Parallel II - The Gift

by Paul Rice

  Parallel II

  The Gift

  Paul A. Rice

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © Text Paul A. Rice

  ISBN: 9780956276957

  eBook version published by ebookpartnership.com

  www.ebookpartnership.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Previously published by YouWriteOn.com under the title:

  Awakening 2 – The Gift

  The right of Paul A. Rice to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents ct 1988. All rights reserved, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  www.riceauthor.co.uk

  Prologue - Changes and Maybes

  Do you believe in fate – are you someone who thinks everything is pre-ordained and that no matter what you do, the end will always be the same. Well, if that’s the case, then here’s a thought for you, an idea, maybe: what if you were to get out of bed tomorrow, but get out on the other side for once, try wearing those blue socks instead of the red ones you normally wear, on Tuesdays. Perhaps this time you should brush your teeth before you shave, put on a tie, or maybe don’t put on a tie, just for the hang of it. Hey, why don’t you eat some cereal instead of toast – read a newspaper instead of watching breakfast TV?

  Why don’t you take a bus instead of the car, or maybe you could take the car, but do a right at the corner shop instead of your usual left, you know, take that other route, the one which goes past the park. Take your time, stop for a while and watch the ducks splashing on the lake, the one where you used to paddle when you were a kid. Do you remember those days? When you do get to work, why don’t you park the car somewhere else, perhaps do the Park and Ride for a change. Have a brisk walk across town and then take the elevator to the third floor, not the stairs as usual, and then, for goodness sake, will you tell Jenny on reception that she’s looking great, you could ask about her Mum, too, she’s just had her hip replaced and by showing an interest you would totally make Jenny’s day. Don’t be too late getting into work, though, because by saying let’s change a few things, I didn’t really mean a getting fired type of change.

  But, then again, perhaps if you did get fired…

  Anyway, as I was saying: why don’t you eat a doughnut at ten o’clock, dump the brown bread sandwich and live life on the edge for once. Shouldn’t we just go the whole hog and leave ten minutes early for lunch as well, tell them that you have a headache or something, whatever, but just get yourself the hell out of there, imagine all the different people you’ll see in the canteen, one of them may change your life forever.

  I could go on, but I hope that by now you’ll be getting the idea?

  And so, if you did these things… made some of those little changes… do you suppose your day would still end in the same way? I suppose that it may well do. Although, come to think of it, maybe if we change only one simple thing, then perhaps everything changes, perhaps the changes we made were pre-ordained in the first place, maybe the consequences of our ‘free will’ have already been decided.

  Who knows?

  Maybe nothing is as it really seems to be – maybe there are plans already laid down for all of us. Plans that are laid down in stone, and no matter what we do the end will always be the same.

  Let’s see, shall we...

  Chapter 1 - Not My Problem

  It had been five years… sixty months and two days, to be exact… since the ‘big’ event. That wonderful night when he’d carried out the deed, an act which changed his life forever. With a quick push of his forefinger, the man permanently altered his own destiny, the action had only been a little thing, a small physical action, but its consequences had been enormous. “You have ruined the lives, the hopes and the futures for hundred’s of other people!” Well, that’s what the Judge had said during her summing up speech – the pathetic bitch! James laughed as he thought about her helpless fury. “Boy – was she pissed off at me!” He remembered that particular night, remembered it like it was only yesterday. McBride allowed his mind to take him back to when everything had started to go right, the wonderful night when he’d finally made sure that his own fortunes had changed...

  The spreadsheet flickered across the screen of his laptop, the final figure leaping out at him. Even though he tried to stop himself, James couldn’t prevent the guilty glance over his shoulder, it had become almost an automatic reaction of late, and one he intended to stop. Why he even looked was beyond him, it was gone midnight, he was on the eighteenth floor and other than some security personnel in the lobby below, he was alone? He turned back to the screen and looked at the figures, scanning the bottom line, his well trained eye easily picking out the figures he needed to see. With a final nod, he sat back and smiled – his calculations had been correct and unless he was much mistaken, James knew that he had just become a very rich man. His softly whispered words of glee echoed within the confines of his plush office: “Yes, that’s the one, the final deal, now they’re done for!” he said, with a laugh. “By this time tomorrow they’ll be crying in their fucking chicken soup, oh deary me… they’re going to have to get used to that on the menu!” He laughed once more and then pressed the enter button.

