by A. J. Reid
I heard the heavy steel door leading on to the deck slam shut and footsteps walk towards the red light. Graziano walked past me and crouched down to pick up Doyle. She let go of my shirt and stood facing Graziano, her sodden fur silhouetted against the city lights on the other side of the river. She lifted up one of his hands and pressed it to her face, kissing it tenderly before letting go. I took off my belt and wrapped it around the railing, remembering the Captain’s story about the Jamaican sailor. Just as she kissed Graziano tenderly, another wave, this one apocalyptic in size, smashed on to the deck of the ferry. I grabbed Rachel and we both retched and spluttered to remove the water from our lungs. Opening my eyes, I could see Graziano had been hurled on to one of the benches, but Doyle was nowhere to be seen.
Graziano howled her name, bending himself double over the railing to search for her. As he threw one leg over, I stood up and grabbed him by the shirt, but he swatted me away to the deck. I held tight to the railing and searched the waves below, but there was no sign of either Doyle or Graziano anywhere.
Fireflies
I stood outside the hospital’s main entrance, illuminated only by one or two floodlights in the car park, the glowing red tips of the smokers’ cigarettes and the twinkle of fairy lights from the foyer surrounding me like fireflies. 4:37 a.m. After I had convinced the doctors to let me out of the bed and get dressed, I went to visit Rachel immediately. They wanted to keep her in over Christmas, but she refused. While I waited for her to emerge through the revolving door of the hospital, I kept to the shadows.
The tyres of a black BMW squealed around the bends of the car park to pull up right alongside me and the tobacco fireflies. A blacked-out window whirred down and a familiar face beckoned me over.
‘Chapman …’ I said, taking a step back.
‘Don’t run,’ he said, holding out a fat envelope. ‘We’ve something for you.’
I crouched down to look inside the car. The driver was the sergeant who had been questioning my landlord. He smiled from beneath his bushy moustache and made a small saluting gesture before returning to his driving position. Chapman’s breath shrouded the envelope he was holding out of the car window. He waved it around and looked at his watch. ‘It’s not a trick.’
I grabbed the envelope, never taking my eyes off him and the sergeant.
‘Good right hand, Mr. Black. No hard feelings,’ Chapman said. ‘Call us if you need anything. And don’t lose that envelope.’
The sergeant wished me a merry Christmas and pulled away into the night. I looked at the envelope which was addressed to me, whilst from behind the glow of the fireflies, the smokers watched my every move. On the front was written in black ink:
Better to reign in Hell.
The first document I pulled out was a genealogy report with my name on it. Inside was a detailed tree diagram explaining my tenuous ancestral link with Commander Tanner and the deeds to Tanner’s Fine Goods Emporium.
I laughed and the fireflies jumped.
A barrister’s letter explained how my claim to Tanner’s fortune had first been brought to his attention by a department store employee called Pearl Allister. Underneath this section was a disclaimer signed by Doyle absolving him of any responsibility for the events leading up to the handover and signed off with an invitation to call him upon receipt of the letter.
As I shuffled through the remaining documents, a small, bright red envelope fell to the ground. I picked it up to find that it was unsealed and written on the front was ‘Merry Christmas’. When I opened it, I found a cheap petrol station card with a picture of a reindeer holding a tankard of beer. Inside it was written:
4 p.m.
Christmas Day
I woke up in Rachel’s bed only a few hours after her mother had driven us back from the hospital. I put on a T-shirt and some pants, took the barrister’s envelope and crept towards the front door of the cottage, picking up a portable phone from its stand on the way. It was still dark outside and when I opened the back door, flakes of snow blew in between my bare toes. Putting on the shoes that Liz had brought me at the hospital, I stepped out in the white garden and looked over the south river at a dozen small towns waking up to Christmas amongst the fields and mountains.
The time on the portable phone was 6:38 a.m., but the barrister sounded wide awake, kids laughing and screeching with excitement in the background. ‘Mr. Black. Thank you for calling … Let me take this in my study.’
