A Year Less a Day

by James Hawkins

  Isn’t that just a teensy bit convenient? says the voice, thinking of Inspector Wilson’s reaction. “Now you won’t have to share the prize with your husband; you won’t even have to repay his mother—after all, it was Jordan’s debt, not yours. The old witch was quite adamant about that. ‘I’m not lending you this money, young woman,’ she told you. ‘This money is for my son’s business. I hope you understand that. If anything happens to the two of you—he will be keeping the business. And don’t think you’re going to get half of it either. It was his money that built it, and his money that he keeps.’ And all the time you were pleading poverty, saying you couldn’t afford a lawyer, you were walking around with five million in your purse.”

  But I didn’t know.

  And you think they’ll believe you?

  “Excuse me, are you OK?” asks a voice from outside as a grey-haired man with his poodle stops in concern.

  “Oh. Yes. I’m fine,” says Ruth, coming to, amazed to discover that she has walked half a mile and is standing on the beach in Stanley Park where Trina chases the ducks.

  “You’re getting very wet,” says the man as he peers out from under his umbrella and tries to size her up; then he has an idea. “Maybe you should take my umbrella,” he says, but Ruth declines with a smile.

  “I’m OK. Honest.”

  “I’d get you a taxi, but I haven’t got enough money.”

  It doesn’t matter. I’m a multi-millionaire, the voice in her mind is trying to tell her, but she knows he’ll laugh. “I like walking in the rain,” she says, shaking the water from her hair and clearing her mind; then she heads back to the bus stop calling, “Thanks anyway,” over her shoulder.

  “Hi Trina—sorry I’m late,” Ruth calls cheerily twenty minutes later, as she lets herself in the front door and feels something furry brush against her legs.

  “Don’t let the rabbit ... Oh, shit.”

  “Sorry Trina,” yells Ruth as her friend tears out the door and races down the road in full flight while drivers blare their horns and swerve to avoid her. Ahead of her, a fluffy grey creature hops for its life and eventually disappears through a fence into the woodland.

  “I didn’t know you had a rabbit.” says Ruth, as Trina returns breathless.

  “It’s a stray. I was going to take it to the pound.”

  “Trina—that’s not a stray. It’s a wild rabbit.”

  “What! Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Quite sure. Where did it come from?”

  “It was eating the guinea pig food ... Oh! Oh!” she says and dashes back through the house yelling, “I left the guinea pig out again.”

  As Trina dances around the back garden, Ruth smiles, puts on her apron, and starts clearing the Button household breakfast dishes just like any other day of late.

  Why are you doing this, you stupid woman? You just won five million bucks.

  “And pigs might fly,” she says aloud.

  But you have.

  So what if I have? she tells herself. Do you think Trina and her family would want me doing their dishes and washing their underwear if they knew? Do you think they’d still want me living in their basement? Do you think Mike would still trust me if he thought I’d kept it secret? Do you think it would make me happy?

  You could buy your own house.

  And live in it all by myself ’til I go back to jail—all by myself.

  You could treat yourself.

  With candy bars and steak dinners—that’s all I need.

  You could treat Mike and Trina.

  The question in her mind stops her halfway to the sink with a stack of cereal bowls as she thinks her way around Trina’s life and her house. What could I possibly give her? She already has a magazine lifestyle; a beautiful home with a terrific view, a husband who loves her so much he forgives her for everything; two kids—one of each, just as it should be. She could be at the gym, skiing, or having her face done if she wanted, but she’d rather be washing old men’s bums and rounding up strays.

  What are you going to do?

  Nothing.

  You can’t do nothing.

  Just watch me.

  “So, how was big Mike last night?” giggles Trina, giving Ruth a knowing nudge, once the guinea pig is safely back in its cage.

  “You’re disgusting,” laughs Ruth, then tries changing the subject. “I thought you said the guinea pig was pregnant.”

  “False alarm ... I told you he liked you the first time I saw him looking at you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, he may be a Mountie, but I don’t think that was a pistol in his pocket.”

  “You really are disgusting,” Ruth continues laughing. “Anyway, I meant ‘how do you know’ the guinea pig isn’t pregnant?”

