Unspeakable

by Marturano, Tony

  However, when her fingers touched something cold and squishy, she snatched them out and instinctively threw the bag to the floor.

  That is when she smelt it, burning her nostrils, like a noxious chemical; the putrid stench of rotten flesh.

  She backed away, still watching the bag in horror, when she felt something tickling her fingers; wriggling maggots.

  They were on her hands and now crawling over the carpet.

  Ashley’s scream was so loud, it pierced the penthouse door and echoed down the lift shaft.

  37 Schedules

  Over three hours had passed before Rupert emerged from a meeting with senior managers from Harrison’s Finance and Legal departments.

  During the meeting, they discussed many matters relating to the Harrison Group’s daily operations. However, also on the agenda was the fact that an unknown Swiss company had shown a sudden and ‘peculiar’ interest in Harrison stock.

  While James played down his concerns, he told meeting delegates that, as a precaution, he had set up a small task force to investigate.

  He went on to report that preliminary investigations, through conventional channels, had revealed that the stock was being purchased via a very well-known group of stockbrokers who were buying on behalf of a 5-year-old ‘Shelf Company’.

  A company that had been incorporated many years before, but had not reported any finance transactions, until now.

  James added that the investigation was ongoing, that he had also enlisted the help of some key contacts, and that he expected more information soon, when he’d be sure to keep those present updated.

  Asked whether the board should be informed, Rupert categorically refused, saying that at this stage, there was nothing to tell. He did confirm that it would be added to the agenda of the next board meeting.

  Presently, Rupert was at his desk, scanning through his email messages. There were thirty one new messages, of which ten were marked urgent.

  One of them was from Ashley, asking him to ring her as soon as possible.

  The house phone was answered by Maria, who explained that Ashley had showered, dressed and left the house not so long ago.

  “Why the hell did you let her out of the house?” Rupert yelled.

  At least he did in his mind since it was clear to him that while he could charge the housekeeper with taking care of Ashley, he couldn’t expect her to restrain the woman.

  More’s the pity.

  He tried Ashley’s mobile phone, but that kept going to voicemail.

  It was all he could do not to throw the thing against the wall.

  At that moment, his assistant brought him a most welcome cup of coffee and commented on how tired he looked. Then, somewhat callously, went on to tell him that his next meeting, with the Managing Director of a rival publishing house, would be in ten minutes.

  Noticing his blank expression, the woman pressed that this was the third attempt at a meeting between the two companies, and that it was regarding the title alliance they’d discussed late last year.

  With that, she left.

  Rupert stared after her.

  Ashley had gone out again. Where had she gone this time? And since when have you been checking up on her? You’ll be hiring a private investigator next!

  He turned back to his messages.

  That’s when he noticed that the internet browser on his machine was still open, but minimised at the foot of the screen.

  He clicked on it and the results of his search engine query appeared.

  Of course, he had been searching for information on the Whitehouse Group when he had been interrupted by James.

  He read the results again, in no particular order, advertising company, Wikipedia page, firm of accountants, care home.

  The Whitehouse; Residential Care Home.

  He clicked the link and an image appeared. It was a basic website, constructed in pastel colours. The picture was of a Georgian style house, with a black roof and gleaming white walls. The header read:

  ‘THE WHITEHOUSE – Care is our distinction.’

  He read some of the guff on the ABOUT US page which went on to tell him that the company was professional and that the nurses were all registered carers. They worked hard to ensure that, when the time came, you were in the best hands in a spectacularly beautiful setting.

  The contact details were at the foot of the screen.

  Could this be The Whitehouse he was looking for? Judging by the appearance of the place, and the amount of money debited from Ashley bank account, it was a distinct possibility.

  What the heck, without even thinking, he dialled the number.

  “Whitehouse Group, good afternoon.”

  “Yes, hello, I was wondering… I’m enquiring about one of your residents.”

  “Name please.”

  Shit! Name? “Umm, Marshall.”

  “Marshall, just a moment...”

  Pan-pipe music blared out of the receiver as Rupert asked himself what the hell he was doing. Not so long ago, he had been angry with Ashley for conducting her amateur investigation and now he was doing the exact same thing.

  He pushed the thought from his mind, explaining it away with the fact that he had a good reason.

  And she didn’t?

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have anybody here by that name.”

  “Oh, ok, well thank you anyway.” Rupert was about to hang up but then added, “Who could I speak to about monthly fees.”

  “Monthly fees?”

  “Yes, your fees.”

  “One moment…”

  There was silence and then ringing on the line as he was transferred, but the ringing continued for nearly a minute and there was no answer.

  “Mr Harrison?” Rupert was startled by his ninja assistant who suddenly appeared in the doorway. And he, for some obscure reason, like an employee who had just been caught using the phone without permission, hung up.

