by Kane, Paul
‘But hearing and believing are two different things.’
‘I suppose they are…1, 2, 3…and then you came along.’
Josh tipped his head, slightly embarrassed, before looking up at her again. ‘Then I came along,’ he said.
She told him about everything she’d been through, about how her mother had been forced to (3, 1, 2) hire private tutors to (3, 1, 2) teach her because she couldn’t get Michelle to (3, 1, 2) school – any kind of school. Couldn’t get her to (3, 1, 2) go out of the front door. For her the outside world was like a minefield, an overwhelming barrage of things to (3, 1, 2) do three (1, 2, 3) times, times a million. Panic would set in before she even got to (3, 1, 2) the gates of the old house, the numbers coming out as incomprehensible drivel. It wouldn’t be long after this that she’d enter a catatonic state, collapse or pass out – probably all three (1, 2, 3). The oblivion that this offered was actually quite nice; it was like when she took her sleeping tablets.
‘Mother used to…3, 1, 2…try and get the neighbourhood children to…3, 1, 2…come round and play,’ Michelle told him. ‘But you can imagine what that was like, can’t you? Who wants to…3, 1, 2…play with a kid who keeps getting up and down off the settee or is counting the cushions over and over again? And children can be very cruel.’
As a result she’d never really had any friends, nobody willing to (3, 1, 2) stick around. Nobody willing to (3, 1, 2) try and understand. But then how could she expect them to (3, 1, 2), when she didn’t really understand herself?
‘What if we were to go back further than that?’ Josh had said to (3, 1, 2) her eventually. ‘Can you remember anything about your early childhood?’
‘Numbers,’ Michelle had replied. Always the numbers. ‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3.’ She knew what he was driving at. When did all this start? But at the time she couldn’t honestly tell him. All she’d ever known was the numbers and the counting. Her unique way of viewing what she saw around her.
‘Yes, numbers. But what else?’ Those expectant eyes, she didn’t want to (3, 1, 2) disappoint him. Not Josh.
‘Stories. Mother trying to…3, 1, 2…read to…3, 1, 2…me; folktales mostly.’
And Josh had come back with something totally unexpected then. ‘I see. Michelle, did you know that a lot of the old folktales had threes in them?’
‘1, 2, 3… No.’
‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears. The Three Pigs. Red Riding Hood when she confronts the wolf at the end of the story: Gramma, one…’ Josh held up a finger. ‘What big eyes you’ve got. Two…’ Another finger. ‘What big ears you’ve got – and we all know what happened when she got to the teeth!’ A third finger rose and he closed his fist. ‘The fact is they mostly followed patterns connected with threes.’
‘Oh,’ said Michelle. ‘My favourite was always the one…2, 3, 1…where the handsome prince would come to…3, 1, 2…the secluded castle to…3, 1, 2…save the damsel in distress. I liked that one…2, 3, 1.’ She gazed at him and he grinned.
‘You mean like Sleeping Beauty?’
Michelle nodded, still mouthing the numbers.
‘One day you’ll wake up, Michelle. I promise.’ And then they’d moved on to (3, 1, 2) another topic.
It was amazing really, but until Josh had mentioned the ‘threes’ Michelle had never really thought about how so many sayings in life were related that way. Third time lucky, bad things always happening in threes, letting the phone ring three (1, 2, 3) times before answering.
Father, Son and the Holy Ghost…
‘You never talk much about your father.’ That was how the conversation began.
Michelle had been stirring her coffee at the time. Round three (1, 2, 3) times, stop, then round again. She’d been doing that for the last fifteen minutes. Josh knew her well enough to (3, 1, 2) realise that any moment now she’d take it out and start tapping it on the side of the cup: three (1, 2, 3) times, over and over. The coffee would be stone cold by now. She said nothing by way of a reply.
‘Your records say he died when you were very young, Michelle.’
‘My records,’ she snapped. ‘Is that all I am? Is that what I’m made up of, a set of files in some office?’ A set of files in triplicate.
It was a reflex action, and a diversionary tactic. ‘You know that’s not true. Why are you trying to change the subject?’
‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…I’m not.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘Who?’
‘Your father.’
The spoon came out of the cup and Michelle initiated the tapping. ‘There’s nothing to…3, 1, 2…tell. He died, end of story.’
Except it wasn’t, was it? It was only the beginning of the story.
Josh leaned over the dining room table they were sitting at. ‘Did you love him?’
‘What kind of a question is that?’ Michelle tapped the spoon harder against the rim of the cup.
‘The kind you’re not answering.’
She looked down at the spoon and the cup. The tapping had slowed considerably. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘It was a long time ago, but yes. I loved him very much.’
‘What are your fondest memories of him, Michelle?’
Looking up, she searched his face. ‘I don’t…’
Josh took her free hand, the one (2, 3, 1) not tapping the spoon. ‘Think back. You can do this, I know you can.’
And she did. She cast her mind back to (3, 1, 2) a time when she’d been happy. Big, strong hands lifting her up into (3, 1, 2) the air and Michelle giggling with glee. Riding on his shoulders through a park or wood, somewhere green at least. A family day out, a picnic maybe… Michelle wasn’t sure. But there was water, she remembered a river, and the sun. A sun she’d rarely seen, a heat she’d rarely felt against her skin in almost twenty two (3, 1, 2) years. She could hear the birds in the trees, see the dappled light filtering through the leaves.
The spoon was hardly connecting with the cup at all. ‘He was so proud of me,’ Michelle said. ‘I was his little Button. He kept talking about all the things I would do, places I’d go…and how clever I was. He was even teaching me—’ She froze, began tapping the spoon faster against the rim.
Josh squeezed Michelle’s hand tighter. ‘Tell me, Michelle. What happened to him?’
There were tears in her eyes, still caught there, trapped. But it wouldn’t be long before they broke free and ran down her cheeks. ‘People. Pictures of people. Pictures of animals…and shapes…’
Josh frowned. ‘I…I don’t understand, Michelle.’
‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3. All the way through. One person, two people, three…one cat, two dogs, three birds. One square, two circles, three triangles.’ Michelle reeled off the list like a mantra.
‘Is this how you first started to look at the world around you?’
‘One person, two people, three…one cat, two dogs…’ she repeated.
‘What’s the connection to your father, Michelle? You have to tell me. It’s important.’
Michelle shook her head and carried on chanting.
Josh squeezed her hand even tighter and something seemed to (3, 1, 2) click inside her head. ‘Tell me,’ he whispered.
When she spoke again, it was staggered, as if it was painful to (3, 1, 2) get the words out. ‘In…the…book.’
It took a second or so for realisation to (3, 1, 2) dawn on Josh. ‘My God, the people, the animals, the shapes – they were in a book. Michelle, was your father teaching you to count?’
‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…’ Michelle was tapping the spoon so hard it chipped the side of the cup.
‘So you were learning to count from a book that you father gave you?’ The pictures, the numbers. It certainly explained why she’d started to (3, 1, 2) make those links. Why Michelle had begun to (3, 1, 2) break everything in life down to (3, 1, 2) those three (1, 2, 3) little digits. But not why she’d carried on counting, and the same numbers over and over. Josh pressed her, even though he could see she was upset. ‘Miche
lle, what happened to your father?’
‘Daddy…Daddy…Daddy!’
‘Something happened to him, didn’t it?’
‘Phone…three…1, 2, 3…rings,’ Michelle spluttered. Then one word: ‘Hospital.’
‘What were you doing when the phone rang, Michelle? Were you reading from the book? Were you counting?’
‘1, Daddy told me 2 practice and never…3.’
‘Never stop?’ Josh asked. ‘Is that why you carried on counting, because he wasn’t around to tell you to stop? You felt you had to carry on after he died, to finish what he started?’
She shook her head. ‘No…1, 2, 3… No!’
‘I’m here, Michelle, you can tell me.’
So she did.
