I just muttered a ‘thankyou’; and went back to the office.
A few minutes after that, I called a friend who worked for the police and told him what I’d seen. It might be nothing, it might be something. I just thought someone should know, just in case we were robbed.
At office closing time, I got a phone call from Elsie, a rather strange call, asking me to come to the front reception area. It was no longer used because we never got visitors, and if there were customer issues, they had to complain ‘online’. She was insistent, so I went.
I could see Elsie at her desk, and five others, three girls and two boys, all dressed to leave for the day. Had the time clock failed again?”
When I reached the desk, I saw what the problem was. Three men in balaclavas holding guns pointed at the group. They were understandably frightened.
The nearest gunman looked at me. “You Richards?”
That was Rodney’s surname. My suspicious mind first identified two of the masked men as possibly the two Rodney had been talking to in the alley, and if they were looking for him, was he going to open the safe? Or simply help them?
“He’s out back, quite possibly gone for the day.”
A look passed between two of the men.
“You’ll do then.”
“For what?”
“Move,” he motioned for all of us to go back the way I had just come, towards the rear. “And make it snappy. We haven’t got all day.”
No one moved.
He aimed his gun at the roof and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun was deafening, and part of the roof fell down.
“I won’t ask again.”
Elsie went first, the five others next, and then me, but not with several prods from one of the gunmen. I was hoping it wasn’t a hair trigger, or I’d get accidentally shot.
When we got to the safe door, he stopped us, put the others to one side with one of the gunmen watching them, and said to me, “I want you to open the safe.”
“It needs a key.”
“It’s in the top drawer over there. Get and it no funny stuff.”
Rodney, or someone, had told them everything they needed to know. It was the only reason he could know about the paintings. Rodney was conspicuous by his absence, though, and has asked me to go early, could not have envisaged I’d still be there to help them.
Had he planned it this way to absolve himself of blame?
“If I refuse.”
“That would be dumb. We’ll start shooting the hostages. Make no mistake, we will kill them if we have to,” he turned the gun on one of them, then just a fraction wider and pulled the trigger. Two girls screamed.
“OK, OK. I get it.” I did as I was told.
The door was very heavy and needed two people to move it. When the lock was open, I turned the wheel to disengage the bolts then stood back so two of the three could pull the door open. From there it took only five minutes to take the paintings.
When the operation was over, the leader motioned towards the inside of the safe. “Everyone inside.”
“Not a good idea,” I said. “Shut the door and lock it, there’s no oxygen. We won’t last longer than two hours.”
“Then pray someone comes to find you. In, or die prematurely out here.”
No one wanted to die so we all went into the safe. As he closed the door, one of his friends yelled out to wait, then a few seconds after that Rodney was pushed in, and the door closed The lock then made that clunking sound when it was engaged and that was it. Six juniors and two seniors in a dark space. The girls were close to hysteria. The boys were not far behind them.
Then a torch light, from one of the cell phones lit up a small space. We were all gathered just inside the door, but there was a lot of room inside, about the size of the kitchen. There were boxes sitting against the wall, too heavy to clear out when I had cleaned and swept the inside in preparation for the paintings.
Janine, one of the girls, said, “Is it true we’re going to run out of air?”
“Eventually. I suggest none of you goes into hysterics, it will use up the air far quicker than if we just sit still and wait.”
Elsie had already found a box to sit on, and I sat next to her. She didn’t have a cell phone, so I gave her mine after I put the torchlight on. She seemed oddly unfazed by the turn of events.
“We could use the phone and call the police, or someone to come and get us out.” James, I think. He was new. He had his cell phone in his hand. “Hell, no. No signal. What the…”
“The walls are two feet thick, with metal padding, and the door is eight inches thick steel, I’m not surprised there’s no signal,” I said.
“You’ve been here forever; you should be able to get us out of here.” Janine was probably the brightest of the six.
“That would be normally the case if we used the safe, but we don’t and haven’t, and this is the first time I’ve seen inside it for a long time. Not unlike some of you.”
They all put on their innocent faces. I didn’t really care.
Rodney had been trying to get a signal on his cell phone, walking around the inside, constantly checking for a signal. He would not get one.
“Did you read the induction manual like I asked you, Rodney,“ I asked him as he sidled past me?
“What induction manual?”
“The one that I said had instructions on how to get out of the safe if you got accidentally locked in. It apparently happened a lot to the previous owners.”
“You didn’t say anything about a safe.”
No, I probably didn’t, but dropping Rodney into the collective dismay would take their minds off their predicament.
“Anyone got a signal,” He yelled out.
No one had.
Half an hour passed, and it was interesting to watch people who had no practical experience in problem-solving. Nor did they understand, as a group, they had a better chance of survival, than individually.
The girls cried for a few minutes, the shock of their situation, and what might happen finally dawning on them. They were certainly critical of the boys who didn’t know what to do, other than twirl the locking wheel one way then the other, a waste of time unless the key had been used. Two and three of them tried to push the door, though I was not sure what they were hoping to achieve.
By the end of that half hour, they were all sitting, conserving oxygen, and silently analysing how they were unlucky enough to get into this mess.
I looked at Elsie. She had the right idea, she was asleep, or pretending to be. It was a good idea if we ran out of air. It wasn’t going to be pretty when it happened. I remembered one of two times we had sneaked in here ourselves, all those years ago.
Then, suddenly Janine asked, “How did the thieves know there were paintings here?”
Time was one of those enemies, you were able to think, over and over, on a single topic.
Rodney said, “Someone told them. It could be any one of us. I doubt the boss would tell anyone.”
I was not so sure. He was having liquidity problems and the insurance on those paintings would solve a lot of those problems.
We went through all the ‘it wasn’t me’s’, until it got to Rodney who was quite emphatic it wasn’t him.”
“So, those men out in the alley before, Rodney, the two who looked exactly like two of the thieves, you didn’t tell them everything they needed to know?”
“I can see what you’re doing. Took the opportunity to top up your retirement plan, and now we’re all going to die because of your greed.”
It sounded plausible, and it got the desired result, the others were not looking at him as the guilty one.
I shrugged. “Well, we’ll soon find out.”
An hour and a half after being locked in, the air was getting depleted, and breathing was getting more difficult.
I was floating on the edge of consciousness, and Elsie had dozed off which would help her rather than hinder her.
The others were in various stages of panic, but to their credit, there were no histrionics.
Other ten minutes, I heard the key in the lock, and the bolt being moved. A minute after that the door opened accompanied by a whistling sound as the air was sucked out, and more breathable air replaced it.
Everyone was too weak to move.
My friend, the policeman, came in and surveyed the bodies, all now in various stages of recovery. Rodney was getting up off the floor when he took him by the arm. “I have a few questions,” he said, then escorted him outside.
Elsie woke and looked at me, then the open door. “What happened?”
“A rescue.”
“Good. Didn’t want to end my days in this room.”
When we exited the safe, the boss was there. He apologised to each of the five, Elsie, them me. He said the thieves had been caught, and identified Rodney as the informant, and they were all under arrest.
The paintings were on their way to a more secure location.
He pulled me aside, and asked, “What made you call the police? No one else noticed anything.”
“It’s an old fossil thing. We notice things because our noses are not buried in technology. We don’t trust everybody, and certainly, anyone new hanging around a fortune in paintings. I guess I’ll never change.”
“Don’t. And thanks. I’ve made arrangements for a supplement to your final payment in appreciation.”
“Thank you, sir”
It turned out to be enough to join Elsie on what I discovered was called the ‘obsolete tour’.
I don’t know, at first, what it was that brought back a raft of memories that had been long forgotten, I had woken up in an ambulance on its way to a hospital, and by the way, in which it was moving at breakneck speed, siren wailing, it had on be for a very good reason.
“He’s awake,” a nearby voice yelled near me, and then a face hovered before my eyes, “How do you feel.”
It was an odd question because I felt fine. “OK. I guess. What happened?”
For a minute or so, he checked my vitals and asked, “Do you know who you are?” I gave him my name, which matched my ID, and then my address, which was also correct. He asked me where I was, and got it right too. “You can slow down; I’ll tell them it’s not urgent.”
He made a phone call to the hospital, then turned back to me.
“You had a fall, hit your head on the concrete sidewalk, and started having a fit. When we arrived, you were unconscious, and the signs indicated you had gone into a coma. It was a situation that could have gone anyway, which is why we were trying to get you to the hospital as soon as possible. You need to get an MRI as soon as possible.”
“But I feel fine.”
“That may well be the case, but what happened to you can have ramifications later. You have suffered a heavy knock to your head.”
It was not as if I could feel anything, so I reached up to feel for any indication of the accident and touched a bandage, covering what felt like a big lump. I could not feel any pain when I touched it. “Should I feel something?”
“You should, yes. We have not administered any pain medication, so it should be very sore. It’s a fairly large gash. You say there is no pain?”
“No.”
Not right then, but about five minutes later, I started having blurred vision. The paramedic went back to checking my vitals, and as he was taking blood pressure I started shaking, and moments after that, I passed out.
When I woke up, I was home, in my room, overlooking the stables, and beyond that the hills. Montana. How did I get there?
Everything was exactly as I remembered it, the rodeo curtains, the breeze coming through the open window, the aroma of newly mown grass after the rain wafting in, accompanied by the rustle of the curtains. Summer, my favourite part of the year.
And yet, I could not be here, because after my parents died, the farm was sold to pay of the mountain of debt they’d accumulated, and sadly the reason why they were no longer alive.
I slipped off the covers and went over to the window. Exactly as it was when I returned after graduating from university, just before my father and I was going to make repairs to the roof. I remember that exact time in my life. I had just broken up with the girl I had planned to spend the rest of my life with, and, heartbroken, I’d come home to be miserable.
There was a pounding on the door. “Get up now, lazy bones, there are chores to be done.” Suzie, my older sister, never took crap from me, had no aspirations of getting a university degree, ‘What use would it be in running a farm?’, was always at me since I was six, and had more than once thrown cold water over me, in the morning.
“I’m up,” I yelled back, a reflex action. This must all be in my imagination. The last time I’d seen Suzie, it was when I took her to the airport, off to find peace and tranquillity in Tuscany, and was still there with a friend.
But it was my room, and those were my clothes in the dresser, and … Oh. My. God!
My imagination was in overdrive. I looked exactly like my 23-year-old self. That reflection in the mirror was startling. I touched my face, and it seemed real.
Another bang on the door made me jump. The door opened and Suzie put her head in. “Good, you’re up. You just saved yourself a lot of grief.”
She looked so young, so happy, a far cry from the woman she was now, broken by a man we all thought the world of, but turned out to be a monster. I’d often wished I could go back and change things as we all did.
I crossed the room and gave her a huge hug. It felt real.
“What was that for?” She was taken aback by an action that, back then, I would not have contemplated. Our relationship, then, had been rocky at best.
“You know I love you to pieces, sis, and I don’t think I’ve taken the time or made the effort to tell you.”
“I know that. You don’t have to say anything.”
“Too many things are left unsaid.”
“You’re going batty, I can see that now. That fall off the roof of the barn has affected you, though I have to say this version of you is an improvement. Oh, and by the way, I asked Samantha to come over today, so be nice. She’s had a hard time of it while you’re away and you were good friends once.”
Samantha. The girl I dated all through middle school, the one I was supposed to end up with, everyone had said so, except she had other ideas and chose the local football hero instead. It was around about the time I came back that he was killed in a car accident, though rumours had it, it was not an accident. It would be interesting to see her again. The last time I saw her, it was when she ditched me rather unceremoniously.
“You know me, friends with everyone.”
“She dumped you, and you hate her. I get it, but there’s enough water under that bridge. Later.”
I just remembered that fall off the roof, too, showing off, and paying for it. I didn’t break anything, but I had landed rather hard, and shaken a few things up. The bump on the head hadn’t helped either. I shrugged and pulled out work clothes. It was going to be an interesting day.
At the breakfast table, Mom in her usual manner had everything out and just finished up the last of the cooking. I missed her breakfasts, in fact, I missed that first thing in the morning with family, the food, and, well, just the moments I realised much later I’d taken for granted.
Dad was there, his usual gruff, and jovial, self, complaining about everything that was going wrong, from the tractor to the crops in the south paddock, the lack of rain, and having to pump water from the dam.
When I left for college, we needed help and that’s how Walter Fisk came into our lives, particularly into Suzie’s. He called in one day, in his battered Ford truck asking if there was any employment available in the area, and because I was not there, Dad hired him. He was, at first, a hard worker, and then, once he had charmed Suzie, changed. The first time I met him I took an instant dislike to him, and he knew it. It was why he then spent the time I was away to break the relationship I had with my sister.
I was sitting at the table when he came in. I hadn’t realised he was welcome at the breakfast table, and it marked a turning point in his acceptance, almost into the family. I’d forgotten quite a lot about his time at the farm. It was only several years later when the damage was done, that we learned who he really was, a thoroughly bad man by the name of Walter Reinhart who had murdered his wife and disappeared, only to turn up on our doorstep. It wasn’t until he nearly murdered Suzie that we realised his true nature.
“Morning all.” His eyes stopped at me, and his expression changed for just a second. “David.”
“Walter.” It was a pity all of this was running in my imagination, or I’d go into town and see the sheriff and tell him about Fisk. Just seeing him brought all the old memories back, and it made me angry, so much so that I lost my appetite, and couldn’t sit at the same table with him.
I went past him as he sat down, and muttered, “Don’t get too comfortable, Reinhart.”
He grabbed my arm, stopping me from leaving, the expression on his face now one of fear. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“If you say so. Now, I would like my arm back, Walter.”
Suzie had noticed that something was happening between us, and said, “I hope you two are not going to be tiresome, again. I thought we got past all that nonsense.”
“There’s nothing going on here, is there Walter?”
He let go of my arm. “No, nothing.”
In my imaginary world, I had just scored a small victory.
I went outside into the fresh morning air, something else that I missed greatly after leaving home. The mornings were never the same in the city, with no open spaces to speak of and everyone living on top of each other.
And in a city with millions of people, it was ironic that I never felt more alone than I did back home.
Perhaps my mind had had enough of being where I was and had decided to put me back to a time when I had a chance to make a difference in my life. This moment in time was when I made several regrettable decisions, each of which eventually set me on a path to where I was now.
It was not what I had envisaged my life would turn out like, then or now.
Perhaps I was taking stock, going over the choices and seeing what life might have been like.
I walked slowly towards the barn. I could see materials and tools scattered around in my father’s usual haphazard manner, mine too for that matter. We were in the middle of patching the roof, a job long overdue, and it must be just after I fell off the roof. Luckily, I’d landed on a haystack next to it, but though it softened the fall it still hurt.
I could feel the aches and pains from it still.
Inside the barn, I knew what I was looking for. Grandfather’s Indian motorcycle was the only thing he left in his will to me. I loved that bike and used to go out on it whenever I could. I also remembered that Walter stole it when he finally left, and I never saw it again.
I had to do something about that.
I pulled the tarpaulin cover off it and checked it had fuel, then wheeled it out. A minute later I was off, deciding to go into town. I was still undecided about telling the sheriff about Walter.
About five miles up the road I saw Samantha and her truck on the side of the road, hood up. She heard the bike and turned to see who it was, then waved.
I stopped.
I hadn’t seen her for a long time, much less the in those years following my return. I remember when I came back I was bitter and said some regrettable things. I had a chance to change that.
“David.”
“Samantha.” I switched off the bike and it was suddenly eerily quiet.
“You know I get worried when you ride that thing. I never think it’s safe.”
“One ride and you hated it, Sam. You should embrace the freedom.” It had been a constant basis for conflict between us, neither willing to back down. I realised then that I was still annoyed, and it showed in my tone. Had I learned nothing?
“I’m sorry. I should have listened to your concerns, and I was a little selfish when I didn’t.”
She looked at me as if to say, ‘Who the hell are you, and what have you done with David?’
“You were right though. I should. Perhaps you might consider giving me another opportunity. I know I haven’t been as understanding as I could have been.”
I shrugged. We were both making an effort. “It was what it was. We were young, first love is like that, I guess. What’s up?”
“It just stopped. And you know me, I’m hopeless at everything.”
I got off the bike and had a look. I was not much of a mechanic, but living on a farm you got a rudimentary knowledge of everything, so basic problems I could solve. This one was a loose cable that had come away. I put it back and then asked her to start the car, which it did.
“Are you coming back to the farm,” she asked.
“Yeah, just getting some air before I get back to work. Falling off the roof sort of changes your perspective, especially when you consider what the consequences could have been. It just feels like the world is closing in on me lately.”
She got out of the truck, came over and have me a hug. At that moment a whole raft of memories returned. I kissed her and she kissed me back, and suddenly it felt like we had never been apart.
“I never stopped loving you Sam.” It seemed the right time and the right thing to say.
“I know. I always knew you were the one, but I was young and stupid. I learned my lesson, and it won’t happen again. If you still want me.”
I smiled. Was it that easy to fix?
“I do, very much.” I kissed her again. “Let’s start again. Hello. My name is David Westbrook. What’s yours?”
She smiled back. “Samantha Bailey.”
“Well, Samantha, I like you a lot. Would you be interested in going on a date?”
“Just tell me where and when.”
“Do you like motorbikes?”
“I do now.”
“Good. I’ll see you back at the farm and when my father had finished flogging me to death, I’ll take you to a place I know that has the best burgers in the county.”
After another hug, a tear, perhaps two, she left. I watched until she disappeared out of sight.
…
It was going to be a good day.
I went to the sheriff’s office; Mike was a good friend of my father’s as he was to all the residents of our little town.
I told him about Walter Fisk and his other name, and that I suspected he was a murderer sought by the Sacramento police. Mike had an assistant who was clever enough to access police records from all over the country and found the information on Walter, and the wanted poster photograph was almost an exact copy of the man we had working for us.
He asked me how I knew, and I said a friend of mine was working on an assignment for his forensic science degree and had pulled up a number of cases by wanted posters and seen Walters among them. That and the fact I always thought he was not who he said he was.
Job done; I went home.
Back on the roof, I was careful. Working with my father again was special and I savoured the time together. I hadn’t really wanted to get stuck on the farm, seeing what it had done to him, and his father before him. Farming was a rough business given everything that could go wrong, and I didn’t want that responsibility.
But maybe with Suzie, who had always said she would never leave, between us, we could make it work. Especially if we adopted an idea I had read about back in the city. Time would tell.
Suzie, and Samantha, a farm girl herself, came back from the northern paddocks where we had cattle; and she had been taking feed for them because the grass was getting a little thin after a prolonged dry period.
Then they brought lunch to us, sitting at the table where we’d often have a BBQ Saturday night and inviting the neighbours over. Sam sat next to me and it didn’t go unnoticed. Suzie was pleased but didn’t state the obvious.
I thought that was the moment to tell them my plan for the future. I also knew that from this point on things were only going to get worse, my father getting ill, the drought, Walter, and my departure all compounding onto the terrible end to everything I knew and cared about.
“I have an idea which as some of you know can be a bad thing, but thus might be another string in the bow for the farm. I read a while back that one of the schools back east was considering introducing a farm stay for their students, say for a week or fortnight to get a feel for what happened, other than believing all food came from a supermarket.
“I thought about a dozen bunkhouses down by the river with a mess hall, classrooms, and stables would make that a reality. You know how many schools there are, and we have everything right here. Just think about it. It could become a very good income stream.”
Suzie looked surprised. “You thought of that all by yourself?”
“I am capable of thinking, you know.”
“It’s a good idea. Dad, what do you think?”
“It will cost money we don’t have.” The man was ever practical, quite often the devil’s advocate.
“Then what if I get a journalist to come down and go through the plan, show him everything, and get him to sell it for you. At least it will gauge reaction, and if it’s positive…”
“One of your cronies?” Suzie asked.
“He’s a good journalist and he owes me a favour. I’ll call him later.”
Dad shrugged. To him, it was about the money. Not the idea, which was sound and would work, if there was a market. Secretly I think he was pleased with me, trying to find ways to keep the farm.
The day ended on a date and perhaps for the first time in a long time, I felt content. I had, in my imagination, corrected everything that had gone wrong in my life, and just before I fell asleep, I wished that it could go on forever.
…
I felt a hand roughly shaking me by the shoulder, and a voice in the background saying rather loudly, “David, David, wake up, wake up.”
I put my hand out to grasp the hand that was shaking me while trying to open my eyes and wake from, well, I had no idea what it was.
It felt like I was drowning.
Then, eyes open I was staring directly at Samantha’s face. Only she was 30 years older than the last time I saw her.
“Sam?’
“David. Oh God, I thought I’d lost you. She leaned down and kissed me then hugged me which was difficult.
I was in a hospital bed with cables and tubes everywhere.
“What…”
“You’ve been in a coma. You hit your head on the sidewalk and one minute you were fine, the next, we didn’t know if you were going to live or die.”
My other hand was being held and I looked over to see Suzie equally as concerned.
“Suzie? Why are you here? You live in Tuscany?”
She looked blankly at me as if I was mad. “Where did that come from? I came up from the farm the moment Sam told me what happened. Some second honeymoon you two are having.”
“What? This is all wrong. None of this is real.”
I was back in another nightmare where I was being tormented by the same two protagonists as in the last. But why were they here and what was this second honeymoon business.
Samantha looked concerned, perhaps a little scared. I was too because it seemed I was not back in the ambulance on my to the hospital for other reasons. And that life didn’t have either Suzie or Samantha in it.
Suzie came into view. “You should not be overly worried if none of this is familiar to you. We were told by the doctor that you might have difficulty remembering anything, but that wouldn’t last forever. So, a quick recap may or may not help. You’ve been married to Sam for thirty years, and you have three children, not here of course, I’m now running the farm, that was a great idea of yours and it’s all we do these days, Mom and Dad retired to Florida like they always intended, and you and Sam work with me.”
“Walter?”
“He was arrested and charged with murder. God, that was a bullet dodged. That was your diligence too, David, and I cannot thank you enough.”
“How long have I been out of it then?”
“About a month. We’ve been rather frantic I can tell you.”
A coma? It had seemed very real to me.
The problem was my life had been nothing like this one, but coincidentally it was the one I had always wanted and had dreamed of often. It wasn’t possible I could have gone back in time, so what really happened?
Suddenly around me, alarms were going off and there was a sudden movement of people coming into the room. One minute I was conscious, the next I found myself in a white room, sitting at a table with a bearded man.
St Peter at the pearly gates? Was I dying?
“David, David, David.” His tone had just the right amount of disapproval and, what was it, disappointment. “You are given a second chance and you’re not grasping it with both hands.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s been your problem all your life, looking for meaning in something that just is. Are you going to stop procrastinating, and just go back and live your life, the life you have been given? You do not want to miss out on being a grandfather, do you? To go back, a simple yes or no will suffice.”
I didn’t want to think what a no might do, so it had to be a yes. I had no idea what was happening to me, but it was the life I always wanted, to be with Samantha, and have my sister back to her old self again. Whether or not I had intervened, and made it so, was moot. I had hit my head, and basically, everything in it was scrambled anyway.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now don’t come back, not until it’s your time.”
…
There was relief written all over the faces in that room, of the doctors, the nurses, a dozen other spectators, and the two who mattered the most to me. Samantha was holding my hand and I squeezed it, and moments later, opened my eyes. Perhaps I was still dazzled by the white room, but I could have easily confused her with an angel.
“You’re back.”
“Did I go somewhere?” Did she know what had been happening to me?
“I think it might have been that place just before you leave this mortal earth. You weren’t dead, but I think it was touch and go. I’m glad you came back. Our life together is not over yet, and there are so many experiences we have to look forward to.”
“Like being grandparents?”
“How do you know that? I only just got a text message not five minutes ago.”
“I have connections. Don’t worry. I’m back now, and I’m not going anywhere. I think what happened to me was the universe telling me not to be an ass. I’m sure I did something wrong.”
“Well, you’re right about being an ass, but we all have our quirks. We’re together now, as it should be.”
I don’t know, at first, what it was that brought back a raft of memories that had been long forgotten, I had woken up in an ambulance on its way to a hospital, and by the way, in which it was moving at breakneck speed, siren wailing, it had on be for a very good reason.
“He’s awake,” a nearby voice yelled near me, and then a face hovered before my eyes, “How do you feel.”
It was an odd question because I felt fine. “OK. I guess. What happened?”
For a minute or so, he checked my vitals and asked, “Do you know who you are?” I gave him my name, which matched my ID, and then my address, which was also correct. He asked me where I was, and got it right too. “You can slow down; I’ll tell them it’s not urgent.”
He made a phone call to the hospital, then turned back to me.
“You had a fall, hit your head on the concrete sidewalk, and started having a fit. When we arrived, you were unconscious, and the signs indicated you had gone into a coma. It was a situation that could have gone anyway, which is why we were trying to get you to the hospital as soon as possible. You need to get an MRI as soon as possible.”
“But I feel fine.”
“That may well be the case, but what happened to you can have ramifications later. You have suffered a heavy knock to your head.”
It was not as if I could feel anything, so I reached up to feel for any indication of the accident and touched a bandage, covering what felt like a big lump. I could not feel any pain when I touched it. “Should I feel something?”
“You should, yes. We have not administered any pain medication, so it should be very sore. It’s a fairly large gash. You say there is no pain?”
“No.”
Not right then, but about five minutes later, I started having blurred vision. The paramedic went back to checking my vitals, and as he was taking blood pressure I started shaking, and moments after that, I passed out.
When I woke up, I was home, in my room, overlooking the stables, and beyond that the hills. Montana. How did I get there?
Everything was exactly as I remembered it, the rodeo curtains, the breeze coming through the open window, the aroma of newly mown grass after the rain wafting in, accompanied by the rustle of the curtains. Summer, my favourite part of the year.
And yet, I could not be here, because after my parents died, the farm was sold to pay of the mountain of debt they’d accumulated, and sadly the reason why they were no longer alive.
I slipped off the covers and went over to the window. Exactly as it was when I returned after graduating from university, just before my father and I was going to make repairs to the roof. I remember that exact time in my life. I had just broken up with the girl I had planned to spend the rest of my life with, and, heartbroken, I’d come home to be miserable.
There was a pounding on the door. “Get up now, lazy bones, there are chores to be done.” Suzie, my older sister, never took crap from me, had no aspirations of getting a university degree, ‘What use would it be in running a farm?’, was always at me since I was six, and had more than once thrown cold water over me, in the morning.
“I’m up,” I yelled back, a reflex action. This must all be in my imagination. The last time I’d seen Suzie, it was when I took her to the airport, off to find peace and tranquillity in Tuscany, and was still there with a friend.
But it was my room, and those were my clothes in the dresser, and … Oh. My. God!
My imagination was in overdrive. I looked exactly like my 23-year-old self. That reflection in the mirror was startling. I touched my face, and it seemed real.
Another bang on the door made me jump. The door opened and Suzie put her head in. “Good, you’re up. You just saved yourself a lot of grief.”
She looked so young, so happy, a far cry from the woman she was now, broken by a man we all thought the world of, but turned out to be a monster. I’d often wished I could go back and change things as we all did.
I crossed the room and gave her a huge hug. It felt real.
“What was that for?” She was taken aback by an action that, back then, I would not have contemplated. Our relationship, then, had been rocky at best.
“You know I love you to pieces, sis, and I don’t think I’ve taken the time or made the effort to tell you.”
“I know that. You don’t have to say anything.”
“Too many things are left unsaid.”
“You’re going batty, I can see that now. That fall off the roof of the barn has affected you, though I have to say this version of you is an improvement. Oh, and by the way, I asked Samantha to come over today, so be nice. She’s had a hard time of it while you’re away and you were good friends once.”
Samantha. The girl I dated all through middle school, the one I was supposed to end up with, everyone had said so, except she had other ideas and chose the local football hero instead. It was around about the time I came back that he was killed in a car accident, though rumours had it, it was not an accident. It would be interesting to see her again. The last time I saw her, it was when she ditched me rather unceremoniously.
“You know me, friends with everyone.”
“She dumped you, and you hate her. I get it, but there’s enough water under that bridge. Later.”
I just remembered that fall off the roof, too, showing off, and paying for it. I didn’t break anything, but I had landed rather hard, and shaken a few things up. The bump on the head hadn’t helped either. I shrugged and pulled out work clothes. It was going to be an interesting day.
At the breakfast table, Mom in her usual manner had everything out and just finished up the last of the cooking. I missed her breakfasts, in fact, I missed that first thing in the morning with family, the food, and, well, just the moments I realised much later I’d taken for granted.
Dad was there, his usual gruff, and jovial, self, complaining about everything that was going wrong, from the tractor to the crops in the south paddock, the lack of rain, and having to pump water from the dam.
When I left for college, we needed help and that’s how Walter Fisk came into our lives, particularly into Suzie’s. He called in one day, in his battered Ford truck asking if there was any employment available in the area, and because I was not there, Dad hired him. He was, at first, a hard worker, and then, once he had charmed Suzie, changed. The first time I met him I took an instant dislike to him, and he knew it. It was why he then spent the time I was away to break the relationship I had with my sister.
I was sitting at the table when he came in. I hadn’t realised he was welcome at the breakfast table, and it marked a turning point in his acceptance, almost into the family. I’d forgotten quite a lot about his time at the farm. It was only several years later when the damage was done, that we learned who he really was, a thoroughly bad man by the name of Walter Reinhart who had murdered his wife and disappeared, only to turn up on our doorstep. It wasn’t until he nearly murdered Suzie that we realised his true nature.
“Morning all.” His eyes stopped at me, and his expression changed for just a second. “David.”
“Walter.” It was a pity all of this was running in my imagination, or I’d go into town and see the sheriff and tell him about Fisk. Just seeing him brought all the old memories back, and it made me angry, so much so that I lost my appetite, and couldn’t sit at the same table with him.
I went past him as he sat down, and muttered, “Don’t get too comfortable, Reinhart.”
He grabbed my arm, stopping me from leaving, the expression on his face now one of fear. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“If you say so. Now, I would like my arm back, Walter.”
Suzie had noticed that something was happening between us, and said, “I hope you two are not going to be tiresome, again. I thought we got past all that nonsense.”
“There’s nothing going on here, is there Walter?”
He let go of my arm. “No, nothing.”
In my imaginary world, I had just scored a small victory.
I went outside into the fresh morning air, something else that I missed greatly after leaving home. The mornings were never the same in the city, with no open spaces to speak of and everyone living on top of each other.
And in a city with millions of people, it was ironic that I never felt more alone than I did back home.
Perhaps my mind had had enough of being where I was and had decided to put me back to a time when I had a chance to make a difference in my life. This moment in time was when I made several regrettable decisions, each of which eventually set me on a path to where I was now.
It was not what I had envisaged my life would turn out like, then or now.
Perhaps I was taking stock, going over the choices and seeing what life might have been like.
I walked slowly towards the barn. I could see materials and tools scattered around in my father’s usual haphazard manner, mine too for that matter. We were in the middle of patching the roof, a job long overdue, and it must be just after I fell off the roof. Luckily, I’d landed on a haystack next to it, but though it softened the fall it still hurt.
I could feel the aches and pains from it still.
Inside the barn, I knew what I was looking for. Grandfather’s Indian motorcycle was the only thing he left in his will to me. I loved that bike and used to go out on it whenever I could. I also remembered that Walter stole it when he finally left, and I never saw it again.
I had to do something about that.
I pulled the tarpaulin cover off it and checked it had fuel, then wheeled it out. A minute later I was off, deciding to go into town. I was still undecided about telling the sheriff about Walter.
About five miles up the road I saw Samantha and her truck on the side of the road, hood up. She heard the bike and turned to see who it was, then waved.
I stopped.
I hadn’t seen her for a long time, much less the in those years following my return. I remember when I came back I was bitter and said some regrettable things. I had a chance to change that.
“David.”
“Samantha.” I switched off the bike and it was suddenly eerily quiet.
“You know I get worried when you ride that thing. I never think it’s safe.”
“One ride and you hated it, Sam. You should embrace the freedom.” It had been a constant basis for conflict between us, neither willing to back down. I realised then that I was still annoyed, and it showed in my tone. Had I learned nothing?
“I’m sorry. I should have listened to your concerns, and I was a little selfish when I didn’t.”
She looked at me as if to say, ‘Who the hell are you, and what have you done with David?’
“You were right though. I should. Perhaps you might consider giving me another opportunity. I know I haven’t been as understanding as I could have been.”
I shrugged. We were both making an effort. “It was what it was. We were young, first love is like that, I guess. What’s up?”
“It just stopped. And you know me, I’m hopeless at everything.”
I got off the bike and had a look. I was not much of a mechanic, but living on a farm you got a rudimentary knowledge of everything, so basic problems I could solve. This one was a loose cable that had come away. I put it back and then asked her to start the car, which it did.
“Are you coming back to the farm,” she asked.
“Yeah, just getting some air before I get back to work. Falling off the roof sort of changes your perspective, especially when you consider what the consequences could have been. It just feels like the world is closing in on me lately.”
She got out of the truck, came over and have me a hug. At that moment a whole raft of memories returned. I kissed her and she kissed me back, and suddenly it felt like we had never been apart.
“I never stopped loving you Sam.” It seemed the right time and the right thing to say.
“I know. I always knew you were the one, but I was young and stupid. I learned my lesson, and it won’t happen again. If you still want me.”
I smiled. Was it that easy to fix?
“I do, very much.” I kissed her again. “Let’s start again. Hello. My name is David Westbrook. What’s yours?”
She smiled back. “Samantha Bailey.”
“Well, Samantha, I like you a lot. Would you be interested in going on a date?”
“Just tell me where and when.”
“Do you like motorbikes?”
“I do now.”
“Good. I’ll see you back at the farm and when my father had finished flogging me to death, I’ll take you to a place I know that has the best burgers in the county.”
After another hug, a tear, perhaps two, she left. I watched until she disappeared out of sight.
…
It was going to be a good day.
I went to the sheriff’s office; Mike was a good friend of my father’s as he was to all the residents of our little town.
I told him about Walter Fisk and his other name, and that I suspected he was a murderer sought by the Sacramento police. Mike had an assistant who was clever enough to access police records from all over the country and found the information on Walter, and the wanted poster photograph was almost an exact copy of the man we had working for us.
He asked me how I knew, and I said a friend of mine was working on an assignment for his forensic science degree and had pulled up a number of cases by wanted posters and seen Walters among them. That and the fact I always thought he was not who he said he was.
Job done; I went home.
Back on the roof, I was careful. Working with my father again was special and I savoured the time together. I hadn’t really wanted to get stuck on the farm, seeing what it had done to him, and his father before him. Farming was a rough business given everything that could go wrong, and I didn’t want that responsibility.
But maybe with Suzie, who had always said she would never leave, between us, we could make it work. Especially if we adopted an idea I had read about back in the city. Time would tell.
Suzie, and Samantha, a farm girl herself, came back from the northern paddocks where we had cattle; and she had been taking feed for them because the grass was getting a little thin after a prolonged dry period.
Then they brought lunch to us, sitting at the table where we’d often have a BBQ Saturday night and inviting the neighbours over. Sam sat next to me and it didn’t go unnoticed. Suzie was pleased but didn’t state the obvious.
I thought that was the moment to tell them my plan for the future. I also knew that from this point on things were only going to get worse, my father getting ill, the drought, Walter, and my departure all compounding onto the terrible end to everything I knew and cared about.
“I have an idea which as some of you know can be a bad thing, but thus might be another string in the bow for the farm. I read a while back that one of the schools back east was considering introducing a farm stay for their students, say for a week or fortnight to get a feel for what happened, other than believing all food came from a supermarket.
“I thought about a dozen bunkhouses down by the river with a mess hall, classrooms, and stables would make that a reality. You know how many schools there are, and we have everything right here. Just think about it. It could become a very good income stream.”
Suzie looked surprised. “You thought of that all by yourself?”
“I am capable of thinking, you know.”
“It’s a good idea. Dad, what do you think?”
“It will cost money we don’t have.” The man was ever practical, quite often the devil’s advocate.
“Then what if I get a journalist to come down and go through the plan, show him everything, and get him to sell it for you. At least it will gauge reaction, and if it’s positive…”
“One of your cronies?” Suzie asked.
“He’s a good journalist and he owes me a favour. I’ll call him later.”
Dad shrugged. To him, it was about the money. Not the idea, which was sound and would work, if there was a market. Secretly I think he was pleased with me, trying to find ways to keep the farm.
The day ended on a date and perhaps for the first time in a long time, I felt content. I had, in my imagination, corrected everything that had gone wrong in my life, and just before I fell asleep, I wished that it could go on forever.
…
I felt a hand roughly shaking me by the shoulder, and a voice in the background saying rather loudly, “David, David, wake up, wake up.”
I put my hand out to grasp the hand that was shaking me while trying to open my eyes and wake from, well, I had no idea what it was.
It felt like I was drowning.
Then, eyes open I was staring directly at Samantha’s face. Only she was 30 years older than the last time I saw her.
“Sam?’
“David. Oh God, I thought I’d lost you. She leaned down and kissed me then hugged me which was difficult.
I was in a hospital bed with cables and tubes everywhere.
“What…”
“You’ve been in a coma. You hit your head on the sidewalk and one minute you were fine, the next, we didn’t know if you were going to live or die.”
My other hand was being held and I looked over to see Suzie equally as concerned.
“Suzie? Why are you here? You live in Tuscany?”
She looked blankly at me as if I was mad. “Where did that come from? I came up from the farm the moment Sam told me what happened. Some second honeymoon you two are having.”
“What? This is all wrong. None of this is real.”
I was back in another nightmare where I was being tormented by the same two protagonists as in the last. But why were they here and what was this second honeymoon business.
Samantha looked concerned, perhaps a little scared. I was too because it seemed I was not back in the ambulance on my to the hospital for other reasons. And that life didn’t have either Suzie or Samantha in it.
Suzie came into view. “You should not be overly worried if none of this is familiar to you. We were told by the doctor that you might have difficulty remembering anything, but that wouldn’t last forever. So, a quick recap may or may not help. You’ve been married to Sam for thirty years, and you have three children, not here of course, I’m now running the farm, that was a great idea of yours and it’s all we do these days, Mom and Dad retired to Florida like they always intended, and you and Sam work with me.”
“Walter?”
“He was arrested and charged with murder. God, that was a bullet dodged. That was your diligence too, David, and I cannot thank you enough.”
“How long have I been out of it then?”
“About a month. We’ve been rather frantic I can tell you.”
A coma? It had seemed very real to me.
The problem was my life had been nothing like this one, but coincidentally it was the one I had always wanted and had dreamed of often. It wasn’t possible I could have gone back in time, so what really happened?
Suddenly around me, alarms were going off and there was a sudden movement of people coming into the room. One minute I was conscious, the next I found myself in a white room, sitting at a table with a bearded man.
St Peter at the pearly gates? Was I dying?
“David, David, David.” His tone had just the right amount of disapproval and, what was it, disappointment. “You are given a second chance and you’re not grasping it with both hands.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s been your problem all your life, looking for meaning in something that just is. Are you going to stop procrastinating, and just go back and live your life, the life you have been given? You do not want to miss out on being a grandfather, do you? To go back, a simple yes or no will suffice.”
I didn’t want to think what a no might do, so it had to be a yes. I had no idea what was happening to me, but it was the life I always wanted, to be with Samantha, and have my sister back to her old self again. Whether or not I had intervened, and made it so, was moot. I had hit my head, and basically, everything in it was scrambled anyway.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now don’t come back, not until it’s your time.”
…
There was relief written all over the faces in that room, of the doctors, the nurses, a dozen other spectators, and the two who mattered the most to me. Samantha was holding my hand and I squeezed it, and moments later, opened my eyes. Perhaps I was still dazzled by the white room, but I could have easily confused her with an angel.
“You’re back.”
“Did I go somewhere?” Did she know what had been happening to me?
“I think it might have been that place just before you leave this mortal earth. You weren’t dead, but I think it was touch and go. I’m glad you came back. Our life together is not over yet, and there are so many experiences we have to look forward to.”
“Like being grandparents?”
“How do you know that? I only just got a text message not five minutes ago.”
“I have connections. Don’t worry. I’m back now, and I’m not going anywhere. I think what happened to me was the universe telling me not to be an ass. I’m sure I did something wrong.”
“Well, you’re right about being an ass, but we all have our quirks. We’re together now, as it should be.”
It was just a simple conversation, or so I thought.
You know how it is, stuck in a long queue, waiting for service when you strike up a conversation with the person in front of the person or behind. Random strangers, never seen before, perhaps will never see again.
The plane had arrived late, along with the three others in quick succession, all with over 300 passengers, and being that time of night, not so many service staff. The line was quite literally a mile long and not moving very fast.
It was apparent the person in front of me, who looked like a university professor, had to be somewhere else and was getting impatient.
“This is ridiculous. You would have thought they’d know about the hold-ups, that every plane would arrive at the same time, and make the appropriate adjustments.”
It was a common sense thing, but apparently not deemed so by airport management. It was the same the world over.
“At least you won’t have to wait for your baggage. It’ll be on the carousel by the time we get out of here.”
He sighed, pulled out a cell phone, and dialled a number, most likely the person picking him up. They didn’t answer, and as he jammed his finger on the disconnect button, he muttered, “Fiddlesticks.”
One second, I was thinking what an odd thing to say, the next, nothing.
When I opened my eyes I was looking at a roof, in unfamiliar surroundings, with two ambulance staff leaning over me, saying, “Mr Giles, Mr Giles,” while gently shaking me by the shoulder.
My first thought was, who was Mr Giles? I looked at one, “Where am I?”
“JFK airport, New York.”
“How, why, when?”
“You collapsed, waiting in line to pass through immigration. The security staff called us.”
“Who is Mr Glies?”
“That’s you.”
“No, it isn’t. My name is Jeremy Watkins.”
“Not according to your passport and ticket information. Samuel Giles.”
No. I’ve never heard of him. Nor did I have any idea why I was in New York, where I came from or why I was there. Seeing the guards surrounding me, I realized airport security staff were naturally paranoid about terrorist attacks, and given my situation, I had just become a number one suspect.
This was not going to end well.
Within five minutes of saying what I’d just said, I was taken to a room somewhere within the innards of the airport, the paramedics having determined there was nothing physically wrong with me, saying it was just a reaction to a long flight, tiredness, and stress from waiting.
All the time, I’d been flanked by three airport security staff, followed by two uniformed officers of the NYPD. When I got to the room, a man was waiting. He looked as tired as I felt. My baggage was on one side of the room, and it had been thoroughly searched. The paramedics’ work was done, and they left. The airport security guards were also dismissed, but the two uniformed officers remained, one in the room and one outside the room. If I tried to escape, I would not get very far.
He pointed to a seat opposite him, and I assumed I was meant to sit. Once I had, he said, “Now, Mr Giles slash Watkins, just who the hell are you?”
I didn’t think he was from the FBI, but just to make sure I asked, “Who are you?”
He glared at me, perhaps considering he didn’t have to tell me anything, then changed his mind. “Detective Barnsdale, NYPD. Someone up there,” he pointed to the roof, “Decided to make this my lucky day. Make it easy for both of us. I’d tend to believe you were hallucinating if you’d banged your head when you collapsed, but the medics tell me you didn’t. I can only assume this is some sort of prank. If it is, then I suggest you give it up. Otherwise, if I escalate this, it’s going to get ugly.”
If he was trying to scare me, it was working. “My name is Jeremy Watkins. If you have access to the internet, you can look me up. I’m an author, not exactly a runaway best-seller, but I make enough. I don’t know how I got here, or why I’m here, and as much in the dark as you why my documents say I’m someone else.”
He brought out his cell phone and pushed a few buttons, typed in my name, and waited. Then, his expression changed, and another glare at me. “OK, it looks like you. Give me some titles of your books.”
“It happened in Syracuse, the end is nigh, and the girl with blue eyes.”
A shake of the head. “Not exactly conclusive proof. You could have looked it up and remembered them. But you look exactly like him.”
He went back to his phone and picked up the driver’s licence with that name and address and typed that name in. Another expression change, one that suggested he’d found nothing. “So you are telling me you know nothing about this Sidney Giles from Houston. It’s your photo, and this licence looks real. And this boarding pass says you came in from Houston.”
“I can’t explain it. No.”
He sighed. “OK. Take me through your last 24 hours. What do you remember?”
That was the problem, I could not remember anything beyond the fact I had just finished a class where I’d been trying to get completely disinterested teenagers to write a story about their ideal day out, and being met with derision. The bell rang and they all left, leaving me somewhat shattered, sitting at the desk contemplating why I’d chosen this career path.
Then Marjorie, the other English teacher who had conducted my orientation, came in and asked me how my first class went. I couldn’t remember what I said, but the next memory was in a bar, she was there, and we were talking about writing, and the fact she was hoping to finish her first book soon, and was asking if I wanted to read it.
“I’m not sure if it’s the last 24 hours, but I’m apparently a new teacher at a college in Syracuse somewhere, who took his first class, not very successfully, I might add.”
“Nothing to indicate how you got to Houston, and then here?”
Another memory popped into my head, a rather disconcerting one. I was with Marjorie, and we were talking about writing thrillers and how sometimes she playacted her character’s roles, the latest, an assassin who had been hypnotised believing she was someone else entirely, fitted out with a complete change of identity and then travelling to a particular city to carry out her assignment. Who said art imitated life? This was the other way around.
“You remembered something, didn’t you?”
“I think whatever it was, it’s just a figment of my writer’s mind. It’s too far out there to be believable.”
“Try me.”
“Apparently, I was discussing aspects of another author’s latest work in progress, where the main character is hypnotised into thinking they are someone else. That’s just too far-fetched, isn’t it?”
The detective picked up his phone and called security and asked if there was any CCTV of the incident. Five minutes later, a guard came with an inadequate and handed it to him. “It’s your lucky day,” he said.
The detective looked at the footage not once but about ten times. “The coverage shows you talking to the man ahead of you in the queue, and then suddenly just collapse. I’m sure he says something to you, a word that sounds like Fiddlesticks.”
The next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder, and I was on the floor, totally disorientated.
It was just a simple conversation, or so I thought.
You know how it is, stuck in a long queue, waiting for service when you strike up a conversation with the person in front of the person or behind. Random strangers, never seen before, perhaps will never see again.
The plane had arrived late, along with the three others in quick succession, all with over 300 passengers, and being that time of night, not so many service staff. The line was quite literally a mile long and not moving very fast.
It was apparent the person in front of me, who looked like a university professor, had to be somewhere else and was getting impatient.
“This is ridiculous. You would have thought they’d know about the hold-ups, that every plane would arrive at the same time, and make the appropriate adjustments.”
It was a common sense thing, but apparently not deemed so by airport management. It was the same the world over.
“At least you won’t have to wait for your baggage. It’ll be on the carousel by the time we get out of here.”
He sighed, pulled out a cell phone, and dialled a number, most likely the person picking him up. They didn’t answer, and as he jammed his finger on the disconnect button, he muttered, “Fiddlesticks.”
One second, I was thinking what an odd thing to say, the next, nothing.
When I opened my eyes I was looking at a roof, in unfamiliar surroundings, with two ambulance staff leaning over me, saying, “Mr Giles, Mr Giles,” while gently shaking me by the shoulder.
My first thought was, who was Mr Giles? I looked at one, “Where am I?”
“JFK airport, New York.”
“How, why, when?”
“You collapsed, waiting in line to pass through immigration. The security staff called us.”
“Who is Mr Glies?”
“That’s you.”
“No, it isn’t. My name is Jeremy Watkins.”
“Not according to your passport and ticket information. Samuel Giles.”
No. I’ve never heard of him. Nor did I have any idea why I was in New York, where I came from or why I was there. Seeing the guards surrounding me, I realized airport security staff were naturally paranoid about terrorist attacks, and given my situation, I had just become a number one suspect.
This was not going to end well.
Within five minutes of saying what I’d just said, I was taken to a room somewhere within the innards of the airport, the paramedics having determined there was nothing physically wrong with me, saying it was just a reaction to a long flight, tiredness, and stress from waiting.
All the time, I’d been flanked by three airport security staff, followed by two uniformed officers of the NYPD. When I got to the room, a man was waiting. He looked as tired as I felt. My baggage was on one side of the room, and it had been thoroughly searched. The paramedics’ work was done, and they left. The airport security guards were also dismissed, but the two uniformed officers remained, one in the room and one outside the room. If I tried to escape, I would not get very far.
He pointed to a seat opposite him, and I assumed I was meant to sit. Once I had, he said, “Now, Mr Giles slash Watkins, just who the hell are you?”
I didn’t think he was from the FBI, but just to make sure I asked, “Who are you?”
He glared at me, perhaps considering he didn’t have to tell me anything, then changed his mind. “Detective Barnsdale, NYPD. Someone up there,” he pointed to the roof, “Decided to make this my lucky day. Make it easy for both of us. I’d tend to believe you were hallucinating if you’d banged your head when you collapsed, but the medics tell me you didn’t. I can only assume this is some sort of prank. If it is, then I suggest you give it up. Otherwise, if I escalate this, it’s going to get ugly.”
If he was trying to scare me, it was working. “My name is Jeremy Watkins. If you have access to the internet, you can look me up. I’m an author, not exactly a runaway best-seller, but I make enough. I don’t know how I got here, or why I’m here, and as much in the dark as you why my documents say I’m someone else.”
He brought out his cell phone and pushed a few buttons, typed in my name, and waited. Then, his expression changed, and another glare at me. “OK, it looks like you. Give me some titles of your books.”
“It happened in Syracuse, the end is nigh, and the girl with blue eyes.”
A shake of the head. “Not exactly conclusive proof. You could have looked it up and remembered them. But you look exactly like him.”
He went back to his phone and picked up the driver’s licence with that name and address and typed that name in. Another expression change, one that suggested he’d found nothing. “So you are telling me you know nothing about this Sidney Giles from Houston. It’s your photo, and this licence looks real. And this boarding pass says you came in from Houston.”
“I can’t explain it. No.”
He sighed. “OK. Take me through your last 24 hours. What do you remember?”
That was the problem, I could not remember anything beyond the fact I had just finished a class where I’d been trying to get completely disinterested teenagers to write a story about their ideal day out, and being met with derision. The bell rang and they all left, leaving me somewhat shattered, sitting at the desk contemplating why I’d chosen this career path.
Then Marjorie, the other English teacher who had conducted my orientation, came in and asked me how my first class went. I couldn’t remember what I said, but the next memory was in a bar, she was there, and we were talking about writing, and the fact she was hoping to finish her first book soon, and was asking if I wanted to read it.
“I’m not sure if it’s the last 24 hours, but I’m apparently a new teacher at a college in Syracuse somewhere, who took his first class, not very successfully, I might add.”
“Nothing to indicate how you got to Houston, and then here?”
Another memory popped into my head, a rather disconcerting one. I was with Marjorie, and we were talking about writing thrillers and how sometimes she playacted her character’s roles, the latest, an assassin who had been hypnotised believing she was someone else entirely, fitted out with a complete change of identity and then travelling to a particular city to carry out her assignment. Who said art imitated life? This was the other way around.
“You remembered something, didn’t you?”
“I think whatever it was, it’s just a figment of my writer’s mind. It’s too far out there to be believable.”
“Try me.”
“Apparently, I was discussing aspects of another author’s latest work in progress, where the main character is hypnotised into thinking they are someone else. That’s just too far-fetched, isn’t it?”
The detective picked up his phone and called security and asked if there was any CCTV of the incident. Five minutes later, a guard came with an inadequate and handed it to him. “It’s your lucky day,” he said.
The detective looked at the footage not once but about ten times. “The coverage shows you talking to the man ahead of you in the queue, and then suddenly just collapse. I’m sure he says something to you, a word that sounds like Fiddlesticks.”
The next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder, and I was on the floor, totally disorientated.
I never really understood why I had an affinity for libraries until I stepped into the one in my grandfather’s house.
The last time I’d seen it was when I turned ten, and we visited him the day after my grandmother had died. I remembered that day very clearly for two reasons. First, my grandfather said I was too young to go, so I was left with the housekeeper and allowed to go into a large room with thousands upon thousands of books. By myself.
So many, in fact, I was so immersed in them that I hadn’t realised my parents had come back and it was time to go. Not until I heard raised voices coming from outside the window. My father and grandfather were in a full bare-knuckle fighting stance, with my mother standing between them.
That second reason, it was also the day my father stopped talking to and visiting my grandfather. I had seen him once, in all the time leading up to my grandmother’s funeral, and never again. The only references to him I found were in the newspapers, along with words like patron, philanthropist, politician, and patriot. My father said he was evil, but he never told me why.
There was a lot of fallout from that day of the funeral. Not only had my father stopped talking to his father, but also his two sisters and brother, all of who were a mystery to me. Later I learned that I belonged to a very dysfunctional family and that my father was the sanest of the four siblings. Of course, that was my mother’s assessment, but I also learned later, my father marrying her had got him disinherited.
But to be honest, at 10 it didn’t seem a big deal. I didn’t know them, and having said no more than a dozen words to my grandfather, it was not as if I knew him enough to miss him. I did remember that library though, and that huge house by the lake. My father never said he’d grown up there, just that his life had been spent in boarding schools and the military. Enough of a life though, to give me a university degree, yes, you guessed it, in Library Science and Information Management.
That I knew so little about him made it all the more difficult to write a eulogy. For him, and my mother who had basically died a few days after him. I wanted to believe she just didn’t want to live on without him, but that was too fanciful. She had been worn down by what I now believed was a very bitter man. That bitterness had caused me to stop visiting home about a year before when relations between us sunk to an all-time low. I spoke to my mother by phone every week, but it was not the same, not being able to see me, and that I hadn’t made it back before she died was a sin I would spend a long time atoning for.
Nor did I have any siblings to turn to for help. That ship had sailed after I was born when my mother discovered she could have no more children.
But, here’s the thing. I had not heard that either of my parents had died until I got a call from my parents’ Pastor of their church. Had he not called, I would not have known. My initial reaction was not to go, that was how deep the scars were from our fractured relationship, but the pastor insisted that I would not get closure if I didn’t.
I still believed it was a huge mistake as I was getting on the plane. I told Wendy, a girl whom I had just become more than friends with that I would have to go, it surprised her because I had told her that I was more or less like her, an orphan. I had met her after the final altercation, and I didn’t think it necessary to bore her with my parents’ odd behaviour.
By the time the plane arrived, I was past the misgivings and telling myself just to get it done and go home. One day, two at the most and it would be all over, filed under, don’t come back to haunt me again.
Shock number one: A girl, about my age or slightly younger, dressed in what might have passed as mourning clothes, was standing in the arrivals section where people held signs of names of people they were to pick up. She had mine, or maybe not. It could be someone else. I went over to her, cautiously.
She smiled when she saw. “My God; Lindsay, you look just like your father.”
How could she possibly know who I was, or what he looked like? None of his family had ever made themselves known or came to see us.
“How…”
“Your photographs. My dad is your uncle by the way, and I’m your something or other, someone explained it to me but it was too much. Your mother sent thousands of photographs and letters to your uncle and aunts and we know about you. It’s just a pity we couldn’t meet until the old bastard died. Now, it’s like we’re old friends. I’m Allie by the way. Wow!”
Wow, indeed. My mother the traitor! She always seemed to have a conspiratorial look about her and now I knew why.
“Travelling light,” she said, seeing my backpack.
“Wasn’t intending to stay.”
“Can’t do that now Lindsay. You have a lifetime of catching up to do. I hope you have a spare week up your sleeve.”
I followed her out of the terminal to the car park.
“Where do you want to go first? By the way, I’m your chauffeur for the duration of your stay, and you tell me, that’s where we go.”
“Haven’t you got better things to do?”
“No. I had to beat up my sister and brother to get this privilege. This is not a chore Lindsay. And I get first dibs to talk to you about everything.”
She had a strange way of talking, so I let most of it go over my head. “Perhaps the funeral parlour, I think the pastor said they were in one of them near the church. Not their church, either.”
“I try not to get involved in heavy family stuff. But I think you’ll find my father had something to do with that. Blood is thicker than water, he says. He says a lot of stuff I don’t understand. Your dad like that?”
We reached the car, she unlocked it and we got in. A RAM 2500. Better than anything we could afford.
“Your car?”
“Mine, hell no. This is Dad’s special truck, only comes out on hunting weekends and special occasions like weddings. Damned if I know why he let me drive given my track record.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s another of his tests.”
It sounded like a family trait because my father used to do the same. I left her to the driving and pondered this whole other life that went on around us, ignored simply because my father hated his family. Obviously, there was some deep-seated resentment generated at some point before he struck out on his own, and maybe I could find out. Certainly, it seemed I was not going to be able to escape as easily as I had first imagined.
What worried me was suddenly meeting a whole host of people I’d never seen before but apparently knew everything about me. I’d never have suspected my mother going behind my father’s back, but there was always that air of defiance in her, and in some of their arguments, they didn’t go nuclear, but she did stop talking to him or doing anything for him until he backed down.
A lesser woman would not have been much of anything up against him, which was why he married her.
Our first stop as requested was the funeral home. There I was shown into a special room where both were in their caskets. It was an open casket viewing, and while they had been restored to some of their former glory, my mother was almost unrecognisable. I had the room to myself, and thankfully Allie didn’t come in because there were tears, even though I told myself there would not be.
My father, of course, never changed and looked the same forbidding person he’d always been. I was sure somewhere within him there was kindness, but he never showed it to me. Even so, it was still a shock to know that he had passed.
After a half hour, I came back out into the daylight. Allie handed me a cup of coffee.
