by kindels
The sleeping man had another use of course, one that Michael was already making very good use of. He'd need to be careful and vigilant in the way he handled Jacob in this respect however, and Michael even considered introducing Jacob to the world of the addict by slowly introducing something more addictive to his food and drink. That would be a last resort however, as Jacob would serve Michael's purpose far better if he remained 'clean' of such contamination. For now, everything was going well, and as long as things continued along their current path, there'd be no need to change the regime.
Michael knew that very soon, Jacob would wake and he'd soon be on his way out of the flat. Jacob had a daily routine that Michael knew very little about. He seemed to spend most of his days on the streets, searching for something or someone. Michael knew of course exactly what Jacob was searching for. His search of the young man's rucksack on their first night together at the flat had told him that.
Michael had put all he'd learned from his illicit search of Jacob's rucksack to good use since that night and now all he had to do was ensure that Jacob failed in his attempt to discover what he was looking for. That was going to be relatively easy to achieve, as Michael had already discovered. He'd barely believed it when he'd found the source of Jacob's goal, the reason for his arrival in Brighton tucked away amongst his personal belonging s in the rucksack, but, when he'd done so, and realised the significance of what he'd learned, the rest had come easily to Michael.
Now, everything was going well and would continue to do so as long as he could keep Jacob under his control until the plan was complete. Michael had help of course, of the best kind imaginable and he was confident that nothing could go wrong, and if it did, then what the hell, they had the perfect patsy ready and waiting, sleeping right here on the sofa, in front of him.
Jacob began to stir. Michael had no wish to be around as his guest rose, stretched and made his way to the kitchen for his regular daily intake of corn flakes and milk. God! The man's routine was interminable.
As Jacob finally opened his bleary eyes and rubbed his temples against the throbbing of the headache that never seemed to leave him nowadays, Michael quietly closed the door as he left the flat and made his own way into town. He had errands of his own to run that morning, and he needed to see someone urgently. There were plans to be made, and Michael knew his friend was eager to move on to the next stage of the game.
Jacob finally snapped wide awake and was immediately struck by the air of silence that pervaded the flat. Even without looking around he knew Michael was out. That was strange to him, as it was rare for the man to leave the flat during the morning. He rubbed his temples once more and slowly rose from the sofa. The pain in his head seemed worse when he was up and about, and he quickly made his way to the kitchen, fixed his breakfast and just as quickly returned to the sofa, where he set the bowl in his lap before devouring the corn flakes hungrily. Whatever was wrong with his head certainly hadn't done anything to diminish his appetite.
As he ate he tried to recall the previous evening. For some reason, he appeared to be experiencing a mental blank. He hoped that the thing that had happened to him once before hadn't happened again. Michael had helped him that time, would he have done so again, Jacob wondered? Then again, how could he have done? He wouldn't have known where Jacob was going, so would have been unable to assist him a second time.
Jacob paused in his eating to look at his hands. They were shaking, like the last time. He searched for tell-tale signs, but there were none. He was clean, absolutely clean. He sighed in relief. It couldn't have occurred again. He was sure of it.
Breakfast finally over and his mind clear of dark thoughts and the fear that had temporarily gripped him earlier Jacob washed, shaved and made his way out of the flat, remembering to lock the door with the spare key entrusted to him by Michael. Jacob wasn't sure he trusted Michael, but at least for now he had a roof over his head, and Michael's 'business' though not strictly or in fact in any way legal, at least provided Jacob with the means to go about his own task during the days.
He felt sure that the answers he sought were to be found here on the South Coast. He just wished to hell he knew how to go about finding them.
Chapter 13
The House on Abbotsford Road
Abbotsford Road stands atop a hill that runs almost parallel with Brighton's coastline. Situated about a mile inland, its height affords those who reside in the homes that line one side of the road commanding views of the town, the Royal Pavilion and the English Channel. Those who live on the opposite side of the road are not of course so lucky, though some of their upper storey rooms do afford a lesser view of the sea and perhaps a small fraction of the town, as seen through the gaps between the houses on the town side.
The houses on Abbotsford Road were at one time the height of elegance and refinement, being built during the height of the Regency period and affordable only to the rich and wealthy who took advantage of the town's royal connections to ensconce themselves in the vicinity of the wealth and opulence that those connections brought to the town.
In keeping with the original owners' desires to secure uninterrupted views, no trees were allowed to be planted along the road, unusually for the time, and today the treeless tradition continues, and though not enshrined in any local by-laws or council minutes, it would be unthinkable for anyone to consider planting a tree anywhere along the length of the road.
