…

I remember the last conversation I had with my father the day he died.

It had taken three months of my life, giving up everything to make sure his last days were bearable, all with the expectation that it would be a thankless task he would not appreciate.  Three months of dismissive retorts, insults, insufferable behaviour, cryptic comments, and sometimes, in less lucid moments, ramblings about places he’d been, and discoveries made.

Neither of my brothers wanted anything to do with him, other than to wait for the selfish bastard to die and leave them their sufferance money, their expectation of an incalculable inheritance, and it was left to me, the youngest son, and in their eyes the one he cared about the most to take responsibility.

I didn’t have the heart, nor was I given the opportunity, to tell them I was not the golden boy they thought I was.  Or the fact there was no incalculable inheritance.

But there was that conversation, one I never expected to have.

I’d left the room for a break, heading to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a croissant.  Amelia, one of two dedicated nurses looking after my father, was there, having a coffee before she started her shift.  We had become friends of a sort, each other’s go-to person when my father unravelled on us.

Yesterday’s revelations were about his will, and which one, if there was one, was current.  His mind changed weekly, including who was in and who was out, which made it especially interesting because he sometimes didn’t remember any of all of us.  Or the fact his wife, our mother, had died twenty years before after being dragged along on one of his archaeological adventures.

Yesterday, I was getting nothing, his rant about the child, not knowing I was in the room with him.  He simply didn’t recognise me.  Everything, he said, was going to Elroy, the eldest brother, who, apparently, was in the room with us.

The brain tumour was affecting him more each passing day, and symptoms and behaviour the doctors had told me from the outset, would demonstrate indescribable and at times confronting behaviour.  I think, in that three months, I’d seen it all.

“Another day, not another million dollars, eh Steven?”  She smiled.  She’d caught the last of the spray he gave me.  She was amused by my eligibility as a so-called wealthy bachelor, which changed from week to week.  This week, it was zero wealth, no eligibility.

“I was hoping to propose, but once again, I can’t afford the ring, the wedding, or the honeymoon.”

“You know what I expect, a soda can ring pull, my parent’s backyard, and a B and B in Yonkers.  If I’m lucky.  My parents might charge rent for using their backyard.”

We joked about it, but I’d thought more than once in the last few weeks to ask her on a date, but after telling me about her last breakup and the horrid man, she’d sworn off dating for life.  She was the only light in days of darkness.

“Everything comes to he or she who waits.  I’m sure the right one is out there somewhere.”

“We can only hope.  He had a quiet night, I’m told, and the end is near.  Twice the night nurse had thought he’d died.  Maybe he’s finally done.”

I could only hope.  “Got anything lined up for the weekend?”

She grimaced.  I knew that look.  Duty and obligation led to an inquisition.

“Going home to visit mum and dad, and see the perfect sisters with their perfect families, each with their perfect husband with perfect jobs, and why I’m not married, have no children in a dead-end job.  I sometimes wonder if I should ask you to pretend to be my perfect husband just to get them off my back.  What do you think?”

It was an idea that sent a shiver through me when it shouldn’t.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Nobody is, Steven, except in my family.  Tell you what, the more I think about it….”  Then she shook her head.  “I think I’m going mad.  I’ll see you later.”  She rushed off, and I was not sure if she was late starting or embarrassed by thinking out loud.

It was an idea.  Maybe I’d mention it later.

I opened the curtains covering the windows and looked at the frail man either asleep or feigning sleep.  It was hard to tell.  He was, after the ravages of age and illness, now only a fraction of what he used to be, a big, strong force of nature. 

I arranged the array of newspapers I’d brought with me, just in case he wanted me to read stories from them, or just one.  I had several Dickens novels, which I’d read to him at night.  He liked the classics and Dickens in particular.  I had a bottle of scotch, which we had a drink of sometimes.  Other times, I was not allowed because he thought I was too young.  It was amusing.

Every morning was a waiting game, where I would wait until he spoke to me unless one of the medical staff interrupted this charade.  It seemed to amuse him, and because he was dying, I played along.

Reading the newspaper while waiting, I found a story on page 6 of the local rag, my father’s description of it because he had never anything nice to say about it, or the reporting because the editor was an arch enemy if his, about his impending demise, and how he had been the counties most distinguished archaeologist and celebrity.  It refrained from mentioning he could be and often was abrasive.

“Alfred Biggins in serious condition.” Followed by a catchy subtitled, “Not expected to live.”

It was rather a belatedly written story written by a friend, of sorts; “stodgy”, so named because his journalistic talent was simply writing the facts.  It was a mishmash of everything he’d got from me in a bar the previous Friday in what he thought was a well-disguised interrogation. It was not.  Having every intention of trying to keep the wolves from the door, I managed to head off an assassination piece; those would come from various sources after his death.

“Is that you, Steven?”  My father was awake, and I braced myself.

I put the paper down and looked over to see him sitting up.  If I was to guess, he didn’t look ill or half mad at all, just his usual self.  “It is me.  What can I get you?”

“Nothing I can’t get for myself.  What are you doing here?  What am I doing here?”

OK.  Something was very wrong here.  This person in the bed was not my father.  “You have a brain tumour and you’ve been in a very bad way.  In fact, the night nurse had thought you’d died.  Twice.”

“Died?  Brain tumour?  There’s nothing wrong with me.  I feel fine.”

Then I remembered what the doctor had said a month or so ago when we went through a similar phase.  This moment of clarity wouldn’t last.

“Dad, believe me, you are unwell, and this is just a temporary remission.  The doctor will be here soon and will explain it.”

“Then if I’m ill as you say, where are your brothers?”

“They wanted nothing to do with you once you were put in here.  They delegated me to keep you company.  I’m sure you don’t remember any of this, but it’s been three months now, and it’s getting worse.”

He shook his head and went quiet.  It was as if he was taking in the enormity of it, or just that he didn’t believe it could happen to him.  A few minutes passed, and I wondered if he had slipped back into the fog.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me.  “Yes.  Some of it I remember, firstly going down like a sack of potatoes in Cairo, waking up in some damn hospital with a witch doctor trying to peer into my soul.  Said I had a tumour and it needed to be seen to, said I had six months, at best to live. Of course, I laughed at him, came home, and then the last thing I know was falling over in the study at home.”

“It’s where I found you.  It was a day before I came home.  Scared the living hell out of me.”

“How long since that day?”1

“Three months almost to the day.”

“Plus the three before that, that’s the six months.  I’m on borrowed time.  There’s a journal in the study.  I don’t remember where I put it, but it’s in a safe place.  If I remember before I die, I’ll tell you, but I think that’s a long shot at best.  The will is in a copy of the 1933 Guide to Touring Egypt.  Basically the money goes to the other two, and the house goes to you.  They don’t need a house and they’d only sell it if I left it to them.  The money with more than compensate them.  I should change it and leave the money to a lost dog’s home, but it’s too late.  I’m sorry for a lot of things Steven, but what’s in the journal will make up for everything.  Two things, don’t tell anyone about it, or what’s in there.  Ever.  The other, watch out for Professor Moriarty.  Yes, I know it sounds stupid because he’s a foe of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not joking.  The man is dangerous. and he’s after the same thing you are.  Now, be a good boy and get me some cold water.”

I looked at him, trying to fathom if he was having me on.  It wouldn’t surprise me.  Whether or not this was one of those lucid moments, or he was just a very good actor, I couldn’t tell.  But Professor Moriarty?  Please.  That was where I drew the line.  I took the jug and headed to the cold water dispenser.

Amelia passed as I was filling the jug.  “How is he today?”

“The weirdest thing.  Until he mentioned Professor Moriarty, I thought he’d woken and was lucid again.  Certainly, the conversation was better than anything we’d had before, even before being admitted to the hospital.”

“Maybe some of it was, and his mind just wandered.  Ask him again when you see him.  I’ll be there soon.”

I’d just picked up the jug when I heard a scream, and it sounded like it came from my father’s room.  I left the jug and ran.  I arrived at the same time as the doctor and two nurses, to see him trying to get out of bed, yelling, “He’s trying to get me, he’s trying to get me,  Help.”  He was literally fighting the doctor and nurse off.

Suddenly he went limp in their arms, and they managed to get him back on the bed.  With one look at him, the doctor immediately checked for a pulse.  A minute later, with a shake of the head, he looked at the clock on the wall.  “Time of death, 8:43 am.”  He turned to me.  “Your father just passed.  I’m sorry for your loss.  We’ll give you a moment alone with him.”

It grieved me in the sense that I had not been with him in his last moments alive.  But, it also surprised me that I didn’t feel more now that he was dead.  All those years of making us children a second priority perhaps had made us more immune from his loss than it should.  I sat for a minute and held his hand, quite cold, but not because of death.  His hands had always been cold.

It was then I noticed the piece of paper under the pillow, just showing.  I pulled it out.  He must have made a note in those moments of clarity.

I pulled it out and read it.

“If I am dead, then leave.  Now.  Don’t wait around because it will only invite trouble.  Go home.  Look for the journal.  Trust no one.”

I might have ignored that note had it not for the sound of raised voices coming from the nurse’s station, one being a man who was demanding to see my father.

A last look at him, a memory of a man who no longer looked like my father, and I left.  Just about to leave by the side exit I could hear the doctor saying, “You cannot be here, Professor Moriarty, and if you persist, I will call the police.”

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

I was told once that I lacked imagination.

It cost me a relationship and my dream job, and it still hurt.

The thing is, in a situation where, if I could have thought outside the box, it would have saved lives, particularly Sharon’s, the woman I was supposed to marry three days after the event that ended her life.

And, it was my fault.  I accepted responsibility, lost my job, and rightly or wrongly, spent five years of my life in jail, perhaps not the worst thing to happen to me.

What was worse was the knowledge I could have prevented it, and saved her life and five others.  That was harder, almost impossible to live with.  I had never imagined what it would be like without her, because I never imagined I’d fail.

Now I could not imagine what it would be like on the outside, back in the world again, with nothing.

“So Ken, ready to take that giant step for mankind?”

Louie, one of several prison guards I’d got to know over the time I’d been incarcerated, had already delivered my stuff after breakfast after I’d said my goodbyes, and had come back to take on that last journey to the front gate

“You do realise that a high percentage of inmates re-offend within a month or two.  It’s a hard world out there, full of hate and distrust.  Easier just to re-offend and come back to safety.”

“I don’t intend to come back.”  There were 9 other reasons why I didn’t want to return, and one big one. Lodge.  He only had one name, and he didn’t need another.  Survival in those first few months had been my primary concern, and he tried to make it his.

I’d been expecting a visit at breakfast, to let me know it was not safe on the outside, and that I would get my just desserts.  People like Lodge did not like to lose, and he had simmered for years.  Luckily he would never see the outside again.

He didn’t arrive, perhaps because they locked him up but he’d made the threat before. 

“They all say that, but we’ll see.  Let’s go “

Some say the air is different on the outside, but it wasn’t.  The jail complex was in the middle of a large open space, miles from anywhere.  It was there so even if someone escaped they would have to traverse at least a mile in the wide-open surroundings.

No one had escaped.  Ever.

Outside the gate was a visitor parking area, much larger than needed, and the sun beating down on the concrete made it at least 10 degrees hotter

Louie opened the gate and waved his hand, the invitation to leave the confines of the jail.  He was right.  Despite Lodge, it had become a safe haven, and I wasn’t looking forward to going home.

There were too many memories there, so I’d planned to go somewhere where no one knew who I was.  I just wanted to become invisible.

“Are you expecting anyone?”  He asked.

 “There is no one who would want to see me.  They’re all probably still angry I only got five years.”

“Like I said, it’s an ugly world out there. There’s a bus in about ten minutes.  Goes to the nearest town.  From there you can go anywhere.  Have a nice life, Jack.”

“You too Louie “

The 50-yard walk to the bus stop was like trudging through head-high water, and by the time I got to the stop I was sweating profusely.

Five minutes, I saw a lone car coming along the road and then turning off the road to come to the jail.  A visitor.  There weren’t very many of those people in this jail.  I didn’t get one the whole time I was there.  My family, mother, father, brother, and sister had effectively disowned me. They hadn’t even bothered to come to the trial.

It was not unexpected.  They had disapproved of my choice of Sharon and were not coming to the wedding.  I know she was disappointed.

The car slowed and turned into the car park then slowly made its way to the bus stop.  Was someone else being released today?

It stopped just past the bus’s designated spot and a driver just sat there.  A woman, perhaps the wife or girlfriend of one of the inmates. 

Five minutes, then she got out.  She started walking towards me, with a familiar shape and gait.  It couldn’t be Sharon, but Sharon said she had a sister who’d moved away, who hated her family, and who had been all but exorcised from their collective memory.

Perhaps the fact she worked for the FBI might have had something to do with it because my father had told me Sharon’s family were nothing more than a bunch of petty criminals, and that I should have known better, as fellow law enforcement myself. Perhaps I should have told him that love makes us blind.  The real answer, I didn’t care.

Perhaps I should have.

“Jack Orville?”

I stood.  “Yes.”

“I’m Louise Ranchess, Sharon’s sister, the one they never speak of.  I’ve been investigating your case.”

“Not much use, unless your family wants me to spend the rest of my life in that place behind me.  Is that why you’re here?””My family were murdered about a year after you were incarcerated.  Some might say it was just desserts, but none should die like that.  Your case and theirs are linked, and I’ve been waiting for your release.  I think you were set up.  Sharon called me the night she died, said she had something for me, and that her life was in danger.  I ignored that call.”

“I simply made a wrong call.  And I doubt Sharon was doing anything other than messing with you.  She said she loved winding you up.  There’s no conspiracy here.  I’m sorry for the loss of your family.”

“You were law enforcement.”

“A small county deputy, at the bottom of the ladder.  Traffic violations, and petty crimes.”

“Didn’t you realize the Sherriff was corrupt?”

“He was popular.  People bought him stuff, and treated him nicely because he kept them safe.” 

She snorted.  “Paid handsomely to look the other way.  He was responsible for your debacle.  He had you put on the case, no doubt saying it was your first big case on the road to bigger and better things. It should have been handled by his specialist officer, not an inexperienced rookie.”

I remembered that speech, tied to the fact I was about to be married, and the job was the stepping stone to providing my bride with everything she deserved.  He knew where he was sending me and whom it involved, knowing my thinking would be compromised by my feelings.  I also remembered him saying at the review afterwards he had no idea she would be at the crime scene, and by the time he realised it and arranged for another officer to take over it was too late.  It was an outcome he wanted because by them I had growing suspicions of his corruption and had followed him on several occasions only to find him secretly meeting members of rival crime families.  I thought he was trying to solve their differences, but it was more likely he was taking bribes to inform each of them to the other.  How else could he afford a ski lodge at Aspen?

“He wanted you out of the way Jack.  Long enough to finish what he started and retire as a very rich man.  I didn’t like my family nor did I like Sharon very much, but they were my family and they died horribly.  I can’t help them now, but you were wrongly jailed and I can do something about that.  I just need your help.”

“I’m an ex-con and you’re FBI aren’t you?”

She nodded.  “But treated with kid gloves because of my family.  After 10 years I’m still trying to prove to them I can be trusted.  I just need to break one big case.”

In the distance, I could see the bus coming.  Do I take it and get on with the rest of my life, ir do I accept the offer of getting justice for being wronged, ironically getting help from Sharon’s sister?  Had someone suggested this as a possible outcome of five years in jail I would have laughed at them.

Even now it seemed unbelievable.  No one had cared five years ago, all everyone wanted was a rapid conviction.  I had considered the Sheriff was the only one who would benefit the most from my jailing, but was too lost in grief to do anything about it, and as time passed I didn’t let it eat me up.

No point.  Even now it would be just a case of his word against mine, and who would listen to an ex-con.  I doubted having Louise on my side would carry much sway, given her family connection.  It would just be viewed as revenge.

“My help would not be a help.”

“You want him to get away with it?”

“You know how it works.  Ex-con versus respected law officer.  And your boss will look at the family connection, and come to the same conclusion.”

“Not if we get solid evidence.”

“And how do we do that?”

“He’s sitting in a special room waiting to tell us, right now.  I just need you to ask the right questions.”

I turned and looked at the jail behind me, and then at the bus turning off the main road.  This was a recipe for disaster.  I could tell from the heightened state of her manner and the octave-higher voice that there was more to this story.  Something was not right.

The bus was turning into the carpark.  The jail was beckoning, and would no doubt be happy to swallow me back into the fold and prove Louie right.  I knew instinctively if I got in that car with her, it would be the ticket that would put me back inside.

“You have about 30 seconds to tell me the truth.”

She looked me up and down, trying to decide if I could be trusted.  Considering where we were standing, it wasn’t hard.

“He’s tied up, literally.  The bastard knows everything, and we can get it.  Believe me, with or without you, he’s going to tell me everything.”

I didn’t doubt the sincerity of that statement, whether or not I believed she was unhinged or not.  Perhaps I would be the voice of reason because right now this woman was off the reservation.

Another look at the prison, then the bus, almost upon us, then, decision made.  “Let’s go.  Tell me what this is about on the way.”

For better or worse I’d made my bed.  I just hope I wouldn’t live to regret it.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

I was told once that I lacked imagination.

It cost me a relationship and my dream job, and it still hurt.

The thing is, in a situation where, if I could have thought outside the box, it would have saved lives, particularly Sharon’s, the woman I was supposed to marry three days after the event that ended her life.

And, it was my fault.  I accepted responsibility, lost my job, and rightly or wrongly, spent five years of my life in jail, perhaps not the worst thing to happen to me.

What was worse was the knowledge I could have prevented it, and saved her life and five others.  That was harder, almost impossible to live with.  I had never imagined what it would be like without her, because I never imagined I’d fail.

Now I could not imagine what it would be like on the outside, back in the world again, with nothing.

“So Ken, ready to take that giant step for mankind?”

Louie, one of several prison guards I’d got to know over the time I’d been incarcerated, had already delivered my stuff after breakfast after I’d said my goodbyes, and had come back to take on that last journey to the front gate

“You do realise that a high percentage of inmates re-offend within a month or two.  It’s a hard world out there, full of hate and distrust.  Easier just to re-offend and come back to safety.”

“I don’t intend to come back.”  There were 9 other reasons why I didn’t want to return, and one big one. Lodge.  He only had one name, and he didn’t need another.  Survival in those first few months had been my primary concern, and he tried to make it his.

I’d been expecting a visit at breakfast, to let me know it was not safe on the outside, and that I would get my just desserts.  People like Lodge did not like to lose, and he had simmered for years.  Luckily he would never see the outside again.

He didn’t arrive, perhaps because they locked him up but he’d made the threat before. 

“They all say that, but we’ll see.  Let’s go “

Some say the air is different on the outside, but it wasn’t.  The jail complex was in the middle of a large open space, miles from anywhere.  It was there so even if someone escaped they would have to traverse at least a mile in the wide-open surroundings.

No one had escaped.  Ever.

Outside the gate was a visitor parking area, much larger than needed, and the sun beating down on the concrete made it at least 10 degrees hotter

Louie opened the gate and waved his hand, the invitation to leave the confines of the jail.  He was right.  Despite Lodge, it had become a safe haven, and I wasn’t looking forward to going home.

There were too many memories there, so I’d planned to go somewhere where no one knew who I was.  I just wanted to become invisible.

“Are you expecting anyone?”  He asked.

 “There is no one who would want to see me.  They’re all probably still angry I only got five years.”

“Like I said, it’s an ugly world out there. There’s a bus in about ten minutes.  Goes to the nearest town.  From there you can go anywhere.  Have a nice life, Jack.”

“You too Louie “

The 50-yard walk to the bus stop was like trudging through head-high water, and by the time I got to the stop I was sweating profusely.

Five minutes, I saw a lone car coming along the road and then turning off the road to come to the jail.  A visitor.  There weren’t very many of those people in this jail.  I didn’t get one the whole time I was there.  My family, mother, father, brother, and sister had effectively disowned me. They hadn’t even bothered to come to the trial.

It was not unexpected.  They had disapproved of my choice of Sharon and were not coming to the wedding.  I know she was disappointed.

The car slowed and turned into the car park then slowly made its way to the bus stop.  Was someone else being released today?

It stopped just past the bus’s designated spot and a driver just sat there.  A woman, perhaps the wife or girlfriend of one of the inmates. 

Five minutes, then she got out.  She started walking towards me, with a familiar shape and gait.  It couldn’t be Sharon, but Sharon said she had a sister who’d moved away, who hated her family, and who had been all but exorcised from their collective memory.

Perhaps the fact she worked for the FBI might have had something to do with it because my father had told me Sharon’s family were nothing more than a bunch of petty criminals, and that I should have known better, as fellow law enforcement myself. Perhaps I should have told him that love makes us blind.  The real answer, I didn’t care.

Perhaps I should have.

“Jack Orville?”

I stood.  “Yes.”

“I’m Louise Ranchess, Sharon’s sister, the one they never speak of.  I’ve been investigating your case.”

“Not much use, unless your family wants me to spend the rest of my life in that place behind me.  Is that why you’re here?””My family were murdered about a year after you were incarcerated.  Some might say it was just desserts, but none should die like that.  Your case and theirs are linked, and I’ve been waiting for your release.  I think you were set up.  Sharon called me the night she died, said she had something for me, and that her life was in danger.  I ignored that call.”

“I simply made a wrong call.  And I doubt Sharon was doing anything other than messing with you.  She said she loved winding you up.  There’s no conspiracy here.  I’m sorry for the loss of your family.”

“You were law enforcement.”

“A small county deputy, at the bottom of the ladder.  Traffic violations, and petty crimes.”

“Didn’t you realize the Sherriff was corrupt?”

“He was popular.  People bought him stuff, and treated him nicely because he kept them safe.” 

She snorted.  “Paid handsomely to look the other way.  He was responsible for your debacle.  He had you put on the case, no doubt saying it was your first big case on the road to bigger and better things. It should have been handled by his specialist officer, not an inexperienced rookie.”

I remembered that speech, tied to the fact I was about to be married, and the job was the stepping stone to providing my bride with everything she deserved.  He knew where he was sending me and whom it involved, knowing my thinking would be compromised by my feelings.  I also remembered him saying at the review afterwards he had no idea she would be at the crime scene, and by the time he realised it and arranged for another officer to take over it was too late.  It was an outcome he wanted because by them I had growing suspicions of his corruption and had followed him on several occasions only to find him secretly meeting members of rival crime families.  I thought he was trying to solve their differences, but it was more likely he was taking bribes to inform each of them to the other.  How else could he afford a ski lodge at Aspen?

“He wanted you out of the way Jack.  Long enough to finish what he started and retire as a very rich man.  I didn’t like my family nor did I like Sharon very much, but they were my family and they died horribly.  I can’t help them now, but you were wrongly jailed and I can do something about that.  I just need your help.”

“I’m an ex-con and you’re FBI aren’t you?”

She nodded.  “But treated with kid gloves because of my family.  After 10 years I’m still trying to prove to them I can be trusted.  I just need to break one big case.”

In the distance, I could see the bus coming.  Do I take it and get on with the rest of my life, ir do I accept the offer of getting justice for being wronged, ironically getting help from Sharon’s sister?  Had someone suggested this as a possible outcome of five years in jail I would have laughed at them.

Even now it seemed unbelievable.  No one had cared five years ago, all everyone wanted was a rapid conviction.  I had considered the Sheriff was the only one who would benefit the most from my jailing, but was too lost in grief to do anything about it, and as time passed I didn’t let it eat me up.

No point.  Even now it would be just a case of his word against mine, and who would listen to an ex-con.  I doubted having Louise on my side would carry much sway, given her family connection.  It would just be viewed as revenge.

“My help would not be a help.”

“You want him to get away with it?”

“You know how it works.  Ex-con versus respected law officer.  And your boss will look at the family connection, and come to the same conclusion.”

“Not if we get solid evidence.”

“And how do we do that?”

“He’s sitting in a special room waiting to tell us, right now.  I just need you to ask the right questions.”

I turned and looked at the jail behind me, and then at the bus turning off the main road.  This was a recipe for disaster.  I could tell from the heightened state of her manner and the octave-higher voice that there was more to this story.  Something was not right.

The bus was turning into the carpark.  The jail was beckoning, and would no doubt be happy to swallow me back into the fold and prove Louie right.  I knew instinctively if I got in that car with her, it would be the ticket that would put me back inside.

“You have about 30 seconds to tell me the truth.”

She looked me up and down, trying to decide if I could be trusted.  Considering where we were standing, it wasn’t hard.

“He’s tied up, literally.  The bastard knows everything, and we can get it.  Believe me, with or without you, he’s going to tell me everything.”

I didn’t doubt the sincerity of that statement, whether or not I believed she was unhinged or not.  Perhaps I would be the voice of reason because right now this woman was off the reservation.

Another look at the prison, then the bus, almost upon us, then, decision made.  “Let’s go.  Tell me what this is about on the way.”

For better or worse I’d made my bed.  I just hope I wouldn’t live to regret it.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

It was not more than twenty minutes since I’d walked in the door after attending the funeral, and then the wake, for my parents who had died in a motor vehicle accident in the south of France.

I’d met a man I’d never seen before who had given me an ancient envelope before he disappeared, in which there was a note and a copy of my father’s will.

The family solicitor, Lawrence Wellingham, who had attended the funeral and who told me he did not have a current will, had visited me not long after I got home, a man who had told me that anyone who said my parents had died, other than from an accident was to be ignored.

With the will had been a letter, my father saying if he died in an accident, it was likely not an accident, and to contact a man called Albert Stritching.

Then, not five minutes after Lawrence Wellingham left, Albert Stritching called.

It was a series of events that defied explanation.

After a few moments to get over the shock of hearing the name so soon, I said, “The same Albert Stritching my fathers said I needed to talk to if anything happened to him?”

“He left you a note?”

“Were you the person at the funeral who handed me the envelope?”

“I didn’t know there was a funeral.  What man?”

“About 70, grey hair, beard, blue Italian suit, brown shoes, the shoes seemed an odd addition.  Tie was old school, Eton, I think.

“Sir Percival.  We all went to school together, a long time ago.  He was what you might call, your father’s boss, mine too for that matter, when I worked in the same department.”

“What did my father, and you, do?”

“That is a long story.  We need to meet, as soon as possible.  What I can tell you, for now, is that you need to be careful.  Do you have anyone with you?”

“No.”

“I assume you are currently at your father’s house?”

“Yes.”

“OK.  Stay there, and I’ll send someone over, just to make sure you’re safe.  Her name is Genevieve, one of our personal protection officers.  Her identification code is your father’s middle name.  You do know it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Don’t answer the phone, or the door till she gets there.”

It was odd to think that trouble would come to what my father often referred to as hallowed ground.  The house was his sanctuary, a place no one knew about, a place he never invited anyone but family.  Not even close friends.

The thought, or notion, that trouble could visit here was preposterous.

And yet…

I heard the sound of a high-powered motorcycle from the distance, slowly getting louder until it stopped not far from my front door.  Peering through the front window from behind the curtains, I saw a figure dismount, take off the helmet and shake out a lot of blonde hair.

She looked too young to be in personal protection.

Carrying the helmet in one hand, she came up the path to the front door and knocked.

I left the door shut and yelled out, “Who are you?”

“I was sent by Albert Stritching.  My name is Genevieve.”

I opened the door a fraction, leaving the safety chain attached.

“The identification code?”

“Alwyn.”

I closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it for her to pass.  A look down the path to see if anyone was following her, which there was not, and I shut it.

