October

by Gabrielle Lord

  ‘You want money?’ he blurted, clearly flustered and panicking. ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t want your money.’

  ‘Well what do you want?’

  ‘Something you promised me once before.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Let me make it a little clearer for you,’ I offered. ‘I want Piers Ormond’s will.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, finally realising who his blackmailing caller was. ‘The will in return for the photos.’

  ‘That’s correct. Give me the will and I won’t distribute the photos.’

  ‘And how will I know that you won’t continue to blackmail me? Send the photos out after I’ve given you the will?’

  ‘You won’t know,’ I said. ‘Deal with it.’

  His deep breathing puffed into the phone like a bull about to charge. But he knew he had no power in this. He knew I had him in a bind.

  ‘Mr Rathbone,’ I began, ‘this time we’ll meet on my turf and on my terms. I already have the photos of you in a draft email addressed to the Law Society, the police and all the key press players—they’re ready to go, if needed. If you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, I will have someone send them out immediately.’

  ‘When do you want to meet?’ he murmured.

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? But that’s impossible! I—’

  ‘Tonight.’ I repeated, firmly.

  Rathbone inhaled and exhaled loudly. ‘Where?’

  I had the perfect place in mind. Somewhere I would feel comfortable, somewhere I could see him arrive and depart, somewhere Boges and Winter could also keep watch.

  ‘Tell no-one about this meeting,’ I said after giving him the details. ‘Come alone. If you mess up and try something stupid, we’ll put you six feet under.’

  I knew Boges would be spooked, but Winter took it all in her stride. Boges was twisting on the spot, trying really hard not to look nervous, while Winter was sitting on top of a marble wall, swinging her legs and plaiting her hair. The three of us had met outside the Ormond Mausoleum early.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Winter.

  ‘Rathbone agreed to meet me here at eleven pm, sharp. I thought we should set ourselves up first, make sure he doesn’t show up early to organise any interference. I’ve given him the directions to the Ormond Mausoleum. I’ll be waiting for him right here.’

  I turned to the door and noticed that the lock had been changed.

  ‘I’ll post myself outside the cemetery,’ offered Boges. ‘Near the entrance. I’ll make sure no-one else shows up—no back-up, and more importantly, no cops. I can let you know exactly when he arrives. And,’ he admitted, with a sheepish grin, ‘it means I won’t be on my own in here… This place seriously gives me the creeps!’

  Winter giggled and even though it was dark, I was sure Boges was blushing. ‘I’ll hide somewhere over there,’ she said, pointing up the path towards the entrance.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘It will take him about five minutes to walk down to me.’

  The three of us ducked and dived behind tombstones and statues as a security patrol suddenly approached.

  Once it had passed, we all crept out of our hiding places. Boges was jumping about, frantically wriggling and brushing himself down, as though he was completely cocooned in spider webs.

  Winter and I couldn’t help ourselves—we both cracked up laughing.

  We were all in position and waiting for Rathbone to show up. Above me, on the stone façade of the mausoleum, on the lintel above the iron gates, faded gold lettering spelling out ‘Ormond’ was just discernible in the starlight. Despite the gloomy, quiet surroundings, the vandalised angels and broken columns sticking up from the graves like decaying teeth, I wasn’t scared at all. I was so used to living in the dark that I almost felt at home back here at the place where my search had begun—with the discovery of Dad’s drawings hidden inside the vault.

  A faint sound in the direction of the main gates suddenly alerted me. I guessed it was Rathbone’s car.

  Boges was the first to message me:

  eagle has landed. approaching gates. alone.

  Winter followed a minute or two later:

  he’s walking down the path now. carrying torch. looks as scared as boges

  Rathbone’s footsteps softly crunched down the gravel path. I was almost enjoying this. I hoped his guilty conscience was spooking him in this silent and solemn place. Behind me in the mausoleum lay the bones and ashes of my family, but I wasn’t frightened of the dead. It was the living who were endangering me.

