Wasp Season

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Clambering with difficulty to his feet, he looked around, fearing that Jason might be lurking somewhere nearby. After a cursory search, it was clear that he was all alone in the flat. Anxious to get out of there, he checked his usual pocket for his car keys. They were missing. Not to worry, he thought. He always kept a spare set hidden in a magnetic key holder under the car. But when he went outside, he found his car missing as well. Damn! Jason’s car was still in the driveway. Maybe he could find its keys in the apartment, and maybe some aspirin for his head? Returning inside, Mark began to search the kitchen. The television droned on in the lounge room. Irritated by the noise, he went in to turn it off, but he couldn’t find the remote control. He was in the process of searching for it under cushions, when the news headlines came on.

  “ ..and a man who died yesterday in a single car collision has been identified as Mark York, son of prominent C.E.O. of the Trans National Banking Corporation, Robert York. Mr. York died when he lost control of his car yesterday afternoon and hit a pylon. The car was engulfed in flames. Police are investigating the circumstances of the accident. More news at nine o’clock.”

  Mark turned around to look at the screen. He recognised the scene; a nearby intersection. Footage showed the burnt-out shell of a still smouldering sports car, wrapped around a steel pylon. He sat down as the news sunk in. Jason had stolen his car and crashed it. What’s more, he was dead. Mark was stunned. How would he ever prove his innocence now? The true culprit was gone, and he could expect no cooperation from Helen.

  Finding the remote, he switched channels, searching for a morning news show. Then he went into the kitchen, took some headache tablets, made a large, strong mug of coffee, and sat down on the couch. In a few minutes another report came on. But to his horror, this time he was referred to as, “ …. the body, burnt beyond recognition, has been positively identified as Mark York, currently facing charges of embezzlement.”

  What! Charges of embezzlement? Mark’s mind reeled in shock. He hadn’t even had a chance to tell his side of the story. Overwhelmed, he lay down on the couch, trying to absorb the events of the past twenty four hours.

  Slowly it occurred to him that since everybody thought he’d died in the crash, no one would be looking for him. He began to relax and a plan started to form. He experimented with following the bizarre situation through to its natural conclusion. Firstly, the police investigation would be called off following the death of the major suspect. Secondly, the fraudulent transaction would be reversed. He was sure the firm could swing that, thereby satisfying the clients and avoiding a major scandal. What would happen next? He carefully thought things through.

  Beth would be devastated of course. His next impulse was to call her to reassure her that he was safe. But he contained himself, thinking he’d better finish exploring all possible scenarios, before he revealed to anybody that he was alive.

  Helen. Well she’d be happy. Until she found her new boyfriend had gone and got himself killed. But then she wouldn’t know, would she? It would be just as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth. Mark continued to play-out the likely events in his mind. He supposed that next, they would have a funeral. Then they would settle his estate. He realised that he had not thought to change his will since moving in with Helen. Everything was still to go to Beth and the kids, even his substantial life insurance. Good, he thought. Helen would receive nothing except the house, and without the means to keep up the mortgage payments, she’d have to sell that. He certainly didn’t want her living in the lap of luxury in his home.

  Now Beth. Well, she was set to gain an enormous financial advantage if he died. …It was obvious. He would stay dead. For some reason he failed to realise the insanity of this plan. His break with reality was almost complete. Mark had no doubt that Beth, with a little convincing, would comply with the plan. However he decided not to tell her of his survival just yet. Being so honest, she might find it difficult to act out the charade without support. Best to wait until they could be together. It pained him to allow her to suffer such grief, but it wouldn’t be for long. Mark imagined her surprise and delight, when he eventually revealed that he was alive. But for now, he would lie low.

