Paul entered and stood in the centre of the sitting room, hands on his hips. He was a trimmer version of the one revealed to the viewing masses on television a year earlier. Linked on one arm was an elderly woman, blushing brightly and dressed in a floral print dress that trailed to the ground. On the other side, handcuffing both arms around his was a tall woman in her forties, with a golden tan and high cheekbones.
“I would say welcome, but of course, you did live here most of your life!” the woman joked. “I was thinking for the opening segment, maybe a tour of the apartment?”
“That won’t take long,” Paul replied.
The woman laughed, and backed further into the room, pointing the camera man to a corner. She looked around, seeing the new residents of the apartment. They nodded hey’s. A few others had gathered. Friends, well-wishers, admirers, ex-neighbours. The list was a long one.
“We’ll need to clear the room out before we get started,” she said to a man at the front of the small group, who then began to herd people outside until they were alone with the Byrd’s.
“Again, thanks for taking the time Paul. And of course, Ms Byrd and Suzanne.” They politely nodded, so she continued. “The interest, well…I don’t need to tell you how much this has caught fire in the last twelve months. Our viewers would love to get an update, find out more about the person…I mean…”
“That’s OK,” the pretty, manicured woman said. “Paul is the star of the show. You don’t need to butter us up.”
The reporter smiled, thankful for the woman’s diplomacy.
“Let’s get started then.”
*
The camera didn’t need to do a panoramic view of the bedroom. Standing in the corner by the doorway, the full scene was captured in one still. The cameraman on instruction took another shot, sitting on the bed to angle up at the other two people in the room, standing in the doorway.
“Humble beginnings,” the interviewer said. “And did you ever think all those months ago, when you were living in this box room, that you’d become this internet sensation?”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. A grin tugged on the side of his face as he spoke.
“Listen, everyone’s got to start somewhere. I just did something that anyone else would do. Just so happened someone recorded it. If they didn’t, I might not be here.”
“Yes,” she said, “but I think what most people are so impressed by – actually we’ve received hundreds of emails and letters in the past year confirming it – is that your selfless generosity and eagerness to help just seems so…” Paul was happy to wait for her to find the right superlative. “…rare.”
“I do the best I can. I’ve been lucky.”
“Rescuing people from road accidents, saving children from burning houses…first responder at the scene of the terrible plane crash in Lyttlewood…The list goes on. You seem to have this uncanny knack of being in the right place at the right time. What do you say to the critics who believe that you’re cursed and bad luck follows you everywhere you go?”
The camera panned up to Paul and zoomed closer.
“If having a beachfront house, a beautiful girlfriend, the love and support of millions of fans around the world through my social network – if that is being cursed, then I guess the jokes on me.”
“And, cut it there. Perfect!” The reporter faced the camera man, received a nod before he set the camera onto his lap. “How we looking?”
“We’re good.”
“Can we do a final piece with the three of you?” she asked, turning to Paul. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“I think we have all we need here,” she said and summoned the camera man back to his feet. “Let’s tie up the entrance segment and shoot from there.”
The two women were sitting in silence in the living room when they entered. The younger one leapt from her chair, stepping quickly over to Paul and planting a kiss on his cheek. He smiled and looked across the room to his mother. He could only see the back of her head, but it was tilted toward the TV set. The new tenants had a smaller portable, not much bigger than their own before this new chapter in their life began. He watched as his mother’s hand stroked the armchair rest where the remote would have been.
“OK Ma,” he called out. “Nearly done.”
The front door was open when they went through the hallway. The cameraman was already in position in the building corridor. A few people had organised around the spiral stairwell which looped all the way down to the ground floor. Some took out phones and began snapping. Paul and the two women took instruction from the reporter who darted back and forth to the camera and adjusted their position.
“Think we’re about ready. OK ladies?”
The girlfriend nodded so vigorously her head threatened to fall off. The reporter angled her body away from the camera so only her microphone was visible in shot. She passed it initially under the younger woman’s chin. Speaking sideways out of her mouth, the cameraman got the go ahead and hit record.
“Suzanne, what a whirlwind year for everyone, not least yourself. Having experienced fame as a model in your own right in the noughties, what advice would you give Paul?”
“Noughties! I’m starting to feel old now!” She fanned her hair back and flashed a flawless white smile. “He’s his own boss and doesn’t need much advice from me. I just knew he was the one when I saw him on your show. He’s got such a good heart and as long as he continues to follow it, then it can only lead to bigger and better things.”
She turned her head and looked at him, reaching for his hands, holding them in her own.
“There’s something I’d like to do,” Paul broke in, surprising the reporter.
She moved back slightly, instructing the cameraman to zoom out to get the shot of three.