  ‘Please wait, transfer in progress...’ The little window flashed its message, the faint light reflecting in his eyes as he leaned back in the leather swivel chair. He enjoyed the moment and took his time to savour it, casually reaching across the desk to lift the heavy crystal tumbler and raising the glass to toast the screen in front him, before greedily slurping back the malt in one long gulp. His thoughts were delirious with joy. “I’ve waited so long for this and now finally I’m there, years of hard graft, hours of wheeling and dealing, months of camouflaging the truth, and now at last it’s time…” James had endured endless nights of sleeplessness as he’d waited for the plan to slowly materialise, and it hadn’t been easy. Two horrendous stomach ulcers still festering in his guts were the living proof of how stressful it had been. Yes, tonight was indeed the night – tonight was payback time. “Now it’s my time!” His teeth gleamed in the liquid light. The sound of his own voice soothed him and helped rid his mind from the small grains of fear, the atoms of brain tearing guilt and other bad feelings, which he suppressed with arrogance and whiskey. He knew that his own greed paled to insignificance compared to that of the half-wits whom had entrusted him with their funds. Their only goal was profit – an increase on their balance sheets. More money is all they wanted, and McBride had given them some… a little drip here and a little drop there… just enough to keep them interested, whilst in the meantime, behind their backs, he’d been laying the big plan.

  His investment scam had entrapped many fools; they had come, like insects to fly paper, to taste the sweet nectar of his poisoned promises, the lies, that he’d learned how to tell whilst working at the bank. James snarled – l
ips twisting in anger as the thought entered his mind. “That pissing bank…” The one which after fifteen years of loyal service had decided to fire him! “Those pathetic little bastards, fire me, me!” He remembered that smug little prick, Rupert Oliver, mincing down the corridor with a notice of termination held in front of him, his pathetic woman-hands shaking the damned thing as though he were offering McBride a million pound bonus. He’d wafted it in the air with his fucking, gay voice deliberately raised so the rest of the staff could all hear McBride getting the good news: “Sorry James, but you know how it is old boy, times are hard and we’ve all got to tighten our belts, haven’t we?” That was a joke – it had felt more like a fucking noose they’d tightened around James’ throat. The thought made him raise one hand to his neck and loosen the red silk tie. He’d had taken the note and left the building that very same morning, his parting comments shattering the waiting silence of the office. They all knew he wouldn’t go quietly and so James didn’t disappoint them: “Shove that notice up your arse, Rupert, you cunt! That’s if there’s any room left up there, you little wanker!” Oliver hadn’t been able to reply as there had been too much blood filling his mouth. After all, there’s nothing quite like a good old-fashioned head butt when it comes to saying goodbye…

  Filled with vengeance and malice – no more working like a dog for other people to take the piss – McBride had decided he was now going to divert all his attentions, and considerable talents, into making money for himself. He’d devised a plan, and a very clever plan it had been too, one based on years of experience and the thorough knowledge of how this particular game was played. He’d done a lot of investing for charitable organisations before and he knew just how easy a target they would be. James had always silently laughed at them; if only they knew how much of the money they donated actually made it to the needy recipients in the first place, most of it was sucked away by bureaucracy and outright corruption, and that was long before one poxy bag of rice was even purchased… never mind shipped… to some starving family in the middle of fucking nowhere. And yet they still threw cash at the idea. “They’re nothing but damned idiots!” He cursed them, he blamed them, and he hated them. McBride had decided to get some of that action for himself. In fact, James had decided to get all of it. The charities had come to him in droves, leaving him with the hard earned cash that the pathetic do-gooders had so willingly donated. The returns he promised would enable them to achieve so much more – he scoffed at their naivety: “Easy come and easy go, they should’ve read the small print just that little bit more carefully, shouldn’t they!” His laugher rolled across the room again.

  As if prompted by his thoughts, the laptop suddenly beeped once, and a small pop-up window displayed the two words that were to change everything: ‘Transfer Complete…’ McBride touched the keypad and then watched as the machine went into shutdown mode. Leaning back, he ran his hands through the gelled hair slicking back from his pale forehead and then, whilst laughing loudly, shoved the chair away from the desk and stayed sitting whilst it rolled across the oak floor, the rubber wheeled castors rumbling as he spun like a two year old in the park. Stepping out of the chair, he walked to the window and looked down on the city lights sparkling below him. His thoughts shone with clarity of their own. “Yes indeed, they should’ve been more careful shouldn’t they, definitely a lot more careful…”

  He grinned and then whispered to himself: “That, I’m afraid to say, is not my fucking problem!” The words had come easily to him. He’d said them out loud at the time and he said them out loud again, tonight, the night of the fifth anniversary. Four years of planning and five years of living with the results had given him all he’d ever wished for, including the plush apartment in which he was currently sitting. As he sat lounging on the Chesterfield with the fire smouldering in the hearth, he let his thoughts meander idly through the recent past. James smiled when he thought about the money, of how much he’d managed to squirrel away, the millions he’d managed to hide – the figures involved gave him a nice warm feeling. They were all his, every penny of them, all cleverly hidden within his indecipherable web of deceit and ingenious accounting. He smiled to himself once more as he thought about how nicely everything had panned out. The stupid investors had all gone down, hand in hand he had pushed them over the precipice, overnight their worlds had been flushed down the deep financial toilet that he, James McBride, had opened the lid on. All their silly little ideas and poncey charitable plans – all poured down the fucking bog. “Well, that’s just tough shit, isn’t it?” The irony of his words amused him.