  Turning the volume of the television down, he closed the curtains in every room. Finding some keys in the kitchen, he managed to deadlock the doors, set the burglar alarm, and even lower the steel shutters over the windows. Mark was impressed. Jason was obviously very security conscious. The place was like a fortress. The flat was also well provisioned with everything Mark might need for a few days. The perfect hideout. Mark noted the fresh flowers, and the champagne and chocolates in the fridge. He explored a little, discovering candles in the bedroom, and a freshly-painted spare room, sporting nursery friezes and soft toys. He found great satisfaction in the knowledge that Jason would not be playing Happy Families with Helen and Chance.

  A third room was set up as a kind of office. Judging by the amount of impressive, state of the art I.T. equipment, it was clear that Jason was a bit of a computer nut. This confirmed Mark’s suspicions that the dead man was almost certainly responsible for hacking-in to his accounts. He sat down at the desk and encountered no problems accessing Jason’s computer. Living alone meant Jason hadn’t bothered to set-up passwords.

  He surprised himself by first going to the York family web page, set up by his mother as a blog and a calendar of upcoming family events. Mark had never actually visited the site before. Nothing like a death in the family to bring people together, he thought. Bizarrely, he found a moving, personal tribute to himself penned by his father. An uncomfortable knot formed in Mark’s stomach, as he read his father’s words of pride and grief. Some of it surprised him.

  “I profoundly regret that over recent years, I may not have adequately expressed to Mark how much he meant to me. It was my intention to rectify this situation, and to forge a closer bond in the near future. There will forever remain a wretched vacancy in my heart, knowing that I left it too late. To those of Mark’s friends and family that are left behind, do not repeat my folly. Shower those dear to you with your love, today and always. I would trade all my worldly goods, for the opportunity to tell my son that I love him, I value him and I am proud of him. God willing I will have that opportunity when I too meet my maker. Till then, may the Lord bless him and keep him, and have mercy on his soul.”

  It was such an unfamiliar feeling, as tears welled in Mark’s eyes. He experienced an overwhelming desire to talk to his Dad; to tell him that he wanted it too, this closer bond. That he’d always found it hard to express his feelings, that the pressure of getting ahead left him little time to spend cementing family relationships. Like father, like son, he thought bitterly to himself. He looked around for a phone and, had he found one, would have used it. But there was no landline in the flat and he couldn’t seem to find his mobile.

  The moment soon passed. Within a few minutes Mark thought better of it. His original plan was best after all. With a firm grip on his emotions he returned to reading the computer screen. There were details of his funeral arrangements. How peculiar to read them!

  A knock on the door startled him. He held his breath, staying very still and quiet, hoping that the visitor would leave. The intermittent knocking carried on for a long time. Then Mark heard noises from the side of the house. He jumped at a sharp rap on the window directly in front of him. Then he heard Helen’s voice. Whatever would he do if she had a key?

  “Jason, are you in there? Please Jason. Answer the door!”

  More frantic knocking.

  “Jason. What’s wrong? Answer the door.” A pause. “Mark’s dead. I need to talk to you. Answer the door. PLEASE! I know you’re in there.”

  Half an hour passed, without Mark seeming to move a muscle. Eventually the knocking and calling ceased. Quietly, he sneaked down the hall to the front door and raised the shutters a fraction, just in time to see Helen’s car drive off. A note was stuffed under the door.

  “Jason,


  Mark was killed in a car crash yesterday. They were going to charge him with embezzlement. The police even think that maybe it was suicide. But they still seem suspicious. They came and took his computer away this morning. They don’t know about you. I think that we should stay away from each other for a while, till everything calms down. I’m sorry, but I think it’s for the best. I hope you’re O.K.

  Love Helen.”

  So, thought Mark. Helen’s giving Jason the old heave ho. She probably imagined that she’d clean up on both the life insurance and the estate, and didn’t much feel like sharing. Mark even felt a moment of brief sympathy for the man who’d been so fatally used. But it was fleeting. The pain of the false accusations was too raw, not to mention the little issue of the affair with his girlfriend, oh, and the punch in the guts. No. The bastard deserved to suffer, even die, for what he did. It seemed to Mark as if some universal force was serving out justice, and who was he to argue?