The sounds of Christmas faded in the earpiece.
‘Hello?’
‘There we are. I will have all the relevant documents for you to sign tomorrow, if you can make it over here in the snow.’
‘Mr. Cliff, I just want you to tell me straight: is this for real?’ I asked.
‘I sympathise, Mr. Black, I really do: I headed up Dianne’s legal team for eight years, so I know how you feel, but yes, this is genuine.’
‘Is she dead?’
‘Still no bodies found as of two hours ago. My guy down there said they won’t find anything now.’
‘Why did she do it?’
‘Like it said in the disclaimer, I had no knowledge of her plans, Mr. Black. Or her reasons,’ Cliff said. ‘I have no agenda other than to facilitate the handover. Can you be here tomorrow at 9 a.m.?’
‘I’ll be there,’ I replied, leafing through the contents of the envelope.
‘Please don’t be late. And come alone.’
‘Mr. Cliff, there’s one more thing,’ I said, inspecting the red envelope. ‘Does 4 p.m. mean anything to you?’
‘The in-laws are gracing us with their presence at 4 p.m. here,’ said Cliff. ‘Apart from that …’
‘It was written on a card with the documents Chapman gave me.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Black. 9 a.m.’
‘But the envelope …’
‘Mr. Black?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Merry Christmas.’
I put the phone back on its charging cradle before wandering back to Rachel’s room and slipping the envelope under the mattress, trying not to wake her. Unable to get back to sleep, I inspected the card and its red envelope for any clues as to the meaning of 4 p.m. The clock on Rachel’s bedside table blinked in bright green digits at me: 07:14.
Another nine hours.
‘Dinner will be ready soon,’ Rachel said, shaking my shoulder.
‘What time is it?’
‘Twenty to four.’
I pulled off the covers and got dressed. ‘Does your mum want any help?’ I asked, buttoning my trousers.
‘It’s all done. Come and sit down.’
As I walked in the kitchen, Rachel’s mum kissed me and wished me a happy Christmas. I sat down and looked at the old clock above the sink reading ten to four.
‘What was that envelope you had with you last night?’ Rachel asked.
‘Another one of Doyle’s games. It’s nothing.’
‘Suicide note?’
‘Not quite.’
‘You two just forget about all that,’ Liz said. ‘It’s Christmas.’
With that, she began heaving trays, dishes and bowls of food on to the table before sitting down to join us. Three minutes to four.
Pouring herself a big glass of wine, she told us to get started before it went cold, trying to be inconspicuous as she glanced at her husband’s empty chair.
Four o’clock exactly.
Nothing happened and nobody spoke. The tink-tink of cutlery on plates and the carols on the stereo were the only sounds.
Fourteen minutes past four.
Still nothing, except for some brief discussion about what we were going to watch on TV after dinner.
‘Have you ever heard of a man called Derek Cliff?’ I asked Rachel, frustrated by the broken promise of 4 p.m.
Liz put down her knife and fork and poured herself another drink. ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about Tanner’s. Or her.’
‘So you’ve heard of him?’
>
‘He’s Doyle’s lawyer,’ Rachel said, spearing a roast potato with her fork. ‘Why do you ask? Did he give you the envelope?’
A knock at the door straightened everyone up in their seats.
‘On Christmas Day? In this weather?’ Liz tutted into her wine glass.
‘I’ll answer it, mum,’ Rachel said.
‘I’ll get it,’ I said, as all three of us headed to the porch.
Liz took the latch off and opened the front door to a man wrapped in a hat, scarf and coat, standing knee-deep in snow with a suitcase in his right hand. As he pulled the scarf and hat from his face, Rachel bolted across the threshold and hugged her father while her mother’s wine glass shattered on the floor.
I went to get the envelope and wrapped up for the journey to Derek Cliff’s house, hoping that his in-laws would understand.