  Trina turns sheepish. “I took it to the vet.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a boy ... He said I overfed it, then he got cross with me ’cuz I wouldn’t pay the fifty bucks for the pregnancy test. “I’ve told you it’s not pregnant,” he said, “so now you have to pay.” But I said, “Of course it’s not pregnant—boys don’t get pregnant, but I wouldn’t have the guts to charge you fifty bucks for telling you that.” Anyway, in the end I gave him ten and he was really nice about it. He even gave me the name of a new vet who’s much closer.”

  “Trina?” says Ruth, pulling her face straight once she’s stopped laughing. “You don’t mind me staying here do you?”

  “Are you kidding? Rob and Kylie would kill me if you left.” Then she gives Ruth a suspicious eye and screeches in delight. “Oh my God—you’re moving in with Mike.”

  “No,” says Ruth. “He lives in a hotel. Anyway, he’s only here ’til April.”

  “So?”

  “I can’t. I’m married.”

  Trina’s face drops and she peers deeply into her friend’s eyes. “Ruth, you’re not going again are you?”

  “Going where?”

  “Like ... You are feeling all right, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”

  “’Cuz you’re not married anymore. You’re a free woman again. You can sleep with anyone you want now.”

  “Trina,” she scolds, though she adds inquisitively, “You know it’s funny, but I never really thought of it like that. I just don’t have that feeling of freedom that I used to have when I was single.”

  “That’s because you never saw his body, and that witch of a woman wouldn’t let you have his ashes.”

  “Is that all he is now—ashes?”

  “I did a roast chicken like that once,” laughs Trina as she scoots around getting ready for work. “I put it in the oven and forgot we were going away for the weekend.” Then she stops with a thought. “Maybe you should visit Jordan’s doctor—the one who issued the certificate. It’ll give you a sense of closure. I’ll come with you if you’d like.”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course I will. In fact I’ll call right now and get an appointment as soon as possible.”

  “Dr. Fitzpatrick isn’t taking any new patients,” the receptionist tells Trina when she tries to book an appointment, and the girl is hesitant when Trina explains the circumstances. “I’ll have to ask the doctor and get back to you,” she says.

  Mike calls as Trina hangs up and Ruth glows as her friend hands her the phone, saying in a comically dark whisper, “It’s a Mountie with a shooter in his pants for Ruth. I’m off to work. See you later.”

  “Oh, Trina ...” rebukes Ruth as she takes the phone.

  “I just wanted to put your mind at ease over that passport,” Mike Phillips tells her. “I’ve had a word with someone in the Immigration Department and they’ve got at least sixty Jordan Jacksons on their books. The passport could belong to any one of them.”

  David Bliss is of the same opinion when Phillips calls him back later that evening. Daphne is upstairs, safely snuggled in her own little bed, while Minnie and the remainder of the geriatric mob have cleaned up after the party and h
ave gone home, leaving Bliss contentedly in front of the fire with a large scotch, mulling over the events of the day and contemplating how different things may have turned out.

  “Thanks for checking, Mike,” he says to his Canadian counterpart. “But, to be honest, I suspect Daphne might have got her knickers in a twist over nothing. There could be dozens of valid reasons why Maxwell might have someone else’s passport. He might even have a man friend staying there that he doesn’t want Daphne to know about—if you get my drift.”

  “Didn’t she think it was Maxwell’s photo, though?” queries Phillips.

  “She did. But I’m beginning to worry about her eyesight, to be honest, and you know what passport pickies are like. I wouldn’t be able to spot myself, let alone a stranger.”

  “OK, Dave. But I did turn up something interesting on a Jeremy Maxwell. I thought I recognized the name, though it might not be the same guy.”

  “What have you got?” asks Bliss, sitting up a notch.

  “No convictions, but that name’s cropped up a few times when we’ve managed to get people on the inside. In fact there is a ‘locate request’ out on him at the moment—though whether or not he’s the same Maxwell that Daphne knows is anybody’s guess.”