“Anyone call or ring,” she asked, looking around the room.

It was old and musty smelling because it rarely got any sunlight.  The fire I’d lit earlier in the morning before going out, was slowly reviving after I’d put some more wood on the embers.  In another half hour, the temperature in the room would be above freezing.

“No.  What happens now?”

“I stay until Mr Stritching arrives, sometime tomorrow.  In fact, I have been assigned to mind you for the next few days.  All I can tell you is that it is possible your life is in danger.  And your parents were murdered.  We don’t yet know by whom, or why.  I assume your father didn’t tell you what he was doing?”

“Other than going on a well-earned, his words, holiday with my mother, no.”

“I assume you don’t normally stay in this house.”

“Not normally, but I have for the past three and a half months while they were away.  I sometimes house-sit for them.  My father told me that when he got back, we would talk about the future.  I guess that’s impossible now.”

“Didn’t leave anything to read in case of his untimely demise?”

The girl was asking a lot of questions for someone who was supposed to be a bodyguard.  Was she more than that, like another fixer for the same organisation my father now appeared to work for?

“No.”

“Anything at all?”

I decided then and there I was not going to tell this person anything, especially about the note.  “Nothing.  Had the police not come to inform me, they would still be travelling in Europe somewhere, blissfully unaware, a state I’m beginning to wonder may never return.

“Mind if I have a look around, see how secure the place is?”

“Sure.  If you’re staying, there’s a choice of three rooms on the left side of the corridor.  Mine is on the right.”

The notion that I could be in danger seemed to me to be a little over the top.  I had no contact with my father over anything concerning his business.  In fact, I knew very little about his business, being told back then, that he was independently wealthy, whatever that meant, and was free to pick whatever projects he felt like doing.

He was also a diplomat, because we spent time in various countries all over Europe, mostly, and several in Africa because of his fascination with the old British colonies in Tanzania, Uganda, what was once Rhodesia, Nigeria and a few others.  Those appointments were hard on our mother, and I suspect, contributed to her early death.

After that, she often complained about recurring bouts of ‘jungle sickness’, though later I suspected had a lot to do with an alcohol problem.

I had been spending a lot of time in the study/library, a very large room on the ground floor that backed onto the rear garden, with a large veranda with windows floor to ceiling.  The library consisted of thousands of books on every aspect of the British Commonwealth, from when it was East India Company, through the British Empire, to a token amalgamation of sometimes hostile countries.

My father had been working on a book, and he had left notes, exercise books filled with scribbling, scrapbooks with newspaper clippings, some about himself, a ream of typewritten chapters of which some read like a memoir, others like the ramblings of a lecturer.

It was a project, now that he was gone, that I was considering taking up and finishing, perhaps as his legacy.

Oddly, there was not one word of any extracurricular activities, the sort of stuff that would fill a spy novel.

I was just reading a chapter on Uganda, Idi Amin, and a proposal to Princess Anne when I heard a loud bang.  Then another, closer to the study, coming from what I thought was outside the front of the house.

Cautiously I approached the door and peered out.

I could see Genevieve, gun in hand, sweeping for … what?

“Stay in the study,” she said.

I heard her go out the front door and close it behind her.

Five minutes, there were several more gunshots, then silence.

A minute later the front door opened, and I heard what sounded like someone falling on the floor.  I went out, then to the front of the house where, inside the door, there was what looked like a man lying still on the floor, blood stains beside it.

A few seconds after that Genevieve came in and closed the door.  “We have a problem.”  She had a phone to her ear, waiting.  Then, “Send the cleaners.  They sent two assassins, got the Professor, and I got them.  The Professor needs medical help as soon as possible.”

That was the extent of the call.  She looked at me.  “You got a medical kit,”

“Yes.”  I went back to the study and got what was a briefcase with a red cross on it.  It was more sophisticated than the usual medical kit a house would have.  It was more suited to a doctor’s surgery.

I brought it to her.  She had the man lying on his back, and I could see who it was.

The man at the funeral who gave me the yellow envelope.

…

© Charles Heath 2023