Now, as she crossed the carpet and remembered what she’d shared with Josh, what she’d allowed herself to (3, 1, 2) dredge up not so long ago, the tears came again. The splintering of the cup as she knocked it off the table. Josh holding her as she wept. And one (2, 3, 1) final thing: a kiss on the forehead, just like her father used to (3, 1, 2) give her.
She remembered what he’d said as well: ‘Sleeping Beauty, it’s time to wake up.’
Michelle hadn’t done that immediately. It had been a slow waking, but with Josh’s help in the two (3, 1, 2) weeks since she’d opened up, she’d begun to (3, 1, 2) see things a little more clearly. Begun to (3, 1, 2) realise that maybe it was time and that even though she was still following the patterns right now, perhaps she could turn the tide. Give herself permission to (3, 1, 2) be free of this prison forever. She wanted to (3, 1, 2) be able to (3, 1, 2) cook Josh a meal to (3, 1, 2) say thank you, to (3, 1, 2) go outside and see the sun properly again. Walk through dappled forests again, perhaps hand in hand with the man who’d done so much for her.
Could she simply just stop, though, after all this time? After all these years of counting…1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…? Michelle was so set in her ways, stuck in this rut.
Sleeping beauty, it’s time to wake up.
Time to (3, 1, 2) leave the kingdom behind for someone else to (3, 1, 2) rule.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Josh had said. He was the one who’d made her understand. It was just a coincidence; that’s all it was. Just a coincidence.
Michelle wasn’t far away from the living room door now. It would take her another five minutes at least – 1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3 – or she could cover the distance in a matter of moments. Her choice, her decision.
‘1, 2, 3…’
Enough.
‘1, 2, 3…’
Enough.
‘1, 2…’
Enough!
All was quiet. Michelle stood perfectly still, hardly daring to move. It was as if she’d forced time to do the same, frozen until it saw what her next move would be. Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes, she placed a foot on the carpet. Then another, and another. No counting. No 1, 2, 3. Just walking normally, something other people took for granted. She had a bit of a wobbly moment after the third step – instinctively she wanted to take her foot back, to repeat the motion, do the steps again. But she held fast, carrying on to the door and placing a hand on the jamb for support. She opened her eyes and breathed deeply. It might seem like nothing much to anyone else, but for her it was a small victory. The beginning of a new life perhaps.
Briiiinnnggg-briiiiiing…
Michelle jumped, turning sideways to look at the hall table, her heart suddenly in her mouth. God, it was only…
Only—
Bad things always happening in threes…
In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost…
Amen…
Briiiinnnggg-briiiiiing…
Michelle bit her lip. She should answer it, should just pick it up and dispel her demons once and for all. Except…except she knew who it would be. What it would be about. What had happened, again. She’d abandoned her duties, her responsibilities, and now the kingdom was falling apart without her.
Let it ring one more time, a third time. Just let it ring.
She wondered what she would do now without him.
No, maybe it’s not too late?
Briiiinnnggg-briiiiiing…
…3…
1, 2, 3, 1, 2… Not too (3, 1, 2) late, to (3, 1, 2) save him. She’d only stopped for a little while.
Crying, Michelle picked up the receiver. Counting all the time under her breath.
1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…
1, 2, 3…1…
2…
3.
The Greatest Mystery
My dear and faithful reader. It is only now that I am able to recount the truly shocking events of what I firmly believe to be my dearest friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes’ greatest ever mystery. Upon first reading these words, you may feel my claim is somewhat of an exaggeration. What about the case of the Baskerville Hound, you might ask, quite possibly his most famous adventure to date? What about his entanglements with the evil Professor Moriarty (the merest mention of which will later have great significance, I can assure you)? But I have faithfully chronicled the master detective’s cases over the years and I can categorically attest to the validity of my statement. I alone was witness to its eventual outcome and, once you have finished this offering, I feel certain that you too will agree about the choice of its title. I can also promise that while I have been taken to task in the past for what Holmes called my embellishment of these accounts – the addition of, to quote the man himself, ‘colour and…life’ (the latter an irony, as you will soon see) – there isn’t a word of this that is not the whole truth. Whether you believe me or not is, in the end, your choice – all I can do is report the facts of this most singular case as I experienced them, no matter how strange they might seem.
The matter in question began with a simple case – although you might recall the air of strangeness and tension against which it was set, in the months approaching the turn of the last century. Indeed, these very events were thought by some to be interlinked, though you will soon realise that this was not in fact so. The real explanation goes beyond that, beyond anything you might have thought possible. But I am getting ahead of myself once more… The case in hand was an apparently straightforward crime, yet as Holmes is often at great pains to teach me, things are seldom what they appear at first glance.
And so, to the details. A lady by the name of Miss Georgia Cartwright called upon us one afternoon in late September, begging that we pay a visit to her cousin Anthony.
‘In jail,’ Holmes said, motioning for Miss Cartwright to sit down. When he noticed her look of confusion, he waved a hand and explained: ‘The faint marks on your dress and your arms, a distinctive pattern showing you have recently been pressed up against a set of iron bars. Pray tell us of what your cousin is accused, Miss Cartwright?’
‘I am sad to say Anthony stands accused of…of…murdering his fiancée, and my best friend, Miss Judith Hatten,’ she told us, gratefully accepting both the seat and the handkerchief I’d produced to dry her eyes with. ‘But he cannot have, he simply cannot.’
Holmes sat down opposite her, steepling his fingers. ‘If you would furnish me with the facts, Miss Cartwright – and please do not leave anything out. Even the smallest detail might be of significance.’
Sadly, it soon became clear, as she related what she knew, that the culprit could be none other than her relation. The night before last Anthony had visited Judith to discuss their forthcoming wedding. Upon hearing a disturbance in the living room, where Anthony had been escorted only minutes beforehand, the girl’s only living parent – her father – discovered the young man standing over the body of Judith. His daughter had suffered a tremendous head wound. In Anthony’s hand was a poker, the end of which was dripping with blood. Mr Hatten flew into a rage and had to be held back by his staff from attacking Anthony himself, while Miss Cartwright’s cousin was held down until the authorities arrived.
Holmes frowned, obviously reaching the same conclusion as I.
‘He swears
it was not him, says that he cannot remember what happened, Mr Holmes. And I believe him. Anthony is the gentlest man in the world and he did so love Judith. I know he did. He would never have raised a finger to hurt her.’
Holmes raised an eyebrow. ‘It is so often the case, however, that we do not truly know our friends and loved ones, Miss Cartwright.’
‘We grew up together and were as close as brother and sister. I do know him, Mr Holmes. Please, I implore you,’ she said, clasping her hands together. ‘Visit him yourself.’
Holmes glanced sideways, attempting not to let this sway his judgement. But in spite of his somewhat cool exterior, my friend has never been able to turn away anyone in such distress. Yet I have seen him reject far more intriguing investigations, so something about this particular case must have piqued his interest. I wish to God now, looking back, that he’d had the courage to simply inform Miss Cartwright he could not help. If that sounds harsh, believe me it will not by the time I have finished relating this tale.
So it was that we found ourselves in a coach on our way to see her cousin at Scotland Yard’s ‘charming’ prison. The journey at least afforded me some time to glean Holmes’ thoughts about the case.
‘Surely it would be wrong to get the young woman’s hopes up,’ I told him. ‘The man’s destined for the noose. There might not have been witnesses to the actual deed, but being caught with the murder weapon in one’s possession implies just as much guilt.’
Holmes steadfastly refused to be drawn on the subject until we’d seen the prisoner for ourselves. Inspector Lestrade similarly conveyed the opinion that my friend was wasting his time, when we arrived and asked to see the man.
‘I cannot understand why Miss Cartwright has brought you into such an affair,’ said the sly-looking policeman. ‘There was nothing untoward in the investigation, I can assure you, Mr Holmes.’ His tone was accusatory, as if he thought we were criticising his procedure. Nevertheless, he granted us full access to the man, in part because of all the help Holmes has been to the police in his career – often without due credit – but I think also because he was confident enough that nothing we discovered would make him look inferior in front of his own men. ‘The father is baying for the man’s blood,’ Lestrade called after us, as if he thought that might change our minds.
