I smile as I watch my mother play with my little brother Tommy on the hearth-rug.  My father sits in his chair, still but alert.  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I detect a movement in the yard.  I turn to look.  Soldiers, four of them!  By the way they are dressed, I know them instantly as ‘the enemy’.  My father has followed my gaze as I gasp in fright and immediately he’s on his feet, sweeping up Tommy in the same movement and shoving him in my direction.

“You know what to do Annie,” he says quietly.  He nods urgently at me and I grab Tommy’s hand and propel him through the kitchen.  I look through the window, checking our route to the barn.  It’s clear, so I open the door and we slide through and dash into the slatted wooden building.  Behind us, I hear the soldiers hammering on the front door, shouting.

Although Tommy’s only little he knows what to do.  Just as we’ve practiced so many times in recent months, I help him up the ladder to the hayloft.  He doesn’t make a sound as we creep across the creaky boards and hide ourselves in the straw behind the loosely baled hay.  We lie there, waiting.  We haven’t practised what happens next.  Then I hear a scream; I know it’s my mother, although the sound is like none I’ve ever heard her make.  Her pain and terror flood my head.  I grip Tommy tightly; he’s trembling and sobbing silently.  The minutes tick by; I wonder what’s happening in the house.  My father is shouting, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.  The shouting stops abruptly and I hear the back door slam against the outside wall of the kitchen.

Heavy boots march towards the barn; I bite down hard on my knuckles.  A cold fist contorts my stomach as I suddenly realise I forgot to drag the ladder up behind us.
I hear the soldier’s heavy breathing down below.  He’s pulling things over, searching.  He approaches the ladder and in my mind’s eye I see him grab the ladder and place his boot on the first rung.  Sweat runs down my back.  Tommy is rigid in my arms.

There is a loud call from the house: “Move on!”  I hear the sound of the ladder clattering to the floor.  It settles and there is no sound apart from the blood pumping in my ears.  Slowly I get up, my legs are shaking.  I grab the rail at the edge of the loft and feel for the rope which we use as a swing when it’s too wet to play outside.  Telling Tommy to stay where his is, I let myself down and run quickly towards the back door which is gaping off its hinges.

Inside the house furniture has been overturned and one curtain has been ripped from the window.  My mother cowers in a corner.  Her blouse is torn and there is blood on her skirt.  Father’s face is bruised and bloody.  He reaches for her, but she turns her face to the wall.

©2018 Chris Hall

Susan’s mother looked up at her from under the rose-patterned duvet.  “I want you to help me to die.”  Susan stared blankly at her mother.  “Did you hear me?  I want you to help me put an end to all of this.”

Grace had been in the hospice for nearly two months now and both of them knew she would not be coming home.  The cancer had spread and it was just a matter of time, managing the pain and waiting for the inevitable.  The progress of the illness leading to eventual death would not be pleasant.

Susan had been dreading this moment.  Her mother had suggested this to her before during her father’s illness, as he became increasingly unable to manage to do things for himself.  Grace had been adamant, although she was quite prepared and able to care for her husband, there was no way in which she wanted to be left in a ‘state of indignity’ as she called it.  If Grace was unable to put an end to her life when she deemed it time, she would ask Susan to help her.  The subject was not discussed again and Susan had tried to push the memory of the conversation as far to the back of her mind as she could.  However, Grace’s determination and her certainty that Susan would comply with her wishes, despite her objections, had haunted her ever since.

Grace broke into Susan’s thoughts.  “Please, I want you to help me.”

“But Mum, how can I?”

“I need you to do this for me, Susan.  I can’t stand this any more.  We both know what’s going to happen.  I just want it over with, quickly, tidily.”

Grace was a highly intelligent, practical woman.  She had had a career which she had pursued throughout Susan’s childhood, but she had ultimately given it up to nurse Susan’s father through a prolonged and painful illness which had ended some fifteen years previously.  Grace looked after her husband, not out of a sense of duty, but out of love and lack of faith in the medical care which the National Health Service could offer.

Susan could see the anguish and frustration in her mother’s eyes.  It was dreadful for her mother, the pain and above all the indignity associated with the personal care she now required.  It was hard for her too, watching her mother’s decline and the daily visits were taking their toll, the time spent away, when she needed to be around supporting her husband who was fighting his own battle to keep his faltering business afloat.

