The Truth We Chase

by Carl Richards

  The Truth We Chase

  Carl Richards

  Published by Carl Richards, 2020.

  Copyright © Carl Richards 2020

  The moral right of Carl Richards to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious, other than those clearly in the public domain and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6 | Tuesday

  Chapter 7 | Wednesday

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12 | Easter Sunday

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17 | The Trial

  Chapter 18 | The Trial – Amanda Whixall

  Chapter 19 | The Trial – Lisa Pussett

  Chapter 20 | The Trial – Mr & Mrs Edstaston

  Chapter 21 | The Trial – Miss Yorton and Mr Loppington

  Chapter 22 | The Trial – The Prosecution v Joseph Joshua Ryebank

  Chapter 23 | The Trial – The Defence of Joseph Joshua Ryebank

  Chapter 24 | The Trial – Summing up

  Chapter 25 | The Trial – The Verdict

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  The End

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  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  With huge thanks to lifelong friends Paul and Susan Gee for all the encouragement, help and advice that set me off on this journey, also a very special thanks to another lifelong friend Andy Hulme who spent an inordinate amount of time working through my original draft, helping me to get to a point where I had something worth publishing. The same is true for good friends, Suzanne Wilkinson and Scott Eaton for all their time, invaluable advice, support, encouragement and edits. I cannot thank you all enough!

  For Sarah and Izzy, thank you. Without your patience and understanding, love and support I would be nothing. Thanks for the sacrifices that you made when my writing ate into our family time.

  Prologue

  I turn the page of my book; the next chapter is titled, The Truth We Chase.

  The Truth We Chase, what does that mean? Do we chase the truth? I contemplate this for a while. Maybe we do, maybe we only look for, or chase the truth, when we need to prove something is genuine, very much in the same way we look for that little metallic silver thread in a banknote to prove its authenticity. Does that then make truth the silver thread of our thoughts, deeds and actions?

  Pondering over that title reminds me of “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”, the second paragraph of the first article in the Declaration of Independence.

  The truth we chase, the pursuit of happiness, they both require an action to achieve an outcome.

  But why? Aren’t both truth and happiness, in part, the very things that make us human? Surely it should be natural or do we have to actively pursue them?

  As for me, I stopped chasing the truth years ago, instead, I sit here, three thousand four hundred miles away from home, comfortably numb, hiding from my past.

  All that is about to change, for in the next hour the past that I have meticulously planned to escape from is about to catch up with me. It will start with an email from a person who had disappeared from my life and who I thought I would never see, or hear from again.

  As I tentatively clicked to open the message on that Sunday afternoon, there would be no way of knowing, certainly not at that point, that in exactly one weeks’ time that very same email would have sparked a chain of events that cumulate in a catastrophic, life-changing situation.

  Chapter 1

  The apartment is quiet. I’ve taken advantage of having it to myself by spending the day on the sofa, reading, whilst avoiding a pile of paperwork that I’ve brought back from the office.

  The afternoon sun has finally made its way around to the front of the building and is streaming in through the bay window, the warmth magnified through the glass onto my face reminds me that summer is finally on its way putting paid to the bitterly cold winter months.

  My eyes are growing weary so I put the book face down, still open on the unread chapter. I pick up my coffee, make my way across the apartment to the window and take a seat in the chair in front of the computer. Closing my eyes, I tip my head back. Then through my nose suck in as much air as my lungs will hold before slowly exhaling, repeating several times until the feeling of relaxation washes over me.

  I open my eyes again and stare down the tree-lined street. Flags, some on poles, some draped out of windows, mainly Portuguese and always alongside the stars and stripes, catch my eye. They flap in the same gentle breeze that also carries the aroma of cooking from the Ecuadorian food van that has recently parked up on the street below my open window. From the side window, a seemingly unending flow of food is served to the congregation leaving the afternoon service from the church opposite. No one seems in a hurry to go home and a party vibe has taken over the quiet corner of our street.

  All this is a reminder that I am a long way from home... home is, or should I say was a small suburban town in South Manchester, England which I have exchanged for this life in Newark - New Jersey, more specifically the Ironbound section of Newark in New Jersey.

  The work I’ve brought home with me from the office isn’t going to do itself and I need to be getting on with it, but with everything that is going on outside I’m finding it hard to concentrate.

  I slide the sash window open, wide enough so I can lean out and shout down to the man in the van, trying my best to make myself heard over Santana’s Maria, Maria that he has on full volume.

  ‘Why do you do this to me, every Sunday?’

  He looks up as he hands a polystyrene tray of salchipapas to a hungry customer

  ‘Hey, amigo if you’ve got something to say then you need to come down here and say it to my face mano a mano!’

