Odd Numbers

by JJ Marsh

  Clark bounced out of his chair to fiddle with the chalet’s iPad.

  “Poor bugger. Clark, what is the matter with you tonight? You’re up and down like a fiddler’s elbow. Leave the music alone, it’s fine. I thought you liked Alanis Morissette.”

  “Listen, I like this album as much as the next bloke, but I fancy listening to something a bit more contemporary. Did you hear the Leonard Cohen one his son completed after his death? Awesome, seriously.”

  The pace of eating slowed as the weighty combination of cheese, bread and potato did its work. Mika scraped up the ‘grandmother’, the coagulated cheese at the bottom of the caquelon. He was welcome to it. We finished with a digestif as the conversation turned to politics and we managed to argue for over an hour despite all having exactly the same opinion. Satisfied that we had put the world to rights, the non-chefs cleared the table and we all retired to the huge sofa to recline and moan about how stuffed we were. Clark switched the iPad off and plugged his phone into the stereo instead.

  Next thing I knew, Lovisa was shaking my shoulder. “Gael, it’s bedtime.”

  “Already? I thought we were listening to music!”

  “We were, but your snoring got too loud. Simone has already gone upstairs and I didn’t want to leave you on the sofa. Come on, let’s go.”

  Mika pulled the grate across the fireplace and looked over his shoulder with a grin. “Tomorrow is another day!”

  I grunted but gave him a goodnight kiss on the cheek, poured myself a glass of water and followed in Lovisa’s footsteps. Whose idea was it to have a fondue?

  Chapter 16: Clark, 2015

  At university, I had the reputation of a hound dog. It wasn’t undeserved. From the minute my feet touched European soil, I was determined to make up for lost time. Putting a horny nineteen-year-old Europhile in the middle of the continent was like putting a hungry bear in a salmon pool. I stuffed myself senseless on all it had to offer. The geography, the names, the museums, the cafés, the culture, the food, the languages, the people and the architectural miracles that made me weep. Have you ever cried while looking at a building? During my gap year, I left a tear-stained trail through London’s Tower Bridge, Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, and Milan’s Duomo to the Alhambra in Spain. Magical, historic places which held stories I had only observed via the medium of TV. As far as I was concerned, sex was another form of exploration and I wanted to discover it all with whoever was game. There were plenty of volunteers. After that night in Montreux, I got worse. Or maybe I got better. No opportunity wasted. Almost as if to prove his rejection hadn’t hurt.

  I stopped sleeping with men in the year 2001. It wasn’t a conscious decision, like becoming vegetarian or something like that, I just lost the urge. My libido dried up completely that year, as the whole exercise seemed completely banal after Dhan’s death. The next time I got back in the sack happened to be with a woman and although I’ve found men attractive since then, I don’t want to sleep with them. The only time I came close, the event freaked me out for months afterward.

  At a conference in Hong Kong, I sat next to an older Australian guy. I’ve always liked Aussies and their direct approach. This man had a fun sense of humour and we hit it off. When he gave me his card, I tried not to gape. He headed up a major financial institution, had huge influence over South East Asia and had international business journalists hanging on his every word. He invited me for a drink at the end of the day and I accepted, hoping for a chance to impress and in what would probably be a brief networking opportunity.

  We drank a couple of beers in the bar and he mentioned he was working on something huge and such a game-changer in the world of currency exchange, it was kept under wraps. Did I want to come up to his room for a sneak preview? Yep, I was that naïve. He pounced on me in the elevator, pressing his forearm against my collarbone and grabbing my crotch with his right hand. I tried to back away but there’s not much room in a private penthouse elevator. He told me it was my lucky day and tonight I was his bitch. Then he bit me. He actually bit me, sinking his teeth into my cheek. The shock and pain overcame any residue of respect for his status and I socked him in the eye. He fell backwards and we stared at each other, panting. He told me I would regret that for the rest of my life. A ping announced our arrival and the elevator doors opened. I grabbed him by the lapels and threw him out, pressing the button for Lobby followed immediately by Close Doors. He started getting to his feet and pointed a threatening finger at me as those incredibly slow doors eventually closed. There was no question of me reporting him for assault. With the power he had, I would be crushed. I packed in under ten minutes, got a cab to the airport and flew out that night.

  Two days later, a dozen pink roses arrived at my desk with an envelope. Inside was an invitation to an exclusive think-tank week in Melbourne as an all-expenses-paid guest. There was a picture of Robert de Niro in Raging Bull and on the back, a note. See you there for Round Two?

  Ignoring the whistles and comments, I walked down three floors to reception and gave both receptionists six roses each. On the first floor, well away from my smirking colleagues, I shredded the envelope, invitation and picture. I never heard from him again.

  In 2017, the obligation to arrange our twice yearly gathering fell to me. By that time I’d been in London working for an investment bank for three years. When I relocated from Paris, I told myself I’d visit all those places I’d heard of but never seen. The Lake District. Ireland. Cornwall. Liverpool. Cardiff. Edinburgh. In three years, I worked so hard I got no further than Cambridge and only then for a day trip. The answer fell into my lap. Edinburgh for Hogmanay!

  In those days, much of my life was spent on trains. My bank had branches in Paris, from where they head-hunted me, Amsterdam, Luxembourg and London. Flying seemed faster on paper but in reality trains were more efficient. You simply get on, find your seat, set up your laptop and start working. At the other end, a short taxi ride to your destination. No security, no queues, no buses to the aircraft and a buffet car for when you want it to stretch your legs. Some of my best work came out of a first-class carriage on the Eurostar.

  That’s why I chose the sleeper train to Edinburgh, the old romantic in me tipping the decision. I had plenty of time to make my way north because I booked the whole two weeks off but I got on that train at eight p.m. on 26 December. My plan was to become a local, find the best pubs and restaurants in order to play the host. The apartment I rented for the gang was not available until the thirtieth so I found a hotel for three days. The anticipation as I boarded the train made me bounce on the balls of my feet as I stared up at the vaulted ceiling. Inside, I was a little boy, off on an adventure. OK, so it wasn’t the Orient Express. But I had a private sleeper cabin to myself and a minuscule en-suite bathroom. Better still, there was a first-class dining car which required one to dress for dinner. Hell yeah, sign me up for that.

  Suited, shaved and booted, I turned up for my reservation at eight p.m. The car was pretty full and the attendant asked if I would mind sharing. I looked into the waiter’s eyes and could see his desperate plea. His dark eyes and eyebrows curved into a tilde and reminded me of someone.

  “Sure,” I said. “I can speak a few languages and get on with most people. All part of the adventure.”

  The waiter’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you, sir, would you come this way?”

  I passed several tables filled with lively parties and few couples conversing under in muted tones. At the end of the carriage was a table set for two with an elderly lady examining a bread roll. She raised her gaze and took me in, finally looking into my face with a smile. She spoke with a soft accent which reminded me of wool.

  “Why, that’ll do nicely. Thank you, Hamish.”

  Mrs Campbell was exceptional company. She only stopped asking questions to eat her food, but otherwise kept up a constant barrage of enquiries. It quickly became apparent that unless I interrupted with questions of my own, the eveni
ng would be an inquisition. The gentlest, softest inquisition imaginable, but I had gotten tired of the sound of my own voice.

  “Mrs Campbell, I’m sorry to interrupt. Would you mind if I ask you about yourself? For example, where you come from Scotland? Do you have family? If you don’t find it intrusive, I’d like to hear a little bit about your life. I have a feeling it’s going to be more interesting than mine.”

  She told me her stories and kept me enthralled for hours. The dining car emptied and we still sat under a small pool of light while she transported me through her extraordinary adventures. The waiter came for a third time and asked if there was anything else we needed.

  “No, thank you, Hamish. You’re all right to go to bed. This young man and I have had a fascinating evening and I’d love to do it all again. Goodnight, Clark. I want to say that I’m very glad I met you.”

  “Likewise. You’re someone I don’t think I will ever forget. Goodnight, Robbie.”

  She got to her feet and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “Sleep tight and enjoy your time in Edinburgh.” She pronounced it ‘Embra’. Then she turned and looked into my eyes. “If I were you, I’d forget him.” On that bombshell, she left.

  I tipped Hamish and swayed along the corridor to my compartment, replaying our lengthy conversation to pinpoint which one of my bland responses could have given rise to such a comment. Forget who? Even after cleaning my teeth and washing my face, I was no wiser. I got into bed and in that liminal state of surrender, a memory surfaced.

  I’d been at an airport in India, I can’t recall which. Bangalore? It had to be at least five years ago, maybe more. The humidity was intense and I was in desperate need of a shower. As soon as those baggage guys delivered my case, I would grab a cab and have it take me to whatever five-star, air-conditioned accommodation the company had booked. The first cold beer from the mini bar was my North Star.

  Suitcases took ages to come onto the carousel and I walked the length of the arrivals hall just to stretch my legs. Part of Baggage Reclaim was open, so waiting relatives could see their loved ones. Families waved, hopped with excitement and blew kisses. It made a change to those sliding doors at Heathrow. I scanned the eager faces of the reception committee; children, lovers, grandparents and there, right in the middle, stood Dhan. He was on his phone, his focus on the floor as he shifted from foot to foot. The same impatient Dhan. At that moment, he lifted his gaze and our eyes met. He stared at me for two seconds and then ducked away into the crowds.

  I took off, forgetting my bag and ran towards the Exit. Customs Officers stopped me. Of course they did. Trying to sprint through Nothing to Declare? What an idiot. They let me go eventually; I retrieved my bag after one more check and went in search of a cab, berating myself for a list of failures. Racism: you see an Indian man who looks a bit like someone you once knew and assume it’s your dead friend. Assumption: seeing recognition in the guy’s eyes which was probably more like ‘Why is that weird bloke staring?’ if you think about it. Imagination: thinking you can run through the airport like James Bond and recover your mate from the dead.

  Here and now, somewhere in the Lake District, the rhythm of the train rocked me to sleep and by the time I awoke for breakfast, I had forgotten all about Doppelgänger Dhan.

  Chapter 17: Gael, now

  Cheese dreams are the worst. All that bread, fat and potato sat in my stomach like cement and the kirsch, supposedly an aid to digestion, only got me drunk. Around three in the morning, after lying there like a cheese-filled sea slug, I got up to go and make myself peppermint tea. Everything was silent and I turned on the hob light on the stove to give myself the bare minimum of illumination. I wrinkled my nose at the lingering smell of garlic and cheese so opened the window while the water boiled. I drank my tea at the kitchen table.

  Overeating and drinking too much weren’t the only reason for my wakefulness. In the back of my mind, something was bugging me.

  That’s the problem with my brain. If something doesn’t add up, it will irritate and annoy me until I devote my full attention to the issue. The second problem is that I have an exceptional memory for detail. All good qualities for a journalist, you might think. Except that the details I remember are things like the Italian word for tissues or George Michael’s real name: fazzoletti and Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou, just in case you’re interested.

  The other things I remember are a snatch of conversation which usually proves relevant to nothing at all. The conversation currently buzzing around my brain was one held in a Czech police station, two days after Dhan’s disappearance. I closed my eyes and recollected the scene.

  A small pale green room, four chairs, and overhead fluorescent light. Opposite me, an unsmiling policeman in plainclothes. Beside me, a tired-looking young guy in a leather jacket who had the thankless task of being our interpreter. So many questions. And I was the one they had least interest in. We went over the timings, we discussed the lights, we confirmed the order of who jumped when and I repeated the answers I’d given him first time around. Then he asked me how long Lovisa and Mikhael had been a couple. Did I think they had a strong relationship? I told him they got together in our first semester, which meant they’d been lovers for over two years, and yes, their relationship was rock solid. The police officer shrugged and said something as an aside to the interpreter, who shook his head in a gesture of sympathy. The cop addressed me again.

  “The detective says you’re free to go and thank you for your time,” the interpreter told me.

  The cop got to his feet and held out a hand. I shook it and he left the room. The interpreter gave me a weary smile.

  “What did he say to you just then?” I asked.

  “That you’re free to go,” he replied, stretching his long arms towards the ceiling.

  “No, just before that. He asked me about the relationship, and then said something to you, which you didn’t translate. I just wanted to know what he said.”

  “Oh, that. It was nothing. He said he hoped you were right because bad luck comes in threes. Your friend Mikhael lost a lot of money in a scam investment and now he loses a friend in an accident at the lake. Take good care of him.” He shook my hand and went out of the door, leaving it open so the smells of coffee, cigarette smoke and damp clothes washed into the space. I drained my plastic cup of water and followed him out, going in search of my friends. A scam investment and a friend in the lake. The two things were not unconnected.

  “My plan was to challenge him on New Year’s Day. But what I had in store was a bit more than some probing questions. I wanted revenge.”

  And Lovisa? I snorted with laughter. Lovisa. The Madonna of Tampere. She dedicated her whole life to others and would be no more capable of foul play than an earwig. Her brilliance and star student reputation was tarnished after Dhan’s deceit, but nobody kills someone over cheating on a French translation. Unless the betrayal of her goodwill combined with the fleecing of her boyfriend ...

  “I went looking for Dhan ... I was so angry and hurt, I swear I could have killed him.”

  In the silence, my mind returned the same old questions I still hadn’t answered after twenty years. Why did the lights go out just as I got back to the cabin? Mika was the one who set up the system, including the timer. Why didn’t Simone attach a safety band to Dhan? How come no one stopped him jumping in when it went dark and they weren’t ready? Why did Lovisa send me back to the house at that precise moment? Did Dhan suspect something was up and that’s why he didn’t go in the first time? Was that fear I had seen in the group photo?

  The fact was that two of them had a very strong motive for wanting Dhan dead.

  In which case, were Simone and Clark simply standing by? A pair of innocents presented as absolute proof nothing underhand occurred. And yet ... Clark’s one night of passion with Dhan was a loose end. I couldn’t see Clark being embarrassed about it. He was proud of the notches on his bedpost. Maybe Dhan regretted it and that caused a rift between best buddies
.

  If Simone perceived her unwelcome condition as Dhan’s fault, that could, at a push, have triggered her to act. But conspiring to kill him in such a horribly cruel way? I’d known these people for twenty years and my theory made no sense. The biggest question of all, where was his body? All we had was Mika’s assurance that nothing ever turned up. What did they do with him?

  I opened my eyes and shook my head. Too much cheese and an overactive imagination. I finished my herbal tea and left the cup on the draining board. I looked out into the blackness and was comforted to see a light down the road. I didn’t remember seeing any habitation on the drive here, but I was glad to know the place wasn’t quite as isolated as it seemed.

  My room stank of fondue, so I bundled up the clothes I’d been wearing and shoved them outside onto the landing. I got back into bed, made a little pocket in the duvet for my cold feet and willed myself to sleep. Conspiracy theorist Gael might well require a tinfoil hat.

  Chapter 18: Mika, now

  I’m a pragmatist. I deal in facts. The reason I’m so successful is that I am aware that facts are open to interpretation. One man’s faith is another man’s fake news. My work is all about context. It may sound dated to you but in my office, we still use the old mantra ‘context is king’.

  My perception of reality took a major knock two decades ago and it’s been a long focused struggle to acknowledge how skewed a view I used to have. It makes me question everything and seek out people whose opinions oppose mine. I need to test, check, recalibrate and constantly maintain a balanced outlook.

  Instinct is like having a friend you can trust. You don’t see the evidence; maybe you can’t. But you trust this voice. This inner voice guarantees it has your back. And then one day, it doesn’t. That can shake your world view and make you doubt everything you ever believed.