“We’ll think of a way.” said Grace, almost cheerfully.  She closed her eyes, satisfied, a weak smile on her face.  Her breathing slowed as she slipped into a drug-induced sleep.

Susan tiptoed away and out onto the terrace overlooking the steep, tree-lined driveway which lead up to the building.  What was she going to do?  He couldn’t possibly do what her mother had asked.  It was unfair of her to have done so.  How could she murder her own mother, even if it was her mother’s wish?  It was illegal and she was bound to get caught…and then what would Gerry do?

A woman, about Susan’s age, joined her on the terrace and lit a cigarette.  They stood in silence, regarding the view over the treetops to the town below.  “I don’t know why they don’t just put them out of their misery like they do with animals.”  The woman said, turning to Susan.  “It’s no life for them once they come in here.  Only way out in a wooden box and all the wires and pipes and drugs, even if they do hide them under the bedclothes.  Then there’s the visiting, day in, day out.  Mostly she hardly knows who I am.  Don’t think she cares if I visit, but you have to, don’t you?  But I tell you, I’ve had enough of it.  I’d put a pillow over her face if I thought I could get away with it!”

Susan was taken aback.  How could she say this so glibly?  “Do you really mean that?” Susan asked.

“Sure!  Make my life a whole lot easier.”  She dropped her cigarette end on the stone floor of the terrace and ground it out with her foot, obliterating it.  “Couldn’t of course.”  She turned to go.  “But we all think like that, don’t we?”

Susan smiled weakly in an attempt at agreement.  The woman seemed so callous, so selfish in the way she had said what she’d said.  The force with which she’d ground out the cigarette, as if she was grinding out her mother’s life.  No, the whole idea was impossibly wrong.

She looked in again at her mother, she was still sleeping.  Glancing at her watch, she realised she was running late.  She didn’t want to keep Gerry waiting for her; he was worried enough without indulging some irrational fear that something might happen to her on the motorway.

Later that evening, she related the afternoon’s events to Gerry.  “Selfish bitch!” he said rubbing his hand across his grey, lined face and over his thinning hair.  “As if we didn’t have enough to deal with.  She can’t ask you to do that, even if it would make things easier in some ways…you’re not considering it are you?”

“No, of course not.”  Susan said quickly, although, “it would make things easier”, echoed in her mind.

As she lay in bed that night, listening to Gerry snoring softly, she thought again about what her mother had asked her to do for her.  The coming months were going to be so hard.  The pain, the drugs, their side effects and most of all, not being able to wash herself or anything would be almost too much for her mother to bear.  Wasn’t it she, Susan, who was being selfish?  How difficult would it be, just to place a pillow over her mother’s face?  Could she bring herself to do that?  Hold it there whilst her mother quietly suffocated?  Or maybe she could slip her a hefty dose of paracetamol?  She’d have to find out how much she’d be likely to need and make a few trips to different chemists.  And what if she was found out?  When was the last time anyone was sent to prison for helping a terminally ill person to die?

Susan pictured the scene: her mother lying calmly in bed; Susan bending to kiss her, then taking a pillow, placing it gently over her mother’s face and pressing down; listening to her mother, unable to draw breath, holding, holding the soft downy pillow over her, waiting until she was still, silent, limp.  What if she cried out?  What if she suddenly changed her mind?  How would she know?

If Susan gave her pills, she thought, at least she’d just slip away in her sleep.  But how would her mother manage to take enough, it was getting harder for her to swallow now.  Perhaps she could crush them up into some soup or something.

The night wore on.  Susan fell into a fitful sleep in which images of her standing over her mother, poised to kill, came and went; each one wrenching at her heart and her conscience.  On waking to the bright dawn sunlight, Susan’s mind was made up.  She knew she lacked the courage to go through with it.

That afternoon, her mother asked the nurses if Susan could take her out into the grounds to get some air.  It was a lovely bright spring day, and she wouldn’t see many more of them.  The nurses thought this a splendid idea: it would do both of them good.

When Susan arrived she was surprised to find her mother sitting in a wheelchair, tucked around with blankets, with an expectant look on her face.  “I want to see the gardens.  It’s such a lovely day,” she announced brightly.

