And All Our Yesterdays, page 1
Copyright © Pieter Oomens (2023)
The right of Pieter Oomens to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published by Cranthorpe Millner Publishers (2023)
ISBN 978-1-80378-082-5 (eBook)
www.cranthorpemillner.com
Cranthorpe Millner Publishers
‘And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.’
- Macbeth, V, ii, 22
Chapter 1
Twenty years before
He walked along the cracked concrete path. There was little difference between it and the stubbled field it divided. A few slim gum trees haphazardly located cast the only shade. The sky was blemish-free and blue, dazzling and pitiless. The prison gate seemed almost welcoming. He told himself that this would be his last attempt.
‘He’ll see you,’ was all that he had received by way of invitation, delivered over the phone by a prison officer with the postscript, ‘And he says, “Tell him to bring extra tobacco”.’
He was known to the guard at the front gate. An exchange of curses about the heat and he was through the second, walking towards the bench on which a figure was slumped, like a drunk taking it easy in the cool of a public garden before the evening’s search for a bottle and a charity meal. Except there was no coolness here. No palm fronds swaying in a gentle breeze. No view of well-tended shrubbery and reed-fringed ponds. Just a bench in the visitors’ yard, unprotected from the sun.
The figure stirred as he sat down. The stale smell of sweat and urine pricked his nose. A terracotta face turned towards him. The mouth opened, revealing a few remaining teeth in a parody of a smile.
‘You again.’
‘This will have to be the last time.’
‘Good.’
Talkative as ever, he thought.
They sat together in silence. Muffled voices in the distance. The occasional shout. From somewhere behind the wall topped with razor wire, a laugh – at someone’s expense, he thought. He tried to think of an opening gambit. Something, anything to coax a response other than a grunt. Nothing came. He’d had enough.
‘Well, it’s been good to chat. I’ve left tobacco for you.’ He placed his hands on the bench to push himself up and received a backhanded fist to his ribs for his trouble.
‘What the…’
‘You want to know? You want me to say it?’ And then that smile again.
To any observer of the encounter – and there was only a bored prison officer who fitted that description – it would have appeared that the conversation continued for another half an hour but really only one of them was talking.
News of the death came early the following morning, delivered by the deputy prison governor. The tone was vaguely apologetic as he introduced himself, gave the reason for his call, spoke about security arrangements within the prison and the policies in place to ensure the health and safety of inmates.
And then: ‘So I thought I should let you know. You’re a relative, I understand.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Oh.’ The tone brightened. ‘Anyway, he fell over in the bathroom.’
Unstated was the mutual assumption that the poorly executed reverse twist with pike was probably assisted by a fellow inmate who had taken offence at the diver’s lack of personal hygiene.
Every cloud, he reflected. After all, he now had a story.
Chapter 2
Three years before
They had begun to arrive in the late afternoon. The pool, which was in the full glare of the sun, was the centrepiece. Tanned and buffed bodies cooled off, their owners admiring their own work and appraising that of their companions. Others stood, cradling their drinks, or draped themselves on bamboo lounges. Still others sought the cool of the verandah and its proximity to the bar.
Talk was animated and the music with its relentless beat increased in volume as more people arrived and more bottles were opened. The caterers were made busy as they kept up supplies and eased their way between groups. Occasionally, the smell of smoke wafted from the outsize barbecue that had been established on the lawn leading from the pool to the high sandstone wall, built to defeat the attention of passers-by and with its size and exquisite detail, convince them that their curiosity was justified.
The police made their first call at midnight. Using the two-way, the guard at the front gate called his boss and then alerted the guard at the back gate that the inevitable was about to occur.
The senior security guard with all the authority of a hard man who has seen it all before made small talk with the two young police officers. They in turn nodded and sighed with an unconvincing show of world-weariness and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the naked nubility that they were convinced was on offer. By now, the lower level of the house and the pool area were lit up like an operating theatre and bodies jumped and swayed as the DJ drove them on. With the chemical assistance thoughtfully provided by the host, few of the dancers showed any appetite for rest.
Leaving the police officers to loiter outside – no need to let them think they were in charge by inviting them in – the guard made his way to the house, the stitching of his tight-fitting suit taking the strain as he strode across the lawn. He made his way through the tangle of dancers, careful not to give any excuse for complaint from any young lovely or to provoke a push or a flailing fist from one of the souped-up males with something to prove. He stepped inside the house, and a few minutes later the volume was reduced from ear bleeding to just loud.
The guard returned to the waiting police officers. More nods. Handshakes now. Thin smiles and a shoulder shrug from the guard. Each knew that this wouldn’t be the only time that the constabulary with the urging of well-heeled neighbours who knew their rights would be visiting the estate.
A half hour later, history repeated itself as it did forty-five minutes after that.
A little after two a.m., the police returned, this time with their superior officer. The music might now be achingly bearable as far as the neighbours were concerned, but the shouts and laughter coming from the pool had assumed a level of annoyance that would mean letters to the editor of the local newspaper if things didn’t change. The soothing words of the guard might have had their intended effect on the junior officers, but their sergeant seemed strangely immune.
Leading his charges and the guards up the lawn, the sergeant made for the pool gate. The young police officers now looked purposeful while the guard and his two subordinates whom he had summoned for assistance looked grim, the prospect of a nice little bonus seemingly out the window.
Which, as luck would have it, gave rise to a theme.
The impending confrontation with law and order quickly galvanised the more alert of the revellers to dispose of any incriminating material that might be used later in evidence. The sudden call to attention by some had a ripple effect on the whole but for a few who were just too far gone and impervious to any sense of self-preservation.