  “Interesting,” says Bliss, and he promises to call if he can get any further information on the new man at the manor, adding as an afterthought, “I don’t suppose you’ve got pictures of either of them in your files, have you?”

  “No; sorry, Dave. Like I said, Maxwell is clean and nobody seems to have any photos of Jackson—not even his wife.”

  Dr. Fitzpatrick is another person who doesn’t have any pictures of Jordan Jackson, although it took Trina’s chutzpah to find that out. Margery, his receptionist, had not called her back as promised, so late that afternoon Trina had taken matters into her own hands and turned up at his office with Ruth in tow, saying, “We’ll just wait here until the doctor has time to see us.”

  “He won’t see you without an appointment,” the receptionist had warned, but Trina seemed to think that he would. “We’ll take that chance,” she’d said, confidently plunking herself down in a comfortable chair and picking up a nine-year-old Reader’s Digest. Ruth was less sure and had hovered nervously until Trina had whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve done this dozens of times. They always cave in the end.”

  By five forty-five the receptionist had relented as predicted, and had slotted Ruth in for a five minute consultation close to the end of the day in lieu of a no-show, but Dr. Fitzpatrick is far from happy at the visit, and sits with his arms folded at a cleared desk.

  “I’ve told the police all I know,” he says tersely, once Trina has explained the situation. “It was a straightforward case.”

  “Apart from the fact that no one notified his wife,” digs Trina as if Ruth is not in the room.

  “Not my responsibility,” shrugs Fitzpatrick. “All I can tell you is that he died of cancer back in November. I assumed the funeral director would notify next of kin.”

  “Do you have any pictures of Mr. Jackson?” asks Trina, searching for something solid to show Ruth.

  Fitzpatrick gives her an odd look, then snaps, “We don’t photograph our patients, Miss.”

  “No, I meant X-rays or CAT scans,” explains Trina. “Something that Ruth could keep as a memento.”

  “No, I don’t ... Like I told the police, he refused treatment.”

  “So, you didn’t prescribe any drugs at all?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Surely you prescribed something for the pain.”

  Fitzpatrick shrugs. “He had his own way of dealing with it.”

  “He smoked medicinal marijuana,” pipes up Ruth, adding credence.

  “Maybe if you just showed Ruth his notes then,” suggests Trina, desperately searching for some way of solidifying Jordan’s demise in Ruth’s mind.

  “Sorry. They’re confidential,” Fitzpatrick says, shaking his head.

  “But this is his poor wife,” Trina insists, noticing that Ruth has started to cry. “What difference would it make? In any case, he’s dead. He can’t object.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you. They are destroyed once a person is deceased. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to get on. Patients are waiting.”

  The doctor’s waiting room is surprisingly empty as they leave the office, and Margery is putting on her coat.

  “You closing now?” asks Trina jovially.

  The young receptionist checks the clock. “Yeah. We finished ten minutes ago—good night.”

  “I think he was just trying to get rid of us,” snivels Ruth as they make for Trina’s car. “That was a complete waste of time.”

  “You’re right,” says Trina. “He was very rude. I wonder why?”

  Doctor Fitzpatrick has a furrowed brow as he watches from his office window and sees the two women getting into Trina’s Jetta, but he waits until Margery has called, “Good night, Doctor,” and closed the office door behind her, before picking up the phone.

  Trina is still puzzled as she drives away. I’d like to know where Jordan got the Zofran pills from, she muses to herself, and the fact that Fitzpatrick has destroyed Jordan’s file has her scratching her head. “What if there’s been a mix-up over the drugs and someone wants to sue?” she says to herself, then turns to Ruth to explain, “I’m sure he shouldn’t have destroyed Jordan’s file. I’ll speak to someone about that.”

  “Don’t cause any trouble, Trina. It’s not worth it. I’m OK now that I’ve seen him, even if he was miserable. And I guess you’re right—I am single again.”

  “Great,” yells Trina, then she gives Ruth a sly glance. “Does that mean you want to be dropped off at Mike’s place, then?”