Most of the houses along the road retain their original names, having been grandly given such appellations as "Sussex House" or "De Savory Manor" and even a rather cheekily named "Regent's Folly". Some have had their names changed over the years of course, but the house that perhaps possesses the most fame, or perhaps infamy is the only one on the street that bears no name at all, just a number. It was here, at number 14, that 'Bertie' the Prince Of Wales, and later King Edward the Seventh, would enjoy a number of dalliances with one of his lesser known mistresses in the years prior to his assuming the throne of England. This was the home of Mrs Amelia Lassiter, widow of Colonel Henry Lassiter of the Royal Horse Artillery, who'd succumbed to fever during a posting to the Indian sub-continent. Introduced to the prince by one of his military friends, Amelia soon became close to Bertie, and his visits to her home continued for a period of over three years until he became bored with her increasing years and moved on to other, younger women who took his fancy.
Much of the elegance of those days has now departed from the houses on Abbotsford Road, and number 14 is no exception. Still possessing its impressive wrought iron gates, solid oak front doors and high ceilings with wood-panelled walls, it does however exude an air of rather faded elegance, and the current batch of residents on the road are a far cry from the opulence and wealth of the original residents of Abbotsford Road. That's not to say that the houses here are cheap of course. They are in fact among the highest priced in the town, though perhaps the views that the homes on the ocean side of the road have something to do with that. Perhaps it's just that today's residents are less class conscious and maybe just that bit less able, in the current financial climate, to lavish thousands and thousands of pounds on maintaining the exteriors of their homes in the manner of their forerunners.
The late summer sun was at its Zenith as Michael reached the door to number fourteen. The day had grown warmer and warmer as he'd walked the two miles from his flat. He wasn't one to waste money on taxis when the weather was fine, though he did wish he'd taken one by the time he reached the top of the hill and walked those last few yards to the house. Sweat dripped from his brow and his shirt felt as though it was plastered to his back. Even his hair felt as wet as if he'd just stepped from a shower.
Michael reached into the pocket of his denim jacket, (wearing that had been a mistake in this weather too), and extracted a bunch of keys. Selecting the correct one, he inserted it into the lock of the heavy oak front door to the house, turned it and entered number fourteen as confidently as if he owned the place. He closed the door behind
him as he entered, and walked slowly but confidently across the marble floored hall until he reached the door to what at one time would have been designated 'the drawing room', or perhaps, 'the sitting room'. He paused for a second, listening at the door, and then knocked quietly and waited until he heard the single word, "Come" quietly spoken from within.
"Welcome, dear boy," said the man who sat reposing in an old fashioned floral cloth upholstered armchair that was positioned beside the currently unused fireplace at the far side of the room from where Michael entered through the heavy brass handled door. "Do come and sit down."
Michael walked across the room and seated himself opposite the man in an identical chair to that occupied by his host.
"How are you?" asked the man, who Michael thought to be at least sixty years old but who was in fact just past his fiftieth birthday. His hair was greying at the temples, and his moustache had also lost much of its natural brown colour. About five feet ten tall when standing, he reminded Michael of a Victorian gentleman, sitting there in his plush red carpet slippers, a brown paisley patterned silk smoking jacket and black trousers that sported knife-edge creases down the front. The room in which the two men sat mirrored the look of fading elegance that the exterior of the property exuded. The oak panelled walls gave the place a dreary, overpowering air, and the three paintings that hung in heavy wooden frames all depicted historic sailing ships, one an un-named tea clipper in full rig, another the famed 'Cutty Sark', and the third an eighteenth century fully armed Royal Navy fifty gun ship of the line, its battle ensigns billowing from the rigging as it sailed to war against some unseen enemy.
Books of ancient origins lined the bookshelf that took up the wall adjacent to Michael's chair, and a heavy solid oak table stood at centre stage of the room, it surface covered with maps, an antique sailing compass and a host of very old seafarers navigation instruments.
To the casual visitor, though there were none at number fourteen, it would have appeared that they were in the home of some decrepit ancient mariner. They would have been wrong.
Everything in that room gave Michael the creeps. Something about the man and his house seemed steeped in the past. An almost ghostly air pervaded every wall, every inch of the slightly threadbare Axminster carpets. It was as if the house itself had been frozen in time, and that time was long, long ago. Michael knew it was stupid, it couldn't possibly be, but nevertheless the thought that the man he sat facing at that moment belonged to another time and place always leaped into his mind whenever he was called upon to make one of his visits to number fourteen.
"I'm ok," said Michael in reply to his host's question. He doubted that the man cared either way about his health, it was simply an introduction to whatever he'd been called here for.
"You appear a little grumpy this morning."
"I'm not grumpy, just tired and bloody hot. It's a long walk to get up here and it's a scorching day out there."
"Ha! The young of today. Scorching day? It's barely sixty five degrees out there young man, and look at you, all sweat and panting as though you'd run a marathon. Next time I send for you, get a taxi!"
"Taxis cost money, old man. You gonna pay for it are you?"
"Don't I pay you enough already? And don't you ever call me 'old man' again, or I'll see to it that something very nasty happens to you. You can count on it."
The man's voice rose to a crescendo that forced Michael to sit back in his chair. The temper had appeared from nowhere, and the younger man knew better than to answer back. He'd seen the man like this before. His volatile nature frightened Michael. Though the man was much older than he, Michael had no doubt that he could handle himself well if forced to. His looked strong and lithe, his arms muscular and well proportioned despite his age. Michael could be violent as well of course, but his drug abused body probably meant that the two men would be much more equally matched than would normally be the case if it came to a fight, and Michael didn't dare take the risk. He depended too much on his host.
"I'm sorry," said Michael. "No offence intended."
"Hmm, it might help if you stuck to selling those drugs to the poor misbegotten souls out there instead of using them yourself. You might have a bit more wind with which to make your way up the hill if you were fitter. And isn't it time you had a shave and a damn good wash? When did you last have a bath, or a shower?
What my neighbours must think if they see you coming up my driveway, God only knows."
Michael didn't reply. Instead he waited. He knew the man hadn't called him to the house to discuss his bathing and sanitary arrangements.
"What? Nothing to say to me? You're a bloody coward and a liar, that's what you are. Why I bother with you I just don't know. If you weren't useful to me I'd&"
The man let his last words hang in the air. The inference wasn't lost on Michael. He knew that his host could be violent if he wished to be, and Michael had no wish to be on the receiving end of that violent streak.
"You asked me to come here today." Michael said quietly.
"Yes, I did, didn't I?"
The man leaned forward, took a Davidoff cigarette from a packet that stood on the small side table beside his chair, inserted it into a silver cigarette holder that he extracted from the pocket of his smoking jacket and proceeded to light it using a well used Zippo lighter.
"Well, I presume you have something to say to me about last night?"
"Oh you do? You presume do you? That's rather eloquent of you isn't it? "You presume? Well, well. As a matter of fact, young man, you're quite correct. I do wish to discuss last night with you, and in some detail. This morning too, if you don't mind."
The man leaned back in his chair, took a long drag on his cigarette and with an ease that had always baffled the younger man on previous visits, began to produce a steady stream of smoke rings that billowed forth and rose towards the ceiling before dissipating and forming a cloud that would hang just below the level of the ceiling through out their conversation. Michael hated these 'little talks' as the man referred to them. They always made his flesh creep, and his nerves would be on edge from now until he eventually left the house and returned to the fresh air of the outside world once again.
"Well?" asked the man. "Are you going to tell me about your house guest or not?"
Michael shivered. The air in the room seemed to have grown colder. As he began to relate the information required of him the man closed his eyes and listened intently, hanging on every word of Michael's, absorbing every fact and every detail of the narrative that the younger man laid out before him. It took some time for Michael to convey everything he needed to and the man never once interrupted him or asked a question. He never did. He was content to listen and absorb Michael's words, always sitting as he did now, eyes closed, smoking his cigarettes using that long silver holder that added to the air of Victoriana that Michael felt clung to the man like a thick fog.
When he'd reached the end of his report, Michael himself sat back and allowed himself to relax a little. He waited. At length, the man spoke once again.
"You've done well, young man, very well indeed."
Reaching into the inside pocket of his smoking jacket, the man removed a wad of notes from within and quickly counted out what appeared to Michael to be an inordinately large amount of money. Passing the notes to Michael the man smiled, a smile that Michael felt could chill the soul of any man. There was death in that look, he knew it for sure.
"Here. Take it. You've earned it. I'll let you know when I need you again. In the meantime you keep that house guest of yours sweet, you understand?"
Michael nodded.
"Now go, and don't come back until I send for you again, got it?"
Michael nodded, rose from his chair and walked slowly across the room until he felt the reassuring brass of the doorknob in his hand. Opening the door he turned to speak to say his goodbyes to the man. It never hurt to be courteous to the old bugger, thought Michael. He needn't have bothered. As far as Michael knew
there was only one door to the room and he'd just opened it himself, but when he looked at where the man had been sitting there was no-one there, and the room was empty!
A minute later as he walked through the front door and out into the sunshine of the day once more, and moved to walk back down the hill towards the town, Michael at last allowed himself to breathe normally. He realised that he'd been tense and holding on to his breath unnaturally as he'd left the house. He increased his pace as he passed through the gate and he could almost swear that the temperature out on the street was at least ten degrees warmer than it had been in the grounds of number fourteen Abbotsford Road.
He hoped it would be quite some time before he was called back by the man. He wasn't to know it of course, but the next call he received from his less than genial host would plunge Michael into an escalating world of danger and fear from which he'd find it ever harder to escape. But that was for the future. For now he was glad to be in the warmth of the sunshine, the walk down the hill being far more pleasant than the lung-bursting climb he'd had to endure to reach number fourteen. Relieved to be back in the 'real world' Michael actually whistled to himself nearly all the way home.
Chapter 14
Post Mortem