  I pause a moment before I make my way across the room, collecting my keys as I head towards the stairs and down to the front door. Out on the street, I join the back of the queue for the food van.

  Eventually, I get to the front. I gesture with both my hands and repeat my question ‘Why do you do this to me, every Sunday?’

  The man in the van leans forward resting on his forearms and with his hands clenched together in front of him.

  I stare him down. ‘Every Sunday it’s the same, you come here park your van right under my window...’

  ‘...You’re making me fat!’

  A grin appears on his face. ‘I am just a purveyor of fine street food, it’s your problem that you have no willpower! What can I get you?’

  I sigh, then utter, ‘the usual.’

  ‘Twelve dollars.’

  ‘I’m your best customer any chance of a discount?’

  ‘Next week...’


  ‘You’ll be here next week? It’s Easter Sunday.’

  ‘Yeah, my prices will be double but with your discount, it’ll come out even.’

  ‘You’re a great salesman Julio, I don’t care what everyone else says about you!’

  Ten minutes later and I’m back in my apartment with my food, I tip it out on to a plate, grab a fork and make my way back to the computer; I need to meet an important deadline before the Easter break and I’ve been procrastinating all morning and most of the afternoon. Now with a renewed sense of urgency, I power up the computer and open my emails.

  One email immediately catches my attention, it sits second to the top of my inbox with ‘Meet me...?’ in the subject line.

  The sender's email address, a mix of letters and numbers certainly didn’t give any clues. Spam maybe? With one click, it appears in the preview panel, the two letters in the opening line immediately told me it wasn’t spam.

  The email starts with my initials “JJ” which at some point in my past life had become my nickname, but only to one person, and she was the last person I thought I would hear from.

  Sure enough, the email was signed off by Jill the only person who had ever called me JJ.

  The shock of hearing from her stuns me, I’m thrown back in an instant to our childhood together right up to the night she was taken, in her sleep, to a waiting car and driven away.

  For the first time in my life I don’t know how to react. Reaching forward I pick up my now, lukewarm mug of coffee. Three gulps and it was gone. Still clutching the empty mug, I tap it against my bottom lip as I stare out of the window once more entering an almost trance-like state.

  An aircraft skims the rooftops on its final approach for landing at Newark International, the late afternoon sun reflecting off the polished aluminium body dazzles my eyes. The wake turbulence that follows it briefly creates a breeze that permeates the air through the open window, a breeze tainted with the heady smell of kerosene fumes from its engines.

  I turn myself around so my back is to the computer. As I do, I catch a faint reflection of myself in the glass door on the other side of the room. There I was, me and the ghost of my former self staring at one another in a reflective stand-off.

  My heart is thumping in my chest; I stand up. Eventually, after what seemed a lifetime, I manage to refocus. I had to respond; that email demanded attention and was clawing its way into my conscience with every minute that passes. I sit back in my chair, spinning round to face the computer once more.

  The screen saver maniacally fills the screen, the hard drive is clicking and tapping almost as if it were mimicking my very own thought processes.

  My head falls back almost as if it is too heavy for my neck to support and I close my eyes again. I have changed immeasurably over the last four years, I’ve become considerably more self-assured and confident, but that email from Jill has shaken me to the core.

  Suddenly, I feel panicked into a decision. I sit bolt upright, almost like I had been shaken out of a bad dream. I move the mouse and bring the computer back to life.

  I have made my decision; I need to go back.

  But, how to reply? In the next two hours I must have created and deleted nine emails, in the end I decided to go with concise; I tell her I will book a flight for Wednesday the 19th so I’ll be back home in time for the Easter break. My flight will arrive in Manchester at about 7:35 am on the morning of the 20th.

  I pause... think about it, then click send... it has gone. I’m still unsure if I’d done the right thing and a little embarrassed as it isn’t my finest literary moment, but it is enough to convey my intentions.

  Booking the flight will have to wait until tomorrow and I still need to give some thought to the accommodation, however, now I have replied there is no need to panic.

  I gaze out of the window to the street below and watch as the crowd finally starts to disperse. Every Sunday there is a constant stream of people to the church across the street. With four services, two in English, one Portuguese, and one in Spanish, the Church is always full from seven-thirty in the morning until three in the afternoon. Today was especially busy as we are approaching the Holy Week of Easter. I thought my missing housemates may well be there but as it turns out, I couldn’t be more wrong.

  About an hour later the front door opened then slammed shut. ‘Oi’ reverberated up the narrow stairs, my housemates Ana and Luciana have arrived home. After several attempts to clamber up the stairs two very happy, giggly individuals fall through the door.

  ‘Olá! So, what are you two celebrating today?’ A valid question I thought, as in this culturally diverse neighbourhood there always seemed to be a special day, week or even a season to celebrate.

  Turning around I’m confronted by two entwined bodies on the floor, half in, half out of the doorway. I sit with my arms folded, shaking my head. ‘I thought this was Holy Week, a time for sober reflection?’

  Luciana rolls off Ana and as she does, she hits her back on the doorframe, this prompted more hysterical laughing. ‘We may have had one or two drinks!’

  I stand up and walk over to them still shaking my head; ‘unbelievable’ I say whilst offering my outstretched hands to help them up.

  Luciana is first up off the floor and then between us, we manage to stand Ana up before moving her over to a chair by the window for some fresh air. Ana pushes down on the arms of the chair until she is upright, then she lifts her legs, rearranging herself so she is now cross-legged, almost as if contemplating meditation.

  Ana starts to giggle as her head falls forward. I need to lean across her to fully open the window and as I do, she grabs me, raises her gaze to mine and utters ‘onde é a festa?’

  I turn to Luciana for help.

  ‘She wants to know... where is the party?’

  I turn back to Ana, her lips now pushed together, her eyebrows raised and her big brown eyes wide with expectancy and mischief. She still has a tight hold of me and my face is inches away from hers; I lean in towards her, my heart is beating faster and faster as anticipation takes hold. I’ve gone ninety percent of the way I just need her to come the ten percent to me. I close my eyes as our lips are about to touch. At that moment the yearning I have had for Ana for so long is about to be satisfied.

  ‘HELLO!’ Luciana makes her presence known.

  I pull back from Ana slightly; I need to see in her eyes that she wants me as much as I want her. Ana whispers to me, ‘later,’ then out loud she says, ‘let’s get some food.’

  ‘Actually’ says Luciana ‘that’s a really good idea, where are you thinking of?’

  ‘El Coca?’

  It is a restaurant that they both love, the food is excellent with the bonus of having a bar and club attached, so it works for me.

  Luciana nods her approval.

  ‘Cool, I’m going to get changed’ says Ana, finally releasing me from her grip. As she stands up to leave the room, Luciana makes her way over and sits down on the chair at the computer.

  ‘So, what have you been up to then?’ She turns to face the screen, sliding the mouse side to side to bring the computer back to life.

  With the movement of the mouse, the screen saver clears revealing my travel plans.

  ‘Going back to England?’ she turns and glares at me, I could tell there is an immediate assumption that I am going back for good, and to be fair, the details still on the screen does only show the flight back to Manchester, so the assumption is easy to make.

  ‘So, how long have you kept this little secret from us, were you going to say anything or just disappear...’ she turns back to the screen to check the departure date, ‘...on Wednesday?’

  I felt like I’d gone from hero to zero in the space of thirty seconds.

  ‘It’s only for a visit, not permanent. Something has come up that I need to deal with.’

  ‘Okay, so you are coming back?’

  ‘Would it matter if I didn’t?’

  ‘Not to me, but to Ana it...’ Luciana sto
pped mid-sentence.

  I didn’t reply, was Luciana about to say what I thought she was going to say, that it WOULD matter to Ana if I didn’t come back?

  ‘So, Ana would miss me, but you wouldn’t?’

  Luciana was having none of it, ‘stop fishing for compliments, I’d only miss your third of the rent money!’

  My gut feeling is that the anger directed at me is about something more than just the rent money.

  ‘You seem angry Lucia...’ before I can finish my sentence she interrupts.

  ‘Why are men so impossible, you’re just not getting it are you?’

  Once again Luciana glares at me as if I’m being thick on purpose.

  ‘Come on Joe you’re a bright boy, you and Ana, I’m sure you can work it out for yourself.’

  With that she leaves the room to get ready and I’m left on my own again. That was a lot to take in. I felt like a tornado had entered the room ripped me off my feet spun me around and unceremoniously dumped me back down again.

  Me and Ana?

  I certainly have an overwhelming desire for Ana, but she needs to show her feelings too. I sit in the room alone and contemplate what I should do, for now, I have a new dilemma, a real emotional tug-of-war. To stay here, happy in the new life I have created, along with the prospect of starting a relationship with Ana or to go back home and face up to everything I ran away from?

  Chapter 2

  I had first met Ana just over a year ago in the Gairville neighbourhood of Brooklyn. She was working an internship at a renowned theatre company based in the building close to my apartment block. We both started our day in the local coffee shop. Ana, because she had an early start travelling from the Ironbound Section in Newark and didn’t have the time for breakfast, whereas I was recently single and so chose to eat breakfast out rather than sitting in my apartment all alone.

  Over time our glances had turned to nods of acknowledgement, to good mornings, to introductions then to small talk and I’m not going to lie, I found Ana incredibly attractive.