  The phone is ringing in an adjacent office as Constable Vernon McLeod of the RCMP, alias Dave the photographer at Mort’s porn studio, keeps the film rolling as one of the Englishman’s heavies mugs for the camera with a young actress. “Get hold of it properly,” shouts Joshua, the goon, as he grabs the hesitant young woman’s hand and forces it to his groin. “It won’t f’kin bite ya.” Then he turns to McLeod. “OK, Davey boy. Get a close up as I ...”

  “Josh?” yells Mort from the adjoining room. “Get in here.”

  “Hang on, Mort ...”

  “Now!”

  “What’s up, Boss?” asks Joshua as he enters and closes the door, still zipping up his fly.

  Behind him, McLeod plugs an earphone into his ear and fiddles with a control on the camera while he says to the girl, “You can get dressed now.”

  “Where do I get paid?” she asks naively as she pulls on her panties.

  The audio feed from a radio microphone, carefully buried in the wall of Mort’s office, comes through as clear as the CBC in McLeod’s earpiece and, as the girl dresses, he touches a button and starts a recording while pretending to adjust the bulky camera. “You only get paid when Mort sells them,” he says, and the girl’s face falls as he tunes into Mort complaining about Trina.

  “The stupid woman has been mixing things up at the doc’s now. I’ve just had him bleating on the phone. She just can’t f’kin leave it alone.”

  “I thought Tom said he’d dealt with her.”

  “He’s a useless piece of shit. I dunno why I bother with him to be honest. All he had to do was put the frighteners on her.”

  “He said that he had.”

  “Well it didn’t work,” shouts Mort, slamming his fist on the desk. “I mean, for chrissake, why the hell did he give the Jackson broad ten grand in the first place? He’s a bloody moron.”

  “He didn’t know about Jordan, Boss.”

  “He f’kin shoulda done. Jeez, anyone would think I’m runnin’ a kiddies’ playschool.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tell Tom to come and see me,” he spits. “But don’t tell him too gently—know what I mean? I’m totally pissed off with that little creep, playing the big shot with his stupid bloody magazines.�
�� Then he stops briefly to mimic Tom in a silly voice as he simpers, “Have you seen my absolutely whopping great big f’kin boat?”

  Joshua laughs as Mort carries on. “He’s a lying little shit and it’s time he learnt who’s in charge—know what I mean?”

  “Sure Mort, I’ll get Dingo to give me a hand.”

  “Right. Not too bad, mind. I still want him in one piece so that he can do something about that Button bird—know what I mean?”

  Daphne Lovelace is her usual indomitable self the morning following her ordeal, and is up at her usual hour, raking out the embers and re-laying the fire.

  “I expected you to have a lie-in this morning,” says Bliss as he opens the curtains and stretches in the warm rays of sunshine.

  “God knows why they made all that fuss at the hospital,” replies Daphne, demonstrating her fortitude by snapping some kindling. “I told them there was nothing the matter with me that a hot toddie and a warm bath wouldn’t fix, but they wouldn’t believe me.”

  “You really ought to take it easy for a few days,” says Bliss, as he carts the bucket of ashes out to the garden and spies a bald spot on one side of Daphne’s potted Christmas tree. “That blasted Minnie,” he moans, quickly turning the damage to the wall.

  “Actually, I was thinking of going back to the manor,” says Daphne as he re-enters, and he shoots her down. “No you will not.”

  “Why not, David? Besides, he’ll get suspicious if I don’t show up again. Anyway, I keep telling you he’s Jackson—I saw his photo in the passport. It’s him for sure.”

  “And what if he’s found your shoes?”

  “Well, he won’t know how they got there. In any case, he’s a man. What man ever notices the shoes of a slightly older woman? At any rate, what could he possibly do to me?”

  Tom Burton in Vancouver is definitely having a “lie-in” this morning, but he has no such worries about what could happen to him—he already knows. Joshua and Dingo had shown up just after supper and bounced him from one end of his grotty basement to the other like a ping-pong ball as they’d rammed home Mort’s message. Tom’s new wide-screen television, his DVD player, his computer, and every stick of furniture he possessed had managed to get in his way as he had been flung back and forth by Mort’s two gorillas.