"I don't know if you realize it, Tedd," Todd said. "But he doesn't seem to know what he's saying."
"I can see that, Todd," Tedd observed. "But that's not the way to repair things. If he doesn't get a hold of himself, we've got a little procedure that might surprise him. He has to calm down, and then I'll help him."
Aidan could hardly hear them. Their voices sounded distant, muffled by the beating of his heart. He strode towards them, beside himself with fury. Tedd and Todd were talking to each other, and as usual were not even looking at him. Better that way.
When he was three yards from the boy, with his arms outstretched to grab him by the neck, Aidan felt a heavy blow on his side. Something hit him from behind and he crashed to the ground, hitting his head on the platform. For a few seconds his head spun and he battled to stay conscious. Aidan had to wait until everything around him stopped spinning. After sitting on the ground for a while, he realized his hearing was working normally again.
"I have to excuse myself straight away for this regrettable accident, Todd," Tedd said. "I'd never cause him the slightest harm. You know that."
"Sure, I understand, Tedd," Todd said. "You only wanted to find a solution to his problems. It's been bad luck, nothing more than that."
Aidan turned around and stared strangely at the solution that they were talking about, that had supposedly crashed into him accidentally. The wheelchair was stationary now.
"What solution are you talking about?" he asked angrily. "You want to make me handicapped?"
"I already warned you that the design is very bad, Tedd," Todd said. "Everybody will confuse it with a real wheelchair. It should look different. But you've only included the clock. It's always the same with the new chairs. Everything has to be explained. You do it, I'm bored."
"It's a great design, Todd," Tedd replied, "Stylish and original. The trouble is young people don't understand anything. Why don't you make it! You hardly helped me in creating the chess game. And now you're still complaining. If they can't see what it really is, just tell them it's a throne and nothing more."
Confusion had taken over from anger on Aidan's face.
"A throne?" He suddenly got it. It was Ashley's throne. It was the same as Otis's but a lighter colour, with silver trim. It was the throne of the White king. "I'm not going to join the game."
"That's a strange thing he just said, Todd," Tedd said. "If I'm not mistaken, only a short while ago, he told his wife that his soul was nothing compared with her life. Why does he have so much doubt now?"
"I don't know, Tedd," Todd said. "I don't think he was lying to his wife, although it's possible. I always thought that true love deserved any sacrifice. At least that's what Ashley said once. Remember? It was just after she put her own soul on the line to save his life."
"Bloody manipulators!" Aidan shouted. "I'd do anything for her. Will you bring her back if I play?"
"Finally we've arrived at the interesting part, Todd," Tedd smiled. "Before we reach an agreement with him we have to reveal every detail of the terms of the contact. We don't want any more of these misunderstandings that we've seen recently."
"That's true, Tedd," Todd agreed. "I don't like being labelled a liar when our proposals are as clear as daylight and without any double meanings."
"I understand everything," Aidan said. "I want to see it in writing that my wife won't undergo any suffering."
"There, everything is ready, Tedd," Todd said. "But our friend is impatient. He wants to go straight to the contract stage, jumping over the most important step."
"We can't agree to that, Todd," Tedd said, "First things first. He has to meet his adversary before he's in a position to accept the contract. Everything has to be done correctly."
A light metallic sound could be heard on the platform. Aidan could see a shape coming towards them behind Tedd and Todd. The old man and the boy stepped apart and Otis's chair, the throne of the Black king, wheeled up and stopped a few yards from him. The person who was seated got up when the chair stopped and looked at Aidan with a vague expression drawn on his face. It took Aidan half a second to recognize him.
"Are you going to play against me?"
"I'm sorry about your wife, Aidan," the Black king said sincerely.
"I know, Wilfred. I can see you cut a deal. Your father was right after all. It was possible to beat terminal cancer." Wilfred got up and walked freely. His eyes were no longer sunken and lifeless. It was obvious that they'd offered him their services. Now, nothing could kill him, except checkmate. "I don't want to go up against you, Wilfred."
"Nor do I. But there's no option. I'll miss you."
Aidan resisted the idea. "There must be another way to save Ashley without getting involved in this atrocious game."
Aidan stood back, looking at the platform, trying to find an exit. He did a full circle and considered his options. A frightening silence returned. It was as if Tedd and Todd and Wilfred were avoiding the slightest sound to let him think the whole thing through. He lost the whole notion of time, but finally looked at them once more.
Wilfred stared at him understandingly. Tedd and Todd waited either side of the white throne, running their hands over it, cleaning it.
Suddenly they raised their violet eyes and looked straight into Aidan's. Smiling, inviting, they extended their hands for him to take the throne.
Their invitation coincided with the moment in which Aidan Zack realized that he had never had another option.
* * * * *
EPILOGUE
Bruce Webster, at the age of thirty-two, had managed to do a lot of stupid things in his life. Perhaps not as many as others, but a lot just the same. And here he was now, dangerously close to committing the biggest mistake of his life. Just thinking about it made him break out in a cold sweat.
Bruce put his hand around the wad of notes. It was all the money he had in the world after emptying his bank account. His debts and his mortgage were things he hadn't taken into account. He would worry about them later if he lost. He pushed the money slowly towards the centre of the table.
"I'll see you and raise you," he said, trying to sound confident.
The other three gamblers at the table looked at him, and two of them folded their hands and pulled out of the game. Bruce studied the only man left, the one who would decide if Bruce would make a pile of cash or finish up being nothing more than a stupid fool who'd lost everything he had on one hand of cards.
"Did you know that this place was an art gallery at one time?" his adversary informed him. "There, on that wall, the ugliest painting you can imagine used to hang."
"So, how did it finish up being a gaming room?" one of the others asked.
"Because the gallery was burnt down two and a half years ago."
"Why didn't they rebuild it and reopen the gallery?" Bruce asked, trying to sound relaxed, although he was far from it. In fact, the only thing he wanted to know was what was in the other man's hand. "Maybe they were insured and didn't lose too much."
"They were insured," his opponent agreed. "But it's difficult putting a value on works of art. There are always people who take advantage of situations like that. The simple fact is they found my offer better than the insurance company's, and I became the owner. I decided to put it to better use."
"You're Dylan Blair?" one of the others said amazed. "The millionaire?"
Bruce wasn't as impressed as the others. He knew who Dylan was. In fact, he'd been coming to the gaming room for a few weeks with the express desire of playing against him. Since he'd decided to give up his life sitting in front of a computer screen, working for others, he'd been looking for an opportunity like this. He'd discovered that Dylan was one of the regular players in the room and lost heaps playing poker without even batting an eyelid. Sometimes he won. Lately, though, his luck seemed to have improved, but Bruce trusted in his own ability and had waited patiently until the millionaire was ripe for the kill.
"Exactly. That's me," Dylan said. "I can see my fame
precedes me."
"I heard that you got your start by breaking a casino," one of the others said. "Well, that's the official version," Dylan explained. "The truth is that I sold my soul to the devil so I could live a degenerate and superficial existence."
The two gamblers who'd tossed their hands in chuckled to themselves.
"Bah! The rich never reveal their secrets," one said to the other.
Bruce had run out of patience. "If it’s all the same to you, can we continue the game?"
"Of course," Dylan said politely. "It was only an anecdote, to break the tension a little bit. Let's see. I believe I'm going to see your bet."
Dylan Blair took out a pile of notes and threw them on top of the rest in the middle of the table. Bruce thanked God at that moment. He'd made a few slick moves during the game and had manipulated the cards to finish up with four aces. He'd been sweating on Dylan seeing his bet, and now it was time to collect. It had all been done perfectly and no one could doubt that his hand had been dealt to him. He was a professional. The four aces had been spread through the pack and had come from the discards. It would have been suspicious if he'd got four aces in the first deal.
It was perfect. Bruce turned his cards over and fanned them across the felt, a look of total satisfaction covering his face.
"Four aces," he said triumphantly.
"Excellent hand. No doubt about that," Dylan said poker-faced. His expression never changed whether he won or lost. "But my royal flush is better."
The world came to a stop then for Bruce. All his dreams shattered in his heart. The other pair at the table were amazed by what had just happened and began to praise Dylan. Other gamblers from nearby tables came over to see what had happened and soon a crowd surrounded the table.
"I… I can't believe it," Bruce stammered. "It was all the money I had. You've ruined me."
"Gambling's like that," Dylan said impassively. "Don't get too upset. You'll see that your problems–"
"Wait a moment!" Bruce exclaimed, jumping across the table and rummaging through the discards.
Something had just become very clear in his mind. The royal flush was formed from two of his own discards. It was impossible that they could be in Dylan's hand now if they'd been on the table. The bastard had cheated.
"That's the reason I told you the story," Dylan said, realizing by the look on Bruce's face that he knew. "I needed to distract your attention. A great friend of mine showed me how to do it a few years back. The whole thing's been a lot of fun."
Because he'd lost everything at least he could thank this rich arrogant bastard by giving him a good beating. Bruce got up and started to round the table. But as he did so a great thundering noise reverberated around the room. The front wall closest to the street came apart and everybody started running every which way they could in panic. The table with all the money on top turned over and knocked Bruce and Dylan to the ground underneath. They pushed the heavy table up but something crashed onto it, pinning them where they were.
They struggled clumsily underneath but couldn't budge it. People were screaming throughout the room as they ran for the exits. Bruce hadn't seen what had crashed onto the table and that made him furious. Then suddenly he felt the weight above them disappear, and this time, with Dylan's help, he managed to push it off them. When they did, the biggest man Bruce had ever seen was standing before them. He wasn't that tall, but he was massive. He wore a black suit and held a giant mace with both hands.
"Stay still," Dylan warned him with a smile. "Sit down and enjoy the show. If you stay here nothing will happen to you."
Bruce didn't know what to say or do. He just stared dumbfounded at the bodybuilder in the black suit.
Then, someone else even stranger arrived. The huge man threw the mace in a perfect arc towards a wheelchair that moved unaided. It missed its mark by inches. And a man, around seven feet tall, got up from the wheelchair. He was carrying a sword almost as tall as he was and looked cold and hard and very serious. He walked across to the man in black and ran him through with the sword.