Susan smiled uncertainly.  What exactly did her mother have in mind?  Get away from the watchful eyes of the staff to give Susan the opportunity to do away with her?  “Ok, mother, why not?”

The grounds of the hospice were pretty and well-kept with a long, smooth pathway around a rose-bordered lawn which led from the sunny lounge at the back of the building around to the main entrance.  At the far side of the lawn, Susan parked the wheelchair next to a wrought iron bench which offered a view through the trees to the town below.  Before she could speak her mother said: “it all right love, I understand, it’s too much to ask.  I’ve been looking back at these.”  She handed Susan a small, well-thumbed photo album, which Susan knew contained pictures of happier times when her mother and father where first married.  “He would be horrified at the thought.”

Grace took Susan’s hand.  “It’ll be all right, don’t worry.”  They sat in silence for a while.  Then Grace said, “I’m getting tired again, push me back; we’ll go through the grand entrance.”  Susan took the brake of the wheelchair.  As she bent down, Grace slipped the little album under the bench.  “All set now?”

At the top of the drive, at the front of the building, Grace started fumbling with her blanket.  “Oh dear, silly me!”  She exclaimed.  “I think I must have left my photos on the bench.  Be a love and run and fetch them.  I wouldn’t want to lose those!”

“I’ll just be a minute then.  Will you be all right here on your own?”

“Of course, I will.  I’m not going anywhere and the staff are just inside.”

Susan hurried back to the bench.  Sure enough, the little album was lying under the bench where it must have fallen from her mother’s lap.  She opened it.  “Thanks, Dad,” she said softly.  Smiling, she retraces her footsteps along the rose-lined path.

Suddenly, there was an urgent cry: “Help!  Stop her!”  Immediately, Susan broke into a run.  As she rounded the corner of the building, she saw her mother in the wheelchair gathering speed towards the busy road at the bottom of the drive.  There was no way anyone could stop her.

©2018 Chris Hall

The bright autumnal sunlight arched through the tall windows of Howard’s new third floor apartment in the recently refurbished Georgian building just offEdinburgh’s Royal Mile.  As well as being his new home, this was Howard’s showpiece, the pinnacle of his career in interior design.  Howard busied himself putting the finishing touches to the preparations for the soiree he was holding for a few close friends, one of whom, Sally, was bringing a potential new client, an American woman called Sandra.

His guests were not due for more than an hour.  Howard drifted into the bathroom.  Howard smiled contentedly at the effect he had achieved in this his favourite room, with its glossy black and white tiled floor, its grand, gilded fittings and glass brick shower.

Suddenly Howard noticed some brown-coloured staining around the golden clawed feet of the roll-top bath.  He rubbed at the mark with a flannel, failing to make any impression on it.

Howard hurried into the kitchen and armed himself with bleach and floor cloth.  Returning to the bathroom, he began to scrub at the stain, but there it wouldn’t budge.  Howard’s brow furrowed; he had a potential client coming in half an hour and everything needed to be perfect, however, fearing that he might damage his beautiful tiles with further scrubbing, he artfully draped a towel over the side of the bath so that it spilled onto the floor obscuring the stain.

An hour later, the evening was getting into full swing; Howard’s friends had complemented him on every aspect of his new apartment and Sally’s friend Sandra, a rather over-bearing American woman (weren’t they all), was particularly taken with the bathroom, gushing compliments, like one of his gilded taps.

“I just love these old buildings, Howard,” she drawled.  “I’d just bet they’re full of phantoms and ghouls.  Do you know any ghost stories about the place?”

Howard didn’t.  The thought hadn’t really crossed his mind.

“I know, let’s have ourselves a séance!”  Sandra announced with great enthusiasm.  Before anyone could object, Sandra was clearing the polished mahogany dining table and directing the rest of the guests to sit around it, telling Howard to turn off the music, dim the lights and bring more candles.

Sandra took the high-backed seat at the head of the table.  She stretched out her hands taking those of the guests on either side of her and indicating that everyone should do the same.

“Now we will summon the spirits!”  Sandra winked at Howard who was sitting opposite her, before lowering her head and beginning to make a series of loud ‘omming’ noises.

“Omm”, she intoned, “make yourselves known, spirits of James’ Court.”

Howard looked around the table; everyone seemed to be taking this seriously.  All his guests were staring down at his beautiful polished table, as Sandra chanted on.  He thought the whole thing rather silly, but it was well worth humouring her if there was money to be made.

Suddenly Howard felt a chill rush through him, then a warm sensuous feeling, as if he was being borne away in the folds of a huge eiderdown.  Then there was a jolt and he found himself standing in the bathroom.  All his senses were alert, but he was unable to move anything except his eyes.  He could feel the hard, cold tiles under his feet and a soft fabric against his skin.  He noticed that he was wearing a cream silk robe.

The bath was filling up; the water foamed with rose-scented bubbles.  Howard felt his arm stretch out across the bath and turned off the taps.  He noticed that the arm was pale and smooth and the long, delicate fingers of the hand were painted with dark red nail varnish.  He felt the robe slide to the floor as trancelike, he stepped into the hot, fragrant water.  The arm reached out and took a glass of champagne from a little side table which had been set alongside the bath.  As he picked up the glass he noticed a small silver box.  He sipped the cool liquid which fizzed lightly on his tongue.

Setting the glass down, his hand picked up the silver box and with elegant, carefully manicured fingers picked out a shiny new razor blade.  In one swift movement the fingers drew the blade across the slender wrist of the left arm.  Blood dripped into the water.  Switching hands, the vein in the right wrist was also severed.  A second rivulet of blood ran down the other arm.  With a graceful red-toe-nailed foot, he turned the hot tap back on and settled back into the steaming tub.

Howard watched in calm fascination as the blood mixed with the scented water.  He was floating again.  Blood-stained water started to spill over the rim of the bath, pooling on the tiled floor around the golden clawed feet.  Howard drifted on.

Then Howard felt himself being shaken vigorously; someone was slapping his cheeks.  “Howard! Howard darling, wake up,” a voice seeped into his consciousness.  Then louder: “Howard!”

As his eyes flickered open, Howard experienced a rushing feeling, a chill wind rising up through his body and out of the top of his head.  His eyes focussed on a sea of concerned faces crowding over the chaise-longue on which he was resting.

“Shit, Howard, mate, you gave us a fright!”  Jim, Sally’s husband gently helped him into a sitting position.  “We thought you’d left us for a moment there.”

“Lucky I’m safety trained.”  Sandra’s face came into focus.  “I wouldn’t want to lose my new interior designer before he’s even started work on my place.”  She threw her arms around him and hugged him warmly.

Howard disentangled himself and made his way to the bathroom.  He pushed open the door, fearing what he might find.  But the enamel surface of the bath gleamed and the towel which he’d carefully draped over the side was hanging neatly on the towel rail.  The black and white floor tiles shone immaculately.  There was a faint scent of rose petals.  The brown stain had gone.

©2018 Chris Hall

“He’s cleaned us out!  All the money from the private clients’ accounts has been wiped out!  It’s all gone!”  George Worthington looked up from his mahogany desk.  “Slow down, Howard, what’s happened?”

Howard Evans sank into the well-upholstered leather chair with a sigh, facing his business partner and friend, across the desk.  “Your bloody whiz-kid, Simon, he’s somehow managed to transfer everything out of our private clients’ accounts…and he’s gone!”

How do you know all this?  Everything was fine yesterday.  I had lunch with Simon at the club, for heaven’s sake.”  George peered across the gleaming, polished wood at Howard.  “Well…?”

“Look at this.” Howard pushed an email print out across the desk, “It’s from Simon.  It’s…well, it’s kind of a threat.  Says he’s used the new computerised authorisation system to transfer the money from the clients’ accounts to an off-shore account…and you and I are shown confirming the transactions.  So it looks as if we’ve authorised the funds transfer.  It will look on the system as if we have simply siphoned off the cash!

George put on his glasses and regarded the flimsy piece of paper.  “When did this arrive?”  “First thing this morning; I’ve been checking through the system with Holly to see if we can’t cancel the transfers or reverse the money back or something.”  Howard’s voice was taut; sweat was beading on his forehead.  “I don’t know what we’re going to do!”