It was at this point of ominous quiet with occasional eruptions of sound, much like a battlefield on the verge of armistice, that there was a scream and through a second storey window, a body fell. Its flight was brief, but it seemed to take an unpleasantly long time for the viewing public. It landed gracelessly on the verandah roof and with a grisly attention to the task of completing the job, proceeded to roll onto the courtyard below.
Now there were more screams. Then pandemonium. Stunned silence would come later.
Chapter 3
The computer screen had a remarkably blank look even for a computer screen. By this time, it was supposed to have yielded me nearly two thousand words, yet infuriatingly, the counter in the bottom left-hand corner hovered at six hundred. The hovering was the result of my desultory attempts at editing – sometimes more sometimes less – but persistently into the valley of the deadline I wrote the six hundred.
The view beyond the badly grimed window offered little inspiration: a patch of grey between the red brick of the surrounding apartment blocks. True, the grime was the result of salt-laden air and the beach was a short stroll away, but the weather was unseasonably foul and the idea of walking or swimming to gain inspiration was just that: an idea, and an idea whose time had not yet come.
Coffee hadn’t worked and tempting as the bottle of whisky was, I knew that wouldn’t work either. Leave it for the celebration.
In the movies or television, what usually happened now was that the telephone would ring and an adventure would commence for the lead character, the drudgery of the unfinished writing forgotten until the adventure was concluded and the credits started to roll as the hero ruefully smiled and returned to his keyboard.
The telephone rang.
‘It’s late.’
‘Send it to me and I’ll do the edit.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll do the edit. It may not be Proust but I do take a certain pride in my work.’
‘So do I. Proust?’
‘French writer in early twentieth century. Wrote a number of charming stories about his adventures as a trader in the islands of the South Pacific.’
‘Pity I couldn’t get him then, bearing in mind that you’re supposed to be writing about an island in the South Pacific. Do you mind if I bring the conversation back to the present century? It is 2010 not 1910. People are expected to work to deadlines these days. Look, we gave you a week in one of the most beautiful islands anyone could imagine…’
‘I know. I was there.’
‘You wouldn’t know, given that you haven’t written anything about it and that was the whole point of sending you there: to write an article, telling people that they should get on a plane as soon as possible and have all the fun and romance that you had.’
‘Look. I told you. I have written it. It’s just that it needs editing. By the way, you do know that I got food poisoning. That wasn’t much fun, and it certainly didn’t lead to any romance. Don’t worry, there will be no reference to typhoid or cholera or whatever it was.’
‘You said yourself that it was food poisoning. Could happen to anyone anywhere. Now, when?’
‘About an hour.’
‘Oh yeah. That means tomorrow.’
‘No it doesn’t. It means an hour. Look, when have I ever let you down? Don’t answer. It was a rhetorical question. You’ll get it this evening. I promise.’
And so it came to pass: a brilliant career beckoned all those years ago and now I was reduced to this: writing PR for a package holiday company disguised as a colour piece for some Sunday rag. Still, it made a change from writing the occasional episode for some soap opera. And what’s more, it granted me this: I surveyed the tiny flat, closed my eyes and thought of the island resort, before the food poisoning.
Three hours and too much whisky later, the article was done. The palm trees whispered, the white sand glistened and moonlight reflected from the sail onto the waters lapping against the hand-hewn timbers of our yacht. The Sancho Panza character who was my guide to the interior (which I never actually visited) was an amalgam of a waiter, the local doctor and someone I’d seen recently in a television sitcom. Curiously, no one ever assailed me that they hadn’t encountered moments that I conjured for them when they visited the places I reported on. They doubtless had their own adventures and because they were their own, they were so much more real and true and precious. The article that led them there was forgotten, replaced with their own imagery.
I once again surveyed my domain. Suburbia writ small, embellished with knick-knacks from occasional trips abroad, all of them primitive and cheap but interesting enough to attract the attention of the occasional guest. I should however rehearse my stories better; so embarrassing to have to explain why my tale as to the provenance of a piece should be different from the first time I explained its history.
Sleep beckoned. With commendable self-control, I moved the bottle away. My eyes closed as the body gave me a further hint that the day was done.
And then the telephone rang.
Chapter 4
The number was unfamiliar. It did not commence with a plus sign and so probably was not somewhere in Eastern Europe or Africa or wherever one happened to find the current leading nation in the league table for telephone scammers. It was too late for a worthy charity to thank me for past support and encourage me to think of how every dollar would bring inestimable benefit to one of their dependents.
‘Hello.’
‘Mr Kincaid?’
A woman’s voice. Not young. A little nervous – a hesitation before speaking and another before using my name. It was late but not too late. Given the time and the note of uncertainty, I guessed that the call had been planned for some time, and now: “I’ll just do it. If he hangs up, too bad. Just do it.”
‘My name is Cynthia Hendry.’
Now it was my turn to pause. Was I supposed to know who she was? I frankly had no idea who Cynthia Hendry was or any other Hendry for that matter.
‘I hope that it’s not too late. I know you don’t know me but…’
‘It’s OK. It’s not too late. Yes, I’m David Kincaid.’
‘I’m sorry… I shouldn’t be disturbing you like this… perhaps I… no, never mind. I’m sorry for disturbing you.’
Just before the click, the return to silence and the fruitless meanderings that my mind would take as to what the hell this was all about, I took the step that could allow the conversation, such as it was, to go on for at least a moment longer.
‘Not at all, Ms Hendry. I have just finished an article and was going to catch up on some emails. They can wait. How can I help you?’
Who knows, I thought. Best to sound busy and purposeful. She could be a fan. I didn’t mind the odd opportