Chapter 2
Ernest Sanderson lay motionless, afraid to move. Most mornings, he woke up, groaned and then attempted to get himself out of bed without gasping in pain. This routine was invariable and often supplemented by an overwhelming urge to go to the toilet, which could prompt a turn of speed only understood by the elderly with continence problems. Ernest reflected he was glad that he hadn’t got to the stage of his life where the continence issues were trumped by mobility issues. He wasn’t looking forward to being a Tena man.
With care, he flexed the muscles in each of his arms, legs, his neck, torso and then he scrunched the muscles in his face. He bent and rotated his joints, the usual stiffness from arthritis wasn’t there. He felt supple, sinuous. Relieved, he concluded that everything was working. Working rather better than he had expected; odd.
Taking his time; he raised himself into a semi upright position, resting his weight on one arm and his hip. He felt fine. No, better than fine he felt great. Why then was he overwhelmed by a feeling of … He struggled for a moment to verbalise his concerns. Why was he panicking? He didn’t panic; he dealt with problems, sought solutions and applied them. Today was different, but he didn’t know why. The way he was behaving was out of character. Why had he thought that his body wouldn’t be okay? He had a vague indistinct feeling that something wasn’t as it should be, something he should remember. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
He turned to pour his first cup of tea. His teas-made machine was where it should be, the tea as hot and disgusting as normal. Why he clung to using the antiquated machine he didn’t know, but his day couldn’t start without a wet, warm cup of disappointment. Once he had sat by the window and suffered for the ten minutes it took to drink the tea, his day could begin. A throw back to his wife’s insistence on tea in bed before she set a foot to the floor. It was her treat, as his treat was good whiskey before bed.
He looked around the room, nothing out of the ordinary. He could see that he was in his own bedroom. His bed, dressing table, wardrobe, armchair, all where they always were. The wallpaper was floral, chosen by his wife, he hadn’t had the time or perhaps the inclination to change it. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers repeated in miniature on each drop.
He had always trusted his instincts. People, situations, he could judge the veracity of actions, knew when he was being lied to and had a sixth sense if something was not right. He knew with absolute certainty that something was missing but what? The chair he was sitting in was the problem, he realised. Not the chair itself but what he could see as he sat in it and looked out of his bedroom window. Yesterday morning when he woke up he had sat in the chair as he did every morning with a cup of horrible tea and looked out of the window. It gave him a beautiful view over the square in front of his apartment and beyond to the mediaeval abbey. Today, as he looked out, he was looking at a transposed image of his usual reality; a static transposed image. Nothing was moving. Not cars, not people, not leaves on the trees. Nothing. He reached up from his chair and tapped the glass. He heard the dead thud or a solid wall rather than the ping of glass. The view was a picture, a good picture, a mirror image of what he should have seen. Whoever had put him in here didn’t want him to look out. Now he knew why he had woken up in such a panic. His subconscious knew it was wrong; his conscious self needed time to catch up.
Had Felicity Cortez lost all reason? He doubted he had posed such a threat to the Cortez family that they had opted for direct action? It seemed unlikely, he was no closer to knowing anything than he had been a year ago, or was it just about money? He was wealthy, very wealthy and known as reclusive. His reclusiveness was fuelled by a desire for privacy and personal space. He still entertained and family came to his apartment, although on his terms. He had yet to achieve the obsessive compulsiveness of Howard Hughes. He had received a small number of threats from the harmless unhinged and one serious threat from a former employee who Ernest had sacked for theft. Was this a kidnapping?
He climbed out of bed and walked across the bedroom to the door. Listening with his ear close to the oak panelled door, he strained to hear any sounds from the room beyond. Nothing. He bent down to peer through the keyhole, but all he saw was blackness. He held the door handle with a light pressure, as he expected it was cool to the touch. He increased the pressure and began to twist the handle in an anti-clockwise direction to open the door. The instant he increased the pressure on the brass door handle, the handle vanished and his hand disappeared through the door. He stared down, rigid with shock. His arm appeared to have had the front twelve inches amputated leaving a neat scar-less stump. Heart thumping, he jerked his hand back into the room and the door handle reappeared as it had been before; a shiny brass globe.
He sat heavily into the leather wing back chair next to his bed, struggling to control the panic rising in his chest. The chair stayed solid and held his weight. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. Door handles don’t disappear; hands can’t pass through solid objects. Of course he was dreaming, the only plausible explanation.
Odd as this dream was, he still had an unsettled feeling that he was missing something quite obvious. He had a dim recollection of an arrangement to meet a pathologist, to get an opinion on blood samples he had traced that had been taken when his brother Jonas had been killed. The pathologist had agreed to perform some additional tests. He checked the bedside clock. Ten minutes to four. Only three hours until his early appointment. He needed to wake up.
He stood up and walked across to the door. He stared at it not sure what to do next. If he followed his arm through the disappearing door he should arrive in his actual bedroom. Or Narnia or … with extreme care he reached for the door handle. As his hand touched it the door disappeared and a figure bowled through him into the room.
***
Sister Andrews read the note written on a blank sheet of photocopier paper:
‘Dear day shift, please could you call Gerald Thrasher (see attached card) at Thrasher, Thrasher and Braebourne to let him know of the death of Ernest Sanderson from a heart attack. Thanks. April and Donna, Night shift.’
Shaking her head in resignation, Sister Andrews picked up the business card and dialled the number printed on it. On the third ring a pleasant, efficient voice answered.
“Thrasher, Thrasher and Braebourne how may I help you?”
“Gerald Thrasher, please.”
“Whom may I say is calling?”
“Sister Andrews from County Hospital.” After five minutes waiting on hold and on the verge of hanging up, the hold music was replaced by a voice.
“Gerald Thrasher, how can I help you Sister Andrews?”
“Mr Thrasher, I have some bad news for you. I’m calling to advise you that Ernest Sanderson died at the hospital during the night and yours was the only contact details that we could find on Mr Sanderson. We were hoping that you might be able to provide details of his next of kin for us.”
“Dead? This is terrible. How did he die?” Thrasher groaned. Sanderson had been a constant source of friction between Felicity Cortez and himself for months. Sanderson’s perceived meddling and her intransigent belief that he was determined to ruin her family had kept relations between them frosty. Sanderson alive, though an irritation, was an irritation he could manage. Now that he was dead, Felicity’s demands to see his will and details of bequests were going to be difficult to deflect.
Opening the file in front of her Sister Andrews scanned the cover sheet.
“Heart attack, and by the looks of it a pretty big one. I’d be surprised if he knew much about it. So, if you could let us have the name and contact details for his next of kin, we can let them know what has happened.”
Sister Andrews waited for an answer. Silence. She waited for a further thirty seconds and then said,
“Mr Thrasher. Are you still there?”
“Of course, my apologies. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll speak to his next of kin and arrange the funeral directors in person. Good-bye Sister Andrews. Thank
you again for letting me know.”
Putting the telephone receiver back onto its base, Sister Andrews turned to a staff nurse sitting next to her at the desk.
“Unbelievable, he went from concerned bordering on tears to indifference in a matter of moments. Let’s get the nurse off the phone, and concentrate on something important.”
“Tell me about it. Did I tell you about the guy my husband used in our divorce?”
Chapter 3
Gerald Thrasher sat at his desk staring into space considering what he should do first; as opposed to would do first. He should open the documents that had been left in his care by Ernest Sanderson to check his clients instructions in the event of his death. He should then contact the next of kin as specified by Ernest Sanderson. He should then comply with the wishes of his last will and testament that he had in the strong room at the back of his office. What he would do, he knew, was enough to have him struck off the solicitors roll and guarantee him his own day in front of a judge and jury; as the defendant. Momentary embarrassment caused him to pause and then with a mental shrug he picked up his desk telephone and prepared to break client confidentiality, again.
All solicitors have a duty of care to their clients and must act in the clients best interest at all times. Gerald Thrasher’s duty of care was inconsistently applied. One of his clients took precedence over the wishes and needs of all of the others. Felicity Cortez. Five feet, six inches of malignant venom. She terrified him, or had done. Now his faux terror was brought before her whenever she needed to feel in command and worthwhile. All of the time. Her spiteful neediness over the years had spawned his hatred. He wished her dead. He had planned how he would kill her, how he would inflict on her the humiliations she had heaped on him. Except he wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. That would take more courage than he would possess in five lifetimes. He had endured fifteen years of her hatred. One error of judgement had left him trapped as the play thing of a sociopathic socialite.
Considerations of what he should do brushed to one side; Gerald finished what he would do by dialling a mobile telephone number from memory, wincing in anticipation of the conversation to come. The phone rang twice before it was answered.
“Yes?” The voice was waspish and petulant.
“It’s Gerald, Gerald Thrasher you asked me to call if I ever had any information on Ernest Sanderson.” He fidgeted in his seat waiting for a response.
“Yes?” The tone of her voice had changed once she had discovered who was calling her and had become bored, disinterested. Gerald allowed himself a tight smile as he prepared to continue. She wouldn’t be quite so smug when she found out that the subject of her latest poisonous project had died of natural causes.
“Ernest Sanderson died of a heart attack at three fifty this morning at the County hospital. I have arranged to collect his personal effects that they are holding and then I will contact a suitable funeral director.”
“I know he is dead. The effects have been collected. They amounted to nothing and will arrive at your offices later this morning. His body is now ash. We wouldn’t want anyone to change their minds and decide to carry out a post-mortem now would we?”
In a vain attempt to recover the loss of his expected ascendency; Gerald blustered offering pointless legal opinion.
“It is rare that a post-mortem is carried out in cases where it is clear that the cause of death is from natural causes.” Relaxing back into his executive chair, Gerald continued,
“In fact; I can’t remember a case when a post-mortem has even been ... I’m sorry I didn’t catch that?” Felicity remained silent for a moment and then continued, her tone combined irritation and contempt.
“Be quiet. I am aware that a post-mortem is not carried out when death is from natural causes. However, as I’m sure you are aware, if there is any suspicion, the medical staff in conjunction with a coroner can request a post-mortem. I wouldn’t want to risk that happening, would I?”
Gerald felt sick. Swallowing the urge to throw up into the wastepaper basket on the floor beside him, he took a couple of deep breaths letting them calm him. Had she admitted that she had killed Ernest Sanderson? He was sure she was capable, a trait she had inherited from her grandfather Charles. Since the unexpected death of his brother, Ernest Sanderson had harried her family for forty years. Had he got too close to whatever truth she was hiding?
Once she felt she had left enough time for her last statement to sink in, she continued.
“You have saved me the trouble of calling you with your next instructions. Trace the next of kin. When you have found them, let me know. I want to be able to have a quiet word with them. In addition, the will you hold for Sanderson, I want copies before the family sees it. That’s all I think, I will send a man to your offices tomorrow for the copies.”
“No” Gerald heard himself say the word before he had had a chance to stop it from coming out or to think about the consequences. Now, it was said.
“Gerald, Gerald, Gerald. You really don’t understand how it works do you. You might be a partner in a London law firm with your name above the door, but you work for my father. Working for my father, means you work for me. You see, daddy would always do anything I asked him to do. I no longer have to ask him to get his hands dirty I can do it myself. Let me explain your predicament as I see it. Without this job, your spotty kids would be at an inner city comprehensive, where they would be eaten alive. Your fat bejewelled wife, Sophia, isn’t it, would find her credit cards stop working. That of course doesn’t even begin to mention the horror and outrage of your family if they were to find out about your biblical interest in those ‘pretty boys’ on Piccadilly.”
“I don’t like ‘pretty boys’, as you know,” he said with evident disgust, “I love my wife and family.”
With a trace of condescension in her voice she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted,
“Yes, darling I know you do. I know everything about you. Nevertheless, you see Gerald; some of those ‘pretty boys’ owe me a favour. I’m sure you remember how persuasive they can be. They will say anything I want them to say, in as much lurid red top detail as I want. They will also do whatever I want, again; if necessary. Do you understand now? I won’t have to sack you. When I’ve finish with you, you won’t have a wife or family, you won’t have a career, job, anything. No one will touch you with a shitty stick. Therefore, Gerald, if you want to keep your life; do as I ask or await the consequences. Is ten tomorrow morning convenient to collect the copies?”
“Yes, yes that will be convenient”
***
Spinning around to face Ernest, the young attractive women smiled at him and said,
“Good morning, not that it is relevant, but good morning.” Looking down at her leather bound, translucent conference pad, she ran a finger down the page until she got to what she was looking for.
“Ah yes, South Western England, three thirty a.m. A&E. Suspicious. Sooo,” she said dragging out the word in the manner of a camp nineteen sixties comedian.
“How are you feeling?” she paused, “All things considered”
“You walked through me. When you came into the room, through the disappearing door, you walked straight through me, as if I didn’t exist?”
“Yes.” She replied, offering no further elucidation.
“Yes? Is that it? You can’t just walk through people. It’s not possible.” Ernest paused for a moment and then asked,
“And what do you mean ’How am I feeling, all things considered?’”
He looked at the girl he was talking to. Small with short spiky hair, slight build and dress sense from another age. He smiled to reassure her and asked,
“’How am I feeling, all things considered?’ How do you think I should feel?”
The woman considered the question with obvious care before answering.
“I’m sorry, let me rephrase the question. Considering you’re dead, how do you feel?” She cocked her head to one side, emphasising the qu
estion.
“I can walk through you because you no longer exist; at least not in a solid state. Mr Sanderson, Ernest, welcome to limbo.”
Ernest sat down with a thump into the armchair and blew out a breath. Then he smiled, a look of relief on his face.
“This is a dream. If I were dead, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I wouldn’t need to, I’d be dead.”
He gave her a triumphant look, got up from the chair, walked over to his bed and got in under the duvet still dressed.
“When I wake up in a few hours, you’ll be gone and everything will have stopped resembling ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ I will be back in pyjamas and the arthritis and angina will have returned. Good night.”
It was always the same, she thought. Denial. This would be followed by anger and then acceptance. This was her job and Ernest was allocated to her. So she now had to help him resolve what had to be resolved so that he could progress upstairs. First though she had to show him that he was dead.
“Before you go back to sleep Ernest, could you blow onto your hand and tell me how it feels.”
He hesitated and looked at her, why did she want him to do that? He shrugged, held up his hand and blew hard over the ends of his fingers. He looked at his hand and then at her. Holding his hand up, he put his lips as close to his fingers as possible and blew again.
“Why can’t I feel my breath?”
“When you’re dead you don’t have any breath” she replied.
Ernest stared at her with an annoyed expression on his face.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You are a dream. An argumentative dream, but still a dream. I have a meeting in three hours and need to sleep.” He pulled his duvet up around him and closed his eyes, blocking her out.
“Please see yourself out.”
The denial, she noted, would continue ad nauseam unless she dealt with his deluded belief this was a dream and he was still alive.
“My name is Juanita, I am a guide. I arrived here when I was killed during what became know as the Hundred Years War. I developed and grew in skill until I was chosen to become a guide two hundred years ago.” Juanita paused to let what she had said register with Ernest before she continued.
Bacchus and Sanderson (Deceased) Page 2