We should call the police – the fraud squad – explain what’s happened and get them to go after him, get our money back.  Thieving scoundrel!  The private clients’ accounts; that’s over half the business!  After all, it’s not as if we’ve done anything wrong.  Have we?

There was a knock at the door and Holly Richardson’s anxious face appeared.  “Can I come in?”  Holly was the partnership’s ‘safe pair of hands’.  Highly professional and competent, she was the firm’s most experienced dealer.  The only person who had surpassed her performance had been Simon Lestrade, erstwhile golden boy, and George’s protégé.

Simon Lestrade had arrived just over a year ago and from the start, he had impressed.  His appearance exuded good breeding and confidence.  He arrived for an ‘informal interview’ (prior to George appointing him that afternoon) dressed in an extravagant and immaculate pin-striped suit in an attractive shade of dark blue, with a pale blue shirt which exactly matched the narrow, contrasting stripe of his suit.  His tie had been somewhat flamboyant, more suited to the world of advertising than austere financial circles, but this was deemed to be an indication of an ability to innovate and take calculated risks.  His CV had been even more impressive, but most importantly, he came highly recommended by Rupert Churchill, George’s old friend and fellow club member.

Lestrade’s performance had been better than good; it had exceeded all expectations and in the first six months he had grown the private clients’ side of the business by over a third, with an even more significant profit attached to that growth.  There had been tensions though, particularly between him and Holly, who undoubtedly resented his success although she had concealed this well, consummate professional that she was.

Holly would have been the first to admit that he was a smooth operator, sometimes a bit too smooth, “in a creepy sort of way”, she had described to her female friends.  ‘Never trust a man in white shoes’ was her maxim, so when he graced the Christmas bash in pressed denim complemented by off-white loafers, it confirmed her prejudice.  His manner of dress might have been an indication of future felony, but that was hardly an issue now.

At George’s nod she entered the room, closing the door softly behind her.  “It’s bad.  He’s stitched us up and there’s no way out.  I’ve checked the system; he’s in the clear, but it looks like both of you have committed a huge fraud.  I can’t trace the overseas account.  The money’s gone and you’re implicated!  And if you go down, so does the firm.”

“Does anyone else know about this, Holly?”

“No, George, and they won’t.  We’ll just have to make the money back.  Beg, steal or borrow.  Well, beg and borrow at least.  If we put the clients’ money back before they notice, at least you’ll stay out of prison.”

“But we haven’t done anything wrong,” lamented Howard, “it’s Lestrade who should be locked up.  Not sunning himself on some beach on our hard earned profits, even if he did make most of them.  It’s not as if he wasn’t very well paid…with bonuses.”

“No doubt about that.” said Holly, tight lipped.  “However, we need to come up with a strategy and we need to make sure that no-one finds out about the missing money until we’ve fixed things.  We’re good at what we do.  We’re very good.  We just need to work hard, maybe get some good extra help?  Someone reliable, a dealer with a sound track record.”

“I admire your loyalty, Holly, but I don’t think it’s going to be that simple,” said George heavily.  “Talent to redeem a loss of this size doesn’t grow on trees.”

“Actually, there is someone.  She’s a friend of mine who’s been working out in the States.  She’s just moved back to London and is looking for a position.  She’s one of the best in her field.  We’d be lucky to get her, but I’m sure we can persuade her.”

“As long as she doesn’t want to look at the books,” said George ruefully.  “Anyway, who is she?  Can we trust her?”

“Well, Julia left her former firm with glowing references, not the family silver.  I’ve known her since University, lost touch for a while, but she’s sound…and sharp.”

“Worth a try, if she’ll give it a shot, George.”  Howard squared his shoulders and sat up in his seat.  “What have we to lose anyway?”

*

Julia Deakin picked up the phone in her smart new Docklands apartment and dialled.  A man answered.  “Rupert, thank you so much for putting me back in touch with Holly.  She’s found me just what I need – and they sound very keen.  I owe you one!”

Rupert Churchill replaced the phone and smiled as he crossed one pale leather brogue over the other.  What Julia didn’t know was that he had certain photographs of her, involving illegal substances and compromising positions.  She’d find out just what she owed him and how what she’d need to do to repay him.

©2018 Chris Hall