An incredible panic invaded Bruce. This recently arrived giant was going to kill everyone still in the room and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
"A little early for a check, don't you think?" Dylan said, approaching the swordsman.
"I suppose you're right. Are you still living a perpetual orgy, Dylan?"
"Trying to," Dylan answered. "Look after yourself, friend."
"That's what I'm trying to do," the swordsman answered sadly, as he shook Dylan's hand.
Then, without giving the dead body on the floor a second glance, he disappeared. Bruce watched him go in disbelief.
"Do you know him?"
"He was a policeman. The first time I ran in to him he punched me so hard I nearly lost an eye. He's a good bloke, but a bit boring at the same time."
"Good bloke? He just killed this man mountain here and whacked you. And you say he's a good bloke," Bruce said, baffled.
"Hmm. Yes, he is a good person," Dylan said after a pause. "One of the best, depending on how you judge people, of course. Which reminds me, this money problem of yours. You know, being ruined for life and all that. I know an old man and a boy who love to help out people in just the sort of jam you're in. They speak a bit strangely, but you'll get used to it. Anyway, you'll find out…"
* * * * *
THE LAST GAME
(SAMPLE)
CHAPTER ONE
The small electric saw stopped rotating when the sternum snapped. The saw´s teeth, painted red, kept spinning for a few seconds longer, before slowing down gradually until it came to a complete stop.
Alvaro put the saw down and separated the ribs. The red mass came into view, palpitating at a constant rhythm.
“It´s a very big heart.” The nurse said
“You’re not wrong there. But it has to come out.” Alvaro said in a bored voice.
He´d already done several heart transplants and this one didn´t feel anything remotely like a challenge. It was nothing more than routine procedure. The patient would get a new heart and would spend the rest of his time trying to prolong his life as much as he could. He would meekly comply with an endless amount of rules, that would require him to give up a great quantity of vices and activities that the vast majority of people consider pleasant, and would fight to cling to this awful world as long as possible.
Alvaro envied him.
“Ok, let´s do it.” He said to the team around him. “I don´t want a single . . .”
The door opened suddenly, cutting the conversation abruptly. Alvaro stared at the intruder and thought about taking his mask off to speak. He wanted to make sure that this person heard all the insults that he was about to throw his way. Nobody walked into an operating theatre during an operation.
The intruder wasn´t even wearing a surgical gown. He was wearing street clothes and had walked in here as if it were nothing more than a shop on the blocks outside the hospital.
Alvaro put the saw down on the table and approached the newcomer. His companion and the two nurses were so surprised that they hadn´t had time to react. The stranger offered Alvaro a black envelope with white edges that the surgeon grabbed out of his hand. He had a fair idea what its contents were. The messenger didn´t wait to watch Alvaro read it; he just turned and left the room without saying a word.
Without any doubt it was a court order. Somebody wanted the operation stopped. Alvaro hadn´t paid sufficient attention to the details of his patient’s personal history. He vaguely remembered that there had been two women fighting over what the right course of action should be. One had been in favor of the transplant, his wife, if his memory didn´t fail him, and the other, possibly the patient´s sister, was against it. But maybe he was confusing who was who.
In any case the medical report didn´t seem to have carried sufficient weight to guarantee that the poor individual, who wasn´t in any condition to decide his own fate, would receive a healthy, new heart. Pa
rt of the blame for that lay with Alvaro; he hadn’t offered his professional medical opinion. He’d checked the physical condition of the patient, and recommended the transplant and then forgotten about it while the two hags tore themselves apart in their fight to show who loved the patient more, and who therefore had more right to decide the outcome.
He was sure that the loser had resorted to legal means to get her way. Some foolish judge somewhere, someone who didn´t understand anything about medicine had decided to stop the operation in its tracks. The doctors would have to attend a hearing and explain the need for the operation over and over again until the judge understood what it was all about. There was no doubt that this was what the letter was all about.
Alvaro knew about a similar case a few years before. It had been an operation to amputate a leg, but the court order had arrived late and the leg was no longer attached to the body. On this occasion the patient only had his chest completely open. Things were looking up.
“What is it?” His companion asked.
Alvaro sighed dispiritedly.
“I can imagine.” He said while he scratched the envelope with his blood stained gloves. “It’s a pity it didn´t arrive a couple of hours before. We wouldn´t have had to open the patient up. He´s going to have a beautiful scar and all for nothing. That happens when . . . “
Alvaro fell silent and swallowed the rest of the sentence. The letter inside the envelope wasn´t a court order. It wasn´t even an official letter. The paper was folded twice. He opened it quickly, and was immediately surprised by what he saw. He´d never seen anything like it. It was very elegantly handwritten, in stylized words with long flourishes that gave it a certain antiquated air. A little overdone perhaps. It was written in red ink and appeared heavier on some lines than others. Alvaro couldn´t imagine a fountain pen or biro capable of doing that and no computer or typewriter had been used either. No, it was handwritten, but by whom and how remained unknown.
The Big Ben mystery Page 29