  “Yes?” he said, as casually as he could.

  “Your appointment is here. I’ve put him in the meeting room.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

  The woman nodded and, after glancing at him curiously, left the room.

  Rupert closed down the browser then stood up, but not before sending details to his mobile device.

  38 Email

  It was afternoon when James returned to his office.

  He checked his emails. There weren’t many. This was a refreshing change for the corporate lawyer, whose daily workload sometimes equalled the weekly average of other men of his profession.

  Like many workaholics, James didn’t have much of a social life; not that this mattered to him since, despite all its pressures, he loved his job. Indeed, he had fallen madly in love with it, around about the time he had fallen madly out of love with his ex.

  Theirs had been a particularly acrimonious break up that started with the lament of abandonment, and ended with a baby fathered by someone else. This was particularly painful for a man who adored children, and had always dreamt of having a couple of his own.

  Although his wife had supplicated him to forgive her and consider raising the child together, his heart had been broken, the damage irreparable.

  In the end, his marriage was terminated with a few strokes of a pen.

  Since then, James refused to give his heart to anyone or anything else but the corporation that he reportedly treated as his own. He had fought, bought, settled and devoured any company or individual that threatened it.

  James Howard had grown from a corner shop lawyer to one of the most influential men in his industry, and by surrounding himself with some of the best brains available, he gained a reputation revered by many, and feared by all. This obsession elicited numerous rumours that James harboured unnatural interests towards the ownership of Harrison Publishing. It was even alleged that he one day planned to take control of the company.

  Rumours dismissed by Rupert, since he could not imagine anything of the sort, from the man that had b
een nothing but the paragon of loyalty, both to him and his father before him.

  Now, as James vacantly scrolled through his messages, his mind returned to the meeting he had with Rupert earlier in the day, and the casual way in which his friend had dismissed him.

  The two had often disagreed, but today, for some strange reason, James had taken particular exception to Rupert’s attitude. Whether this was due to the fact that the man was distracted by something else, James did not know. What he did know, was that he was troubled by the casual way in which Rupert kept playing down his concerns about a potential hostile takeover of the company.

  He sighed, and wondered if it was he who was being hypersensitive as he clicked on an email from Jerry Blenheim.

  Jerry was a fifty-five-year-old retired stockbroker, who had made his millions working the markets, and now toured the world giving classes on killer tactics.

  The American had met James at a corporate Christmas party, and the two found that they had a lot in common.

  The email was in response to a message from James, in which he asked Jerry to keep his eyes open and ears to the ground regarding Harrison stock.

  This was his reply:

  Hi James,

  I spoke to a friend of mine today about what you mentioned in your previous email.

  You need to call me… NOW!

  Now, was over three hours ago. James dialled the number, but it was answered by the philanthropist’s voicemail. Apparently, he had gone stock car racing, but would be sure to get back to him as soon as possible.

  James left a message, slammed the phone down and swore.

  39 The Whitehouse

  The sun was playing peekaboo behind the clouds on its way towards the horizon, when Rupert found himself sitting at his desk once more.

  It had been a long day so far. He was tired and there was still a lot more on his schedule. He asked himself if he could actually face another two to three hours of tedious meetings, when all he really wanted to do was go home to Ashley, to bed.

  He was contemplating this as he looked out of his window, and watched London’s industry cogs turn in the late afternoon.

  “Mr Harrison?” It was his assistant.

  He suppressed a sigh and turned in his chair. “Yes.”

  “You are…”

  “…Running late for my next meeting, I know.”

  “And I’ve…”

  “…emailed my messages, yes, thank you.”

  The woman pulled a face, and was about to leave when he turned and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  The secretary sighed.

  Rupert, with his usual talent, had managed to disarm her.

  “It’s fine. I understand. You’ve had a lot on your plate in the past few days. If you don’t mind me saying so, I’m surprised you came in at all.”

  “Yes, well, things still have to be done. Otherwise, I would have you to contend with,” he said, mustering up his most cheeky grin.

  The secretary smiled. “True,” she replied, “but even I could let you off occasionally. Would you like me to clear the rest of your schedule?”

  Rupert was surprised. “Sorry?”

  “You look tired, Mr Harrison.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  He considered her suggestion. “No, I think I should see the day through.”

  The woman shrugged and left the room.

  Rupert checked his phone for messages from Ashley. There were none, although there was an email message from himself to himself.

  He opened it.

  Of course, The Whitehouse residential home. He contemplated the idea for a few seconds and then glanced at his watch. It would take a couple of hours to get east of the city, to Canvey Island, but that’s exactly where he was heading.

  Mercifully, traffic was good, and it wasn’t long before the concrete rises of London boroughs gave way to the green county of Essex.

  Even the prematurely setting sun put in the occasional appearance, which in turn lifted Rupert’s spirits and made him glad to be out of the office.