  I pressed up against the mausoleum wall. I was calm and determined, my torch in my hand, imagining the courage of Captain Piers Ormond flowing in my bloodstream.

  Within the darkness of the footpath a thin beam of light shone. Rathbone’s stooped silhouette followed behind it. With hesitant steps he emerged from the shadows and waved his torch over the tombstones and vaults, searching for the one titled ‘Ormond’.

  Once he spotted it, he slowly made his way closer until he was standing a metre or so from the steps that led up to the mausoleum door. I jumped down, deliberately scaring him.

  He jumped back with a gasp.

  ‘Mr Rathbone,’ I said as he recovered himself. I shone my torch on him and saw an anxious man with dark circles under his eyes, flustered and afraid. He blinked and shielded his eyes with his hand. ‘You have the will?’ I asked.

  He cleared his throat. ‘What about the photos?’

  ‘The will,’ I insisted.

  He tucked his torch under his arm and took something from his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said.

  I shone the torch on the document he had given me. On the front page I read in old-fashioned writing: ‘Last Will & Testament of PIERS ORMOND, Gent. Regimental No. 1589 17th Battalion Imperial Forces. 15th September, 1914’.

  This was it! The will I’d been after for so long!

  I stepped back, pocketing it safely.

  ‘The photos?’ he asked.

  ‘Last time you promised me this document it almost cost me my life.’

  ‘What?’ he asked, appearing confused. He straightened up. ‘Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with that? How dare you suggest I had anything to do with an attempt on your life!’

  ‘You’re the one who set up the meeting at your brother’s funeral parlour,’ I reminded him. ‘I came, just like you asked—’

  ‘It was not my fault the meeting went awry,’ he said. ‘The photos,’ he hurried on, changing the subject. ‘You have the will, now what about the—’

  A night bird shrieked, making Rathbone jump again.

  ‘You will never see the photos again and neither will anyone else,’ I said. ‘As long as you cause no further trouble to me.’

  Rathbone’s shoulders seemed to lower and relax on hearing this—his life and reputation weren’t going to be ruined after all. He shook his head at me and turned to walk away.

  A few steps up the path, he stopped and turned back. ‘You don’t know what you’re up against, boy. You’re just one kid, alone. My client is rich and powerful. What do you think you can do with that will?’

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ I said, cringing at the thought of Oriana, thinking her wealth and power gave her the right to other people’s property.

  ‘I’m telling you this for your own good. You’re in over your head. Whatever you think you’re doing, you’re never going to get away with it.’

  ‘I’m not trying to get away with anything,’ I said. ‘I just want the truth.’

  I heard him snort with contempt. ‘There’s no such thing as the truth,’ he snapped. ‘There are only opportunities, and the right moments to seize them.’

  ‘My dad taught me differently,’ I said. ‘The truth will come out. It doesn’t belong to your client.’

  ‘Your father is dead. Why don’t you give up and leave the Ormond Singularity to the people who are in a position to pursue it?
Back out of this and you’ll be left alone.’ He took a step closer, speaking now in a softer, friendlier tone. ‘I could make it worth your while—organise financing so that you could disappear and change your identity…’

  ‘What a joke! I’ve already had to do that! There’s no way I’m backing out! And unless your client is the firstborn male descended from a very particular family tree,’ I pointed out, ‘she has no right to it.’

  ‘How can you talk about rights?’ sneered Rathbone. ‘You’re just a pathetic, fugitive kid. A deadbeat criminal on the run. It’s too late for you to start sounding like a boy scout. Don’t you understand? You have no rights! But you can still save your life. Tell me you’re backing out of this crazy dream of yours, and I can pass that on to my client. You want to live, don’t you?’

  I lunged forward and Rathbone backed away, suspicious.

  ‘I believe that truth is something far more incredible than money and thuggery. It’s power! Getting to the truth of the Ormond Singularity is my assignment. It was given to me by my family—handed on by my dad. There’s no way I’m giving up. So pass that on to your client.’

  Rathbone was silent.

  ‘Get out of here!’ I shouted.

  Rathbone just stood there, unmoving.

  ‘Go on, get out!’ My shadow loomed over him like a huge wave about to fall.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ he said, turning and walking away. ‘They’ll get you next time,’ he called back before disappearing up the path.

  79 days to go …

  My friends sat silently at the table with me while I ran my eyes over Piers Ormond’s will.

  I skipped some of it because it was written in old-fashioned language. There were lots of numbered clauses about ‘devising and bequeathing jewellery and possessions’, as well as allocating a chestnut mare, Wilhelmina, to a foreman. I scanned impatiently until I finally came to the clause that I was looking for.

  ‘Here’s the bit about the Ormond Singularity,’ I said.

  ‘Go on, read it out,’ urged Winter.

  Clause 7: (iv) J give devise and bequeath to such child as is identified by my legal representatives my findings on the Ormond Singularity, provided that at the date of my death J myself have not discovered the benefits. J direct my legal representatives to convey to, that beneficiary that such gift is his to pursue so, long as it is accepted on the given conditions. Whoever should succeed to, the Ormond Singularity must bequeath the Ormond Singularity to, the firstborn child of the next generation carrying the name of Ormond up, to and including the date of December 31st being a year of the double solar eclipses, after which the Singularity becomes void and empty, and all benefits, lands and deeds, entitlements, patents of nobility, gifts and treasures, and sundries all become null and void and revert in entirety to, the Crown (See Westminster 1285 ‘De Donis Conditionalibus’)

  ‘Translation, please?’ I asked, putting the page down. ‘Boges? Winter? Anybody?’

  ‘There’s a double solar eclipse this year!’ said Boges, nodding. ‘Dude, everything points to this year! He’s talking about this year!’

  ‘The crazy guy you met on New Year’s Eve was right,’ Winter added. ‘The paperwork you found ages ago at Oriana’s was right. It’s all counting down to December 31st. This December 31st.’ She shifted up onto her knees and leaned over to read through the will again. ‘So the Ormond Singularity can be handed down in a wi11, like it’s something physical.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Boges. ‘Then if the person who inherits it is unable to claim what it offers—unable to work out the mystery of what the Ormond Singularity actually is, in their time—they have to hand it down to the next generation, to the next firstborn male.’

  ‘Just like the family tree indicated,’ I added. ‘So all of my predecessors have failed to claim it, and now it’s up to me. I have until December 31st to figure it all out. And then what? What happens at the end of the year?’

  ‘Here, check this out,’ said Winter.

  Clause 8: J further direct my executor to, inform such beneficiary of the Grmond Singularity as may be, that should no, daimant for the singularity arise by the stroke of midnight on December 31st, in the year of the double eclipses, then the benefits thereof, wheresoever and howsoever situale, revert in entirety to, the Crown in the person of Kind George Vor his descendants as ordered by the Monarch in the 1559 codicil added to, ‘De Donis Conditionalibus,’ dated 1285, the Grmond Singularity.

  Piers, Grmond, September 1914.

  ‘If you don’t uncover what it is,’ said Winter, ‘it’s up to the Crown to work out. And if they don’t know what they’re searching for, it could all just crumble away.’

  I stood up, frustrated. ‘We still don’t know what the Ormond Singularity means. What are we trying to uncover? What if we go to all this trouble only to find out it’s nothing valuable, just some old piece of writing?’

  ‘Don’t be so impatient!’ Winter said. ‘Property and money—that’s what wills are all about. My parents,’ she paused, her voice wavering, ‘left all their property and most of their money to Vulkan Sligo. On the proviso that he look after me.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Boges. ‘Property and money. “Lands and deeds, entitlements, patents of nobility, gifts and treasures, and sundries”,’ he quoted. ‘Your dad did say to you in his letter that you might have to get used to the idea of being seriously rich.’

  I nodded to my friends. ‘But we only have a couple more months to work it all out. Or we lose the lot. It goes to “the Crown”. This is our last chance to keep it in the Ormond family. We have to get the Riddle and the Jewel back. We have to get into Zürich Bank.’ I looked to Boges, hopefully.

  ‘The print is almost ready,’ he said, pausing to yawn. ‘Give me another couple of days.’

  76 days to go …

  Sheldrake Rathbone was out of the way, so we’d been focusing all of our energy on Oriana and our bank bust. This morning Boges had called to tell me he’d perfected the fingerprint, which was awesome news, but we still had a lot to work out before we could try using it. We still needed to successfully make it in and out. And, above all, we needed Oriana’s PIN.

  Winter and I were sharing surveillance shifts. Yesterday, Winter had posted herself at the bank, watching how people went in and out. If a client wanted to access the bank vaults, she watched how they paused at the scanner, pressing their fingerprint, waiting the few seconds until the physical barrier—two strong steel doors—released and they were allowed through.

  It was during my surveillance shift that the dark blue Mercedes pulled up outside the bank. I scuttled over the road with Boges’s bike and watched from the park opposite. Oriana clawed her way out of the passenger seat, stood up, adjusted her white suit jacket, and smoothed down her skirt. Her flame of red hair was high, as usual, and her outfit was questionable, but immaculate. Her purple glasses sat atop her superior nose. Cyril the Sumo—who was looking rounder than ever—bounded over to her and walked beside her up the stairs and through the automatic glass doors of Zürich Bank. How she walked in those high heels, I had no idea.

  I padlocked the bike and helmet and crossed the road. Keeping my face turned away from the security cameras, I followed her into the bank, pretending to take an interest in the pamphlets on student accounts. I swiftly pulled out my phone, switched on the video mode, and pressed record.

  Carefully I filmed her, capturing her movements and her style. Once inside the bank’s double glass doors, she swept straight over to the biometric scanner, pressed her forefinger over the sensitive area, barely waiting for the steel doors to open before disappearing through them. She didn’t pause once to take off her sunglasses.

  In only a couple of minutes, Oriana and Sumo reappeared in the bank foyer, talking with a clerk. Oriana’s voice was so loud and intense, it was like she was commanding everyone’s attention.

  I quickly pocketed my phone, ducked out the front doors and down the stairs, then across the road to my bike. I unlock
ed it, jumped on and started pedalling, heading for the corner. I was half-steering, half-pulling my helmet on when I collided with someone.

  Down we crashed—me, the bike and the guy, as well as the three cardboard boxes he was carrying. The boxes spilled open and scattered their contents everywhere.

  I twisted my legs out of the pedals and on all fours I began gathering up the stuff that had spilled—magazines, buttons, key rings …

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ I began, ‘I didn’t see you coming.’

  ‘You!’ he grizzled. ‘I knew I’d bump into you again somewhere! Haven’t you done enough damage to my property already?’

  I looked up the skinny legs and folded arms in a too-short green suit, to find two big possum eyes staring into mine.

  ‘Repro! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you!’

  I pulled my helmet off and quickly gathered up the rest of the bits and pieces that were strewn all over the footpath.

  ‘I thought I was rid of you,’ he said, as I stacked up the last of his boxes. ‘And here you are, popping up again, or should I say, crashing into my world again! Quick,’ he said, practically dragging me around the next corner and down an alley.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked tentatively. ‘Where have you been staying?’

  He shook his head at me and let out a big, frustrated sigh. He heaped two of the boxes on the front of my bike, so that he was left with just one in his own arms. ‘Follow me.’

  Repro’s new place was like an oversized, abandoned shed. It was less than ideal. For a start, there was no way to hide the front door and there were dozens of gaps in the roof and holes in the walls. I noticed the photo of his mother was hanging from a nail in the cracked wall. Her half smile seemed strangely familiar.

  ‘You can’t go on living here,’ I said. ‘This place must leak every time it rains. All your papers and journals would turn into papier-mâché.’