  CHAPTER 29

  Helen arrived back home. Chance was at daycare, so she was alone. Her injured cheek throbbed with pain. The heavy make-up she’d applied to hide the bruising was coming off, as the hot morning made her sweat. It revealed her face, purple and swollen. Confused and unsure, she went into the office, to e-mail Jason. They needed to get their stories straight. But when she got in there she remembered the computers had all been taken away by the police. She couldn’t phone or text him. When she’d tried to earlier, his ring tone sounded from behind the printer on Mark’s desk, where he’d accidentally left his mobile. Thank goodness she had found it before the police did.

  The doorbell rang. Maybe it was Jason? Helen opened the door hopefully, to find Steven Gray, Mark’s senior partner, standing there. He introduced himself, all the while staring rudely at the young woman’s battered face. Helen blushed, although it was not noticeable through the bruising. She invited him into the living room, suddenly wishing she was wearing something more appropriate than a skimpy sundress.

  Firstly, Mr. Gray extended his and the firm’s deepest condolences for her loss. Next he sought her agreement to allow the discreet reversal of the fraudulent transactions, thereby avoiding a scandal and allowing the firm to protect its reputation. Helen provided Mr. Gray with the necessary security codes out of the safe; the same ones she’d given to Jason twenty-four hours earlier. He explained to the relieved young woman that the police were willing to curtail their investigations in the light of Mark’s death, and providing that the funds were returned. Mr. Gray even told Helen that the firm intended to deposit a generous sum of money into her account in thanks for her cooperation, and to help with funeral and other testamentary expenses. Helen was very grateful. As he rose to leave, Mr. Gray gave her a comforting embrace. His arms lingered a little too long around her bare shoulders. She pulled free and hurriedly went to open the front door to see him out.

  Helen was disgusted, not with Mr. Gray, but with herself. What sort of a person was she? With a flash of insight it occurred to her that her whole life she had depended on men to fulfil her needs. Be it happiness, or security, or status, or money or even revenge – couldn’t she do anything for herself? Her dependent plans always backfired anyway. After all, where were the men in her life now? Where was her father? Where was Mark? Where was Jason? Where was Konrad?

  Konrad! She realised that she had heard nothing from her old friend since yesterday. Helen tried to phone him, but only succeeded in reaching his message bank. Impatient to talk to him, she jumped in her car and drove to his address, an old housing commission apartment block. She climbed a short flight of stairs and stood knocking at his weathered front door. A voice from above sung out. Helen looked up to see an elderly woman peering down from an upper balcony.

  “That’ll do you no good Luv. He packed up and left last night.”

  “I don’t understand?” stammered Helen.

  “Said he’d come into a bit of money, and wanted to visit his daughter in Sydney. Didn’t even leave a forwarding address, and me and him’ve been friends for years. You never can tell about people, can you?”

  “No,” sighed Helen. “You never can tell.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The day of Mark’s funeral dawned hot and humid, with an ominous sky. Beth gazed out of the window at the heavy, grey clouds moving eastwards against the backdrop of mountains. Often lately, there’d been the promise of relief from the prolonged dry, only for the storm clouds to pass, without dropping their burden of rain. A European wasp landed on the window sill. It was large and brightly coloured, clearly a queen. The wasp looked like Zenandra, but logic told her that was impossible. One of her royal daughters then? This too seemed unlikely, considering the scale of the destruction wrought on the nest. Beth shuddered. Her sadness threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Mum, I can’t do up the button on these trousers.”

  Her reverie interrupted, Beth finished gently supervising her children as they dressed. Rick’s mood was good, almost upbeat, as she coaxed him into black pants, and a shirt with a button-down collar. The reality of his Dad’s death had not yet really hit Rick. Used to not seeing Mark for weeks at a time, the day-to-day rhythms of the child’s life remained largely unaffected by his father’s passing. Beth feared that when the truth hit home, Rick would take it very badly.