  He was free, or at least that is how he felt until he rounded yet another bend. The grey flatness of the Thames estuary came into view, and he was reminded of the true purpose of his escapade.

  As daylight faded, the car’s satnav instructed him to drive by several clumps of houses, a golf course, a national park, and then turn left.

  He drove down a narrow, windy road that opened up to green fields, and a washed-out view of the Thames River.

  The road continued downhill, towards a white building perched on a cliff top.

  As he neared the square forecourt, he passed a faded signpost that read, The Whitehouse.

  He pulled into a parking space, switched off the engine and then sat, motionless, as he gathered his thoughts.

  He had absolutely no idea what, if anything, he was going to find here, and he realised that it was this unknown that actually scared him.

  Whatever it was, Ashley had felt compelled to hide it from him.

  Which reminded him.

  He spoke to the car, and asked it to dial Ashley’s mobile phone for the third time since starting his journey.

  Her voicemail.

  He swore; a mixture of anger and apprehension. Why wasn’t she answering her phone? Was she okay? Maria told him that she’d left the house, but she didn’t say where she was going.

  He called the Penthouse.

  No reply.

  He checked the time; early evening. Maria will have gone home.

  Well, you’re here now.

  He stepped out of the car and into a cold breeze that brought with it the scent of the sea. He pulled the sheepskin jacket, a gift from Ashley, from the passenger seat and put it on. As he did so, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had, in some indirect way, contributed to her financial crisis.

  The house was smothered in withered, naked vines. Their dried wrinkled clothes were lying in clumps on the ground, with a few items blowing lazily around the forecourt, which was empty but for a few small cars and a battered Land Rover.

  The house was still handsome, but looked weather battered, and much more tired than it did in the pictures on its website.

  Rupert walked up to the large front door, and was about to ring the bell but decided against it. Instead, he turned the handle; it was unlocked. He walked in, as if he owned the place, and was instantly met by a gust of warm, musky air. As if nobody had bothered to open a window in weeks.

  He was in the lobby; to his left, stairs led up to the first floor, to his right was the battered dark wood of the front desk and directly ahead, the corridor led to a brighter room, presumably the conservatory.

  The front desk was unmanned.

  Rupert was about to step forward but froze, when a loud groaning sound rushed down the stairs at him. It seemed one of the residents was kicking up a fuss about something, since his petulant whine was followed by the measured, patronising tone of what could only be one of the carers.

  “Can I help you?” a voice said, startling him to the point where he physically jumped.

  He suppressed a swear word.

  “Oh hello,” he said, as calmly as he could.

  Suddenly, his jacket felt very heavy.

  He was looking at a short, dumpy woman in a nurse’s uniform, who wore her black hair slicked back in an old matron kind of way, which aged her beyond what could only have been her late twenties.

  She was observing him as one would a trapped animal.

  “Yes, I was wondering if you could help, please.” He flashed one of his best charismatic smiles, which the grey-eyed gaze of the woman appeared to deflect.

  “I’ve come to see one of your residents.”

  “Last visits are at four o’ clock.”

  Rupert looked at his watch; it had just gone that, “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. See, I’ve just driven from the city and was
wondering if there was any chance…”

  “…Last visits are at four,” the woman repeated, firmly.

  “Yes, you said, but I was just wondering if there was any chance I could just pay a quick visit…”

  “…the residents are having their dinner right now.”

  “What if I promise not to be long?”

  “What if I told you that you should have checked visiting hours before driving down here,” she said with a wolverine smile.

  “Then, I would be very sad, as I had been looking forward to this visit for weeks, and it’s so hard to get the time off.” Rupert followed up the comment with his best puppy-eyed look.

  The woman observed him for a few seconds and then, with a big sigh, and without looking at him, but at the computer behind the front desk, said, “Who’ve you come to see? If they’re not eating, you can have a few minutes.”

  Rupert beamed, gratefully. “Thanks very much, that’s very kind.”

  The woman simply stood, expectantly, as Rupert kept on grinning.

  A few seconds went by until she cocked her head, “The name?”

  “Oh I’m sorry,” he forced a foolish laugh.

  Shit, what name.

  “Um, yes…”

  Mr? Mrs?

  “…Um, Marshall,” he finally said, leaning casually on the front desk.

  The woman tapped on the computer keyboard, waited a few seconds until there was a beep, and then looked up. “What was that name again?”

  “M… Marshall,” He repeated, as the walls started to cave in.

  The woman tapped on the keyboard once more, but the computer beeped. “Sorry; no one here by that name.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The woman looked at him as if he had just insulted her.

  “What I mean is; could there be a mistake?”

  “No mistake. What’s the first name?”

  Oh shit!

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  Eh?

  The words just came out of his mouth. The woman gave him a look.