  The investigation had gone on for months… years even… but they couldn’t pin anything on him. It was all part of the global credit crisis, hedge funds being miss-managed, sub-prime borrowers endlessly defaulting. The wicked, twisted web in which the entire financial world had become entangled, only served to provide a perfect camouflage for one who was as deviously cunning as James McBride. The best bit by far was in the blatant anguish and bitterness of the prosecutors who knew that he’d fooled them, they knew it absolutely and yet they couldn’t prove a single, damned thing. His footwork had been way too fancy for them; they’d been much too busy looking for a Waltz, whilst in the meantime McBride had been doing the Tango. They never even came close to getting in time with his devious rhythm. The Judge herself had said as much, looking down at him in anger as she announced her decision. It didn’t matter what she thought, what anyone thought, the defence team had proved that there had been no case to answer. And that, as they say, was that! James McBride had walked away scot-free, and to be honest – he had walked away laughing.

  The biggest whiners had been those shitheads from the children’s charity, crying and wailing – berating him outside the court house. Their screams still rang in his ears, even to this day. “People will lose their lives because of you, innocent children, for God’s sake! They’re ill and they needed that money, they needed it to stay alive! Without us they’re as good as dead! Don’t you understand? Don’t you, you heartless creature – you bastard!” McBride had ducked just in time to narrowly avoid the egg, which some prick at the back of the crowd had hurled, it smashed against the lamp post next to him, spattering his mohair coat with yellow goo and little pieces of fractured shell. He turned, smiled at them and then climbed into the Mercedes. Flash bulbs ignited the interior of the car and even the darkened windows couldn’t hide the howls of protest from the idiots he had duped. The hollow splat of a second egg, destroying itself against one of those windows, had been the signal to send them on their way. James had laughed, “Take me to the club, Charlie – I need a stiff one!” The driver’s eyes had acknowledged him in the rear view mirror, with the tyres squealing in protest the car had sped away from the distraught crowd and into the early evening traffic.

  McBride thought about the present and it made him spit with anger, these days he spent even more time than was usual talking to him-bloody-self. Still, at least it made him feel better. “That was five years ago, five years and I’m still taking shit from those pillocks!” Feeling better for the release of some spoken words, he bent forward and opened the slim folder, which lay in front of him. As he lifted it, several newspaper cuttings escaped their cardboard prison and fell onto the glass top of the table below. There were more inside the folder, lots more; he kept all of them, and the hate mail, too. McBride was getting bored with this endless game, and in a bid for the final big move he had called his lawyer, Julian, earlier in the day. Their meeting was due in an hour’s time and he would make sure those pricks got the message this time. “A nice fat law suit will shut them up, shut them up once and for all…” he said maliciously, and then picked up the cutting. Looking down at the libellous headline, eyes swimming with tears of anger, he read the words once more:

  ‘McBride’s Legacy – Third transplant child dies.

  Charities – Missing funds would have made the difference!’

  He blinked the bitter tears away and whispered
to himself, thin lips tight with resentment. “I’ll make sure that bastard editor is first in the fucking queue!” With an angry shake of his head, McBride slid the newspaper cuttings back into the folder, rose to his feet and gathered some other pieces of paper from the sideboard. He placed the folder into his briefcase, looked at his watch, lifted the telephone to his ear and punched one of the numbers with his forefinger. His call was answered immediately, without any form of greeting, McBride said: “Get Charlie to pick me up in five minutes – yes just me, to Oxford Street.” Placing the phone back in its cradle, he lifted the glass of scotch that rested on the sideboard and finished the remains of his drink in one gulp. Placing the glass down, James turned, picked up his coat and headed out the door, slamming it behind him.

  A short time later, when roughly halfway there, he suddenly had the urge to have a cigar – that was strange because he hadn’t touched the filthy things for years, but the craving was strong. He wanted one, and as everybody knew, what James McBride wanted, he usually ending up getting. Leaning forward, James spoke to his oversized driver: “Charlie, pull over at the next newsagent and get me some cigars, will you – I don’t care what sort, anything decent will do?” The driver nodded and two minutes later the car slid expertly through the traffic to come to a halt outside a brightly illuminated shop.

  A neon sign announcing the fact that you were lucky enough to be outside ‘Ali’s Convenience Store’ flickered intermittently, its fluorescent glow almost strobe like as it illuminated the group of hooded youths loitering on the pavement outside the grubby shop. Their pale features only relieved by the occasional, red glow of a cigarette, which they passed to and fro. The uniformity of their raised hoods and dark clothing gave them the much sought-after aura of menacing anonymity. Leaving the engine running, Charlie stepped out onto the pavement. Just as the driver’s door was closing, McBride heard one of the youths say: “Nice fucking wheels...” The rest of the sentence was lost as the door sealed itself shut against the outside world.