“I know it’s soon, but I’ve dreamed of meeting my soulmate for a long time. God, I even had a photo of you hanging on my door!”
The camera dipped to catch Paul struggle to bend down on one knee. There were a few audible gasps. A little shriek of excitement left the woman’s mouth. She moved her hands quickly to her face to contain her delight.
“Will you Suzanne Sheedy do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
She nodded quickly and hauled him to his feet where they kissed flush on the lips. The reporter stepped across, holding the mic toward Paul’s mother.
“You must be a very proud mother Ms. Byrd?”
The fragile woman felt the stare of the camera and the room upon her. She looked to the microphone pointed in her face, to the beaming face of the woman behind it and then around the room.
“I…” The reporter nodded, prompting her to find the words for a fitting finale. “I don’t feel well.”
The camera followed the little woman as she staggered over to the elevator door and pressed the button. Paul sliced himself off his fiancée in time to see the twin doors open. His mother placed a foot inside. It didn’t touch the floor. With horror, the group watched as the momentum carried her forward into the empty elevator shaft. Paul leapt toward the elevator, arms desperately reaching as he slid across the floor. He caught an ankle. The weight pulled his arm and torso down. Dangling over the threshold, he could see the black void pulling the body of his mother downward. Her ankle was slowly slipping from his grip. He couldn’t get enough leverage from the doorway to pull. Panicked voices were overhead, but the quiet echo of his mother in the shaft spoke loudest.
“Goodbye son.”
Even as she slipped from his grasp, he reached down into the void in one final, desperate lunge.
The camera captured the moment as Paul Byrd followed his mother, plunging headfirst into the shaft and certain death.
Return to Sender
A man in dirty overalls is leaning on his shovel, surveying the scene. It’s been an hour since the funeral service ended, and he reckoned those that attended were probably on their third round of sandwiches and coffee. The thought makes his stomach growl. Befo
re he knows it, the sheath of hard muscle stretched across his shoulder blades has also awoken. Tensing. Keen to get started.
He looks around the graveyard. A few people are dotted here and there, most almost fit for the pit themselves. Except for the man standing over the fresh hole. A pretty blonde woman appears from the sides and approaches him. They stand quietly beside one other. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her near. She has her head dipped. Even from where he’s standing, the digger can see from the trembles that the woman – probably the widow – is crying hard.
She suddenly breaks off. They hug, and then she opens a handbag. He watches her remove something from it. As it passes between them, the digger gets a closer look at it. A glass triangular block. It’s covered up when the man pivots around and faces the open grave. The woman is already gone by the time he looks back.
The grave digger stands tall, rolling his shoulders up and around in a circular motion. As he slowly walks across the lawn, the man at the open grave bends down. It looks like he’s about to toss the object inside. Instead, he holds it up to the light.
“You don’t mind if I make a start mate?” The crouched man doesn’t seem to hear. It’s as if he sees something in the glass prism – the way the low hanging sun catches the glass edge. There is a band of light which shines through it, reflected onto the man’s own glasses as he holds it in the air. “Mate?”
Suddenly, senses return to the crouched man. He rises to his feet, dusts off the knee of his trousers and apologises, presenting a nervous smile to the digger.
“Din’t know if you wanted to throw it in. Some like to share something, you know, with the deceased.” The man follow’s the diggers gaze. He raises the object in his hand to waist height as if measuring its weight. The digger watches him look from the block to the open mouth of the grave.
“Last chance,” he repeats and stabs the shovel deep into the soil heap beside the opening. Stephen Breagal extends his arm, six feet above the lid of Paul Byrd’s coffin. The block fits nicely on his palm and he uncurls his fingers around it to take one last look. Slowly, he begins to tilt his palm sideways. The block inches across his hand. Closer to the hole. Closer to its owner. Unless. His hand stops turning.
The digger looks at him and wonders if it is the first time he’s ever seen someone smile at an open grave.
THE END
Authors Note | Bonus
You made it! I sincerely hope that you enjoyed reading ‘Crystal Clear’ as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you did, I would be humbled and eternally grateful if you took a minute to write a short review on Amazon. It really helps self-published authors like myself to get discovered and reach more people.
You can do so on these channels:
Amazon UK
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Amazon India
Readers of my debut novel will recognise Stephen Breagal in this novella. His story continues in the science fiction thriller, Pathfinders.
You can visit my website or Amazon author page (US, UK) to find out more about my short stories and novels or alternatively subscribe to my newsletter for (infrequent!) updates, competitions and more freebies.
Table of Contents
Barrymore
Finders Keepers
Front Page News
Trick of Light
Call to Attention
The First Vision
Quids In
Bubbly
Beagle
Leading the Chase
Stone Unturned
Celebrity
Return to Sender
Authors Note | Bonus
Crystal Clear Page 4