“I didn’t know if you wanted or needed something stronger, but we can drop into a bar on the way for some fortification if you like. The next stop, I’m afraid, is the church. Got a call to say the Bishop has arrived. Our family has some brownie points and got the Bishop to come and say a few words. I’m not a keep churchgoer either Lindsay.”
Were any of the younger generations? Those attempts of his to put the fear of God in me never worked, probably because they tried too hard. A more gentler and persuasive method would have had better results, but the priest was all fire and brimstone. I don’t think I could remember one Sunday where the sermon had any levity in it.
“Perhaps if they tried to move into the 21st century, it might be better. I heard that my father’s church Pastor is coming too. He’s as old as the hills, and hopefully, he will not remember the errant and disappointing child I was.”
“Don’t count on it. They keep everything in a big ledger, and it’s opened the day you go to heaven or hell. Hell’s where I’m going, I’m sure of it.”
It was an amusing thought. “Perhaps you’ll see me there, too.”
The Pastor was there with the local church leaders, and the Bishop, all very severe-looking men. Granted it was a sombre occasion, but a little levity wouldn’t go astray. I noted, firstly, the look they gave me was one of surprise, though I had no idea why, and secondly, they hardly approved of the mourning outfit on my chauffeur. Granted it was low cut and the hem high, but it suited her, and in my mind rather a fashion statement, and appropriate. This was not the nineteenth century.
That led to shock number two. My father’s paster recognised me instantly, and the change of expression told me he remembered everyone one of my sins, some of which I still had to atone for. That was not the reason for the shock, the fact I had to write a eulogy and read it was. He had intimated such in the phone call but I had told him I preferred not to. Perhaps he had been hard of hearing.
He was warm in his greeting though. “Lindsay, so glad you could come, and, my, you have grown up into a fine young man.”
Grown-up, may, fine, that was debatable. “They haven’t retired you yet?” It was not meant to be antagonistic, but some memories of injustices never left you.
“There’s still a lot of God’s work to be done. I see you have lost none of your candour. Let us not dwell on the past, and consider only what lies ahead. Your father was a good man, despite your differences, and his disposition. I had urged him, in his last days, to reconcile with you, and I believe he was going to.”
“You knew a different man to me, Pastor. But as you say, let us not dwell upon what was. I think I said I preferred not to participate in the service.”
I saw the other Pastor and the Bishop approach. I thought I remembered the Bishop, but not as a Bishop but as a simple priest, many years before. The trouble was, they all looked the same to me.
“Marriot here tells me you are going to read your eulogy as part of the service. I believe it’s the right thing to so, a fitting end to a life devoted to service to his country and his church.”
He gave me no chance of reneging, and at any rate, there was no denying a Bishop’s request, not if I wanted the wrath of God to befall me.
“Until tomorrow, Pastor Marriot said and left with the other two men.
“I can see that went swimmingly,” Allie said when she came back over. It wasn’t hard to notice she was avoiding the Pastors and Bishop.
“An ambush.”
“Not getting out of the eulogy?”
“Apparently not.”
“Then write and read something wicked. There’s going to be a packed house, so the audience will be in your hands. The trouble is, people rarely bring up the bad stuff at funerals, and the lies they tell about people, it’s outrageous. We had an in-law who died in a police shootout when he tried to rob a gas station. Not one bad word. It’s probably why they didn’t ask me to say anything.”
The thought did cross my mind, but no, I had enough respect for the occasion that I would say a few words.
“Well, the fun’s over,” she said. “You now are about to meet all the people you never knew existed.”
The family had taken over a restaurant in a nearby town, and everyone had come to see the missing link. I felt like a character out of Charles Darwin’s evolution book.
There were about 35, my father’s brother and two sisters, their children, my contemporaries, some grandchildren, and one very old lady, the sister of my grandfather who presided over the gathering like a Queen. She was the first introduction, and from there, it was simply a sea of faces and names.
Inevitably I was asked why I had not tried to seek them out earlier, and that was complicated. My father never told me about his family, and that one memory of my grandfather was fleeting and without context. But the most sinister of reasons was the fact he had changed his surname, making it impossible to trace anyone. While I knew he had siblings, I could never find them. As for my mother, she said she would tell me the truth when he died. That, of course, could not happen, which landed me where I was right now. Even his priest did not know the truth until one of the family contacted him upon learning of my father’s death.
It was, quite simply, the most improbable of situations that most people could not believe possible.
The following day, over a hundred people arrived for the funeral, and it was a beautiful service on a perfect day. My few but heartfelt words were delivered in a broken voice, by a person who should not have but was, overcome with emotion.
Afterwards, when the bodies were lowered into their final resting place, in the family graveyard near my grandfather’s house, exactly as I had remembered it, I was sitting on the seat that overlooked the lake, wondering what it might have been like to like in such a house. Allie had taken me on a guided tour, the house now a museum of sorts, where the family occupied the upper floors and the museum the lower, including that incredible library.
She was sitting next to me, the rock that had got me through a fairly traumatising day.
Shock number three: She handed me an envelope with my name on it. “We had to wait until your father died before it could be delivered. It is a letter all of us in our generation, got when our grandfather died.”
“I’m surprised he considered me part of the family.”
“You were, and are, despite your father’s best efforts. He knew about you, and everything you have done, until the day he died. You can read it, or I can summarise it if you like.”
“You can tell me, I’m just too overwhelmed to read anything at the moment.”
“As you wish. In essence, you and 7 of us, own equal shares in the old building over there.” She nodded in its direction. “You have a suite of rooms set aside, as each of us has, and a job helping in running the museum. He particularly thought you would like to run the library and the research department. There are a lot of historical documents, and books that are considered invaluable to researchers who come here from all over the world. You might not want to, but the rest of us would love it if you did. And there’s a pot of gold, literally at the end of the rainbow. You can, if you so desire, become very, very wealthy. Or just take an annuity as I do. Too much money makes me anxious. Now, you can stay in your rooms tonight, for as long as you want, and tomorrow we will all sit around the table and just talk.”
Just then I saw her turn towards the driveway and heard a car arriving. She smiled. “We also thought it might be too overwhelming on your own so we asked Wendy to come. I hope you don’t mind?”
It was odd because she was on my mind at that exact moment she arrived, and exactly the person I wanted to see.
As I crossed the lawn and reached the car as she got out, and saw the house, there was a look of recognition, surprise and something else I couldn’t place.
“Is this where you grew up?” she asked.
“No. I’d only seen it once when I was ten when my parents came to attend my grandmother’s funeral. Why?”
“Because this is very, very familiar. I lived here with my mother until I was fifteen when she died and I was sent to live with my aunt in New York. I remember a day when a boy came, and stayed in the library, and refused to come and play with me. I was seven, I think, at the time. It means I’ve known you forever, even if I did hate you to pieces then. What a remarkable coincidence.”
“Serendipity,” Allie said. “Welcome home, the both of you.”
I never really understood why I had an affinity for libraries until I stepped into the one in my grandfather’s house.
The last time I’d seen it was when I turned ten, and we visited him the day after my grandmother had died. I remembered that day very clearly for two reasons. First, my grandfather said I was too young to go, so I was left with the housekeeper and allowed to go into a large room with thousands upon thousands of books. By myself.
So many, in fact, I was so immersed in them that I hadn’t realised my parents had come back and it was time to go. Not until I heard raised voices coming from outside the window. My father and grandfather were in a full bare-knuckle fighting stance, with my mother standing between them.
That second reason, it was also the day my father stopped talking to and visiting my grandfather. I had seen him once, in all the time leading up to my grandmother’s funeral, and never again. The only references to him I found were in the newspapers, along with words like patron, philanthropist, politician, and patriot. My father said he was evil, but he never told me why.
There was a lot of fallout from that day of the funeral. Not only had my father stopped talking to his father, but also his two sisters and brother, all of who were a mystery to me. Later I learned that I belonged to a very dysfunctional family and that my father was the sanest of the four siblings. Of course, that was my mother’s assessment, but I also learned later, my father marrying her had got him disinherited.
But to be honest, at 10 it didn’t seem a big deal. I didn’t know them, and having said no more than a dozen words to my grandfather, it was not as if I knew him enough to miss him. I did remember that library though, and that huge house by the lake. My father never said he’d grown up there, just that his life had been spent in boarding schools and the military. Enough of a life though, to give me a university degree, yes, you guessed it, in Library Science and Information Management.
That I knew so little about him made it all the more difficult to write a eulogy. For him, and my mother who had basically died a few days after him. I wanted to believe she just didn’t want to live on without him, but that was too fanciful. She had been worn down by what I now believed was a very bitter man. That bitterness had caused me to stop visiting home about a year before when relations between us sunk to an all-time low. I spoke to my mother by phone every week, but it was not the same, not being able to see me, and that I hadn’t made it back before she died was a sin I would spend a long time atoning for.
Nor did I have any siblings to turn to for help. That ship had sailed after I was born when my mother discovered she could have no more children.
But, here’s the thing. I had not heard that either of my parents had died until I got a call from my parents’ Pastor of their church. Had he not called, I would not have known. My initial reaction was not to go, that was how deep the scars were from our fractured relationship, but the pastor insisted that I would not get closure if I didn’t.
I still believed it was a huge mistake as I was getting on the plane. I told Wendy, a girl whom I had just become more than friends with that I would have to go, it surprised her because I had told her that I was more or less like her, an orphan. I had met her after the final altercation, and I didn’t think it necessary to bore her with my parents’ odd behaviour.
By the time the plane arrived, I was past the misgivings and telling myself just to get it done and go home. One day, two at the most and it would be all over, filed under, don’t come back to haunt me again.
Shock number one: A girl, about my age or slightly younger, dressed in what might have passed as mourning clothes, was standing in the arrivals section where people held signs of names of people they were to pick up. She had mine, or maybe not. It could be someone else. I went over to her, cautiously.
She smiled when she saw. “My God; Lindsay, you look just like your father.”
How could she possibly know who I was, or what he looked like? None of his family had ever made themselves known or came to see us.
“How…”
“Your photographs. My dad is your uncle by the way, and I’m your something or other, someone explained it to me but it was too much. Your mother sent thousands of photographs and letters to your uncle and aunts and we know about you. It’s just a pity we couldn’t meet until the old bastard died. Now, it’s like we’re old friends. I’m Allie by the way. Wow!”
Wow, indeed. My mother the traitor! She always seemed to have a conspiratorial look about her and now I knew why.
“Travelling light,” she said, seeing my backpack.
“Wasn’t intending to stay.”
“Can’t do that now Lindsay. You have a lifetime of catching up to do. I hope you have a spare week up your sleeve.”
I followed her out of the terminal to the car park.
“Where do you want to go first? By the way, I’m your chauffeur for the duration of your stay, and you tell me, that’s where we go.”
“Haven’t you got better things to do?”
“No. I had to beat up my sister and brother to get this privilege. This is not a chore Lindsay. And I get first dibs to talk to you about everything.”
She had a strange way of talking, so I let most of it go over my head. “Perhaps the funeral parlour, I think the pastor said they were in one of them near the church. Not their church, either.”
“I try not to get involved in heavy family stuff. But I think you’ll find my father had something to do with that. Blood is thicker than water, he says. He says a lot of stuff I don’t understand. Your dad like that?”
We reached the car, she unlocked it and we got in. A RAM 2500. Better than anything we could afford.
“Your car?”
“Mine, hell no. This is Dad’s special truck, only comes out on hunting weekends and special occasions like weddings. Damned if I know why he let me drive given my track record.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s another of his tests.”
It sounded like a family trait because my father used to do the same. I left her to the driving and pondered this whole other life that went on around us, ignored simply because my father hated his family. Obviously, there was some deep-seated resentment generated at some point before he struck out on his own, and maybe I could find out. Certainly, it seemed I was not going to be able to escape as easily as I had first imagined.
What worried me was suddenly meeting a whole host of people I’d never seen before but apparently knew everything about me. I’d never have suspected my mother going behind my father’s back, but there was always that air of defiance in her, and in some of their arguments, they didn’t go nuclear, but she did stop talking to him or doing anything for him until he backed down.
A lesser woman would not have been much of anything up against him, which was why he married her.
Our first stop as requested was the funeral home. There I was shown into a special room where both were in their caskets. It was an open casket viewing, and while they had been restored to some of their former glory, my mother was almost unrecognisable. I had the room to myself, and thankfully Allie didn’t come in because there were tears, even though I told myself there would not be.
My father, of course, never changed and looked the same forbidding person he’d always been. I was sure somewhere within him there was kindness, but he never showed it to me. Even so, it was still a shock to know that he had passed.
After a half hour, I came back out into the daylight. Allie handed me a cup of coffee.
“I didn’t know if you wanted or needed something stronger, but we can drop into a bar on the way for some fortification if you like. The next stop, I’m afraid, is the church. Got a call to say the Bishop has arrived. Our family has some brownie points and got the Bishop to come and say a few words. I’m not a keep churchgoer either Lindsay.”
Were any of the younger generations? Those attempts of his to put the fear of God in me never worked, probably because they tried too hard. A more gentler and persuasive method would have had better results, but the priest was all fire and brimstone. I don’t think I could remember one Sunday where the sermon had any levity in it.
“Perhaps if they tried to move into the 21st century, it might be better. I heard that my father’s church Pastor is coming too. He’s as old as the hills, and hopefully, he will not remember the errant and disappointing child I was.”
“Don’t count on it. They keep everything in a big ledger, and it’s opened the day you go to heaven or hell. Hell’s where I’m going, I’m sure of it.”
It was an amusing thought. “Perhaps you’ll see me there, too.”
The Pastor was there with the local church leaders, and the Bishop, all very severe-looking men. Granted it was a sombre occasion, but a little levity wouldn’t go astray. I noted, firstly, the look they gave me was one of surprise, though I had no idea why, and secondly, they hardly approved of the mourning outfit on my chauffeur. Granted it was low cut and the hem high, but it suited her, and in my mind rather a fashion statement, and appropriate. This was not the nineteenth century.
That led to shock number two. My father’s paster recognised me instantly, and the change of expression told me he remembered everyone one of my sins, some of which I still had to atone for. That was not the reason for the shock, the fact I had to write a eulogy and read it was. He had intimated such in the phone call but I had told him I preferred not to. Perhaps he had been hard of hearing.
He was warm in his greeting though. “Lindsay, so glad you could come, and, my, you have grown up into a fine young man.”
Grown-up, may, fine, that was debatable. “They haven’t retired you yet?” It was not meant to be antagonistic, but some memories of injustices never left you.
“There’s still a lot of God’s work to be done. I see you have lost none of your candour. Let us not dwell on the past, and consider only what lies ahead. Your father was a good man, despite your differences, and his disposition. I had urged him, in his last days, to reconcile with you, and I believe he was going to.”
“You knew a different man to me, Pastor. But as you say, let us not dwell upon what was. I think I said I preferred not to participate in the service.”
I saw the other Pastor and the Bishop approach. I thought I remembered the Bishop, but not as a Bishop but as a simple priest, many years before. The trouble was, they all looked the same to me.
“Marriot here tells me you are going to read your eulogy as part of the service. I believe it’s the right thing to so, a fitting end to a life devoted to service to his country and his church.”
He gave me no chance of reneging, and at any rate, there was no denying a Bishop’s request, not if I wanted the wrath of God to befall me.
“Until tomorrow, Pastor Marriot said and left with the other two men.
“I can see that went swimmingly,” Allie said when she came back over. It wasn’t hard to notice she was avoiding the Pastors and Bishop.
“An ambush.”
“Not getting out of the eulogy?”
“Apparently not.”
“Then write and read something wicked. There’s going to be a packed house, so the audience will be in your hands. The trouble is, people rarely bring up the bad stuff at funerals, and the lies they tell about people, it’s outrageous. We had an in-law who died in a police shootout when he tried to rob a gas station. Not one bad word. It’s probably why they didn’t ask me to say anything.”
The thought did cross my mind, but no, I had enough respect for the occasion that I would say a few words.
“Well, the fun’s over,” she said. “You now are about to meet all the people you never knew existed.”
The family had taken over a restaurant in a nearby town, and everyone had come to see the missing link. I felt like a character out of Charles Darwin’s evolution book.
There were about 35, my father’s brother and two sisters, their children, my contemporaries, some grandchildren, and one very old lady, the sister of my grandfather who presided over the gathering like a Queen. She was the first introduction, and from there, it was simply a sea of faces and names.
Inevitably I was asked why I had not tried to seek them out earlier, and that was complicated. My father never told me about his family, and that one memory of my grandfather was fleeting and without context. But the most sinister of reasons was the fact he had changed his surname, making it impossible to trace anyone. While I knew he had siblings, I could never find them. As for my mother, she said she would tell me the truth when he died. That, of course, could not happen, which landed me where I was right now. Even his priest did not know the truth until one of the family contacted him upon learning of my father’s death.
It was, quite simply, the most improbable of situations that most people could not believe possible.
The following day, over a hundred people arrived for the funeral, and it was a beautiful service on a perfect day. My few but heartfelt words were delivered in a broken voice, by a person who should not have but was, overcome with emotion.
Afterwards, when the bodies were lowered into their final resting place, in the family graveyard near my grandfather’s house, exactly as I had remembered it, I was sitting on the seat that overlooked the lake, wondering what it might have been like to like in such a house. Allie had taken me on a guided tour, the house now a museum of sorts, where the family occupied the upper floors and the museum the lower, including that incredible library.
She was sitting next to me, the rock that had got me through a fairly traumatising day.
Shock number three: She handed me an envelope with my name on it. “We had to wait until your father died before it could be delivered. It is a letter all of us in our generation, got when our grandfather died.”
“I’m surprised he considered me part of the family.”
“You were, and are, despite your father’s best efforts. He knew about you, and everything you have done, until the day he died. You can read it, or I can summarise it if you like.”
“You can tell me, I’m just too overwhelmed to read anything at the moment.”
“As you wish. In essence, you and 7 of us, own equal shares in the old building over there.” She nodded in its direction. “You have a suite of rooms set aside, as each of us has, and a job helping in running the museum. He particularly thought you would like to run the library and the research department. There are a lot of historical documents, and books that are considered invaluable to researchers who come here from all over the world. You might not want to, but the rest of us would love it if you did. And there’s a pot of gold, literally at the end of the rainbow. You can, if you so desire, become very, very wealthy. Or just take an annuity as I do. Too much money makes me anxious. Now, you can stay in your rooms tonight, for as long as you want, and tomorrow we will all sit around the table and just talk.”
Just then I saw her turn towards the driveway and heard a car arriving. She smiled. “We also thought it might be too overwhelming on your own so we asked Wendy to come. I hope you don’t mind?”
It was odd because she was on my mind at that exact moment she arrived, and exactly the person I wanted to see.
As I crossed the lawn and reached the car as she got out, and saw the house, there was a look of recognition, surprise and something else I couldn’t place.
“Is this where you grew up?” she asked.
“No. I’d only seen it once when I was ten when my parents came to attend my grandmother’s funeral. Why?”
“Because this is very, very familiar. I lived here with my mother until I was fifteen when she died and I was sent to live with my aunt in New York. I remember a day when a boy came, and stayed in the library, and refused to come and play with me. I was seven, I think, at the time. It means I’ve known you forever, even if I did hate you to pieces then. What a remarkable coincidence.”
“Serendipity,” Allie said. “Welcome home, the both of you.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 