  Sarah, on the other hand, was only too aware of the finality of her loss. She’d been teary and quiet since the news, missing not only her father, but Helen and Chance as well. Many times she’d wanted to ask her mother if she’d still be able to see her little brother, but she was reluctant to raise the subject, afraid that she might hurt Beth’s feelings. Her mother seemed particularly fragile and distracted at the moment. Sarah hated the idea of going to the funeral, fearing she’d be unable to manage her emotions. However she kept her anxieties to herself.

  Beth too had given some thought to Helen. She phoned her on the day after Mark’s death, and found the younger woman surprisingly open to the call. The tragic news seemed to have changed her. No longer absorbed in the games she usually played, Helen was almost reflective. She talked of her fears about raising a child alone, and asked Beth about her experience as a single parent. Beth wondered if this meant that her handsome young lover was out of the picture, or else not committed to Helen and her son? Anyway, it was a pleasant change to be able relate in an honest and open way with the girl. Beth had been concerned that Helen might fall apart without Mark. On the contrary, his death seemed to have made her stronger. Beth noticed they were running a little behind schedule. She looked at herself in the mirror. A simple black suit, teamed with a black pill-box hat and a little veil. It would do. Calling the children, they all climbed in the car to begin the long, sad drive to the inner-city church.

  Vanessa and Robert York were also preparing for the funeral. Vanessa was already dressed in a demure Yves St. Laurent ensemble, purchased especially for the occasion. Robert remained out on the balcony, staring at the ocean. He was a tall, imposing figure, still handsome despite his grey hair and advancing years. But he stood now with an uncharacteristically bowed head. Since his son’s death he’d sunk into a deep malaise.

  “Robert, do come in, dear. It’s time to dress.” He remained unmoved. Making a little tut, tut sound under her breath, Vanessa went out and physically guided him back inside the house. She laid his clothes out before him, all the while making soothing, encouraging noises, as one might do for a young child. Robert turned to her and gave her a desperate look, as if beseeching her to make everything alright. Vanessa always seemed able to fix things. But this time, she was helpless. Taking his large head tenderly in her hands, she kissed him.

  “Please get dressed, dear. The driver will be here precisely at twelve. You want everything to go smoothly, don’t you, dear?”

  He nodded, and with an enormous sigh, began to dress.

  Vanessa was confused and disturbed by her husband’s depression. She had never seen him like this before. After all, he and Mark were never close, not since their
son was a child. It was she who’d guided and formed her son’s character, insisting he studied at the top university in the state and organising for him to be inducted into one of the finest accounting firms in the country. Robert on the other hand had never been properly focused on Mark’s future. He’d even, irresponsibly Vanessa felt, encouraged his son’s brief interest in unsuitable pursuits such as music and architecture. If it wasn’t for her, Mark would never have achieved the success and respect that he did. Yes. Touching as it was to see Robert display his sentimental side, it was time for him to pull himself together. It had not been easy to organise the funeral and reception without Robert’s help. Although, even if she did say so herself, she’d done a sterling job of it. The London Yorks were flying in, and a Who’s Who of the uptown financial sector were attending. Vanessa was thrilled to learn that a High Court judge would even be there. Apparently Mark had discreetly managed his personal tax affairs for years. Well done Mark! Yes. The least they could do for their only child was to give him a fitting send-off. Relieved to see that Robert was finally getting ready, she hurried downstairs to ring the church. She prayed that the liliums and lisianthus had arrived. The florist suggested substituting roses, but they were so passé.

  A suburb away, Helen dressed a sleepy Chance in his new outfit. Little black gabardine overalls, a tiny white linen shirt and a matching black jacket. She was grateful for the advice of the lady at the department store. He looked so cute. As the piece de resistance, she fitted a little elasticised bowtie around his neck, and tried to fasten tiny black, patent leather booties onto his pudgy baby feet. This was not a great success. Chance managed to regularly remove either the left or right shoe. Triumphantly bringing it to his mouth, he then used it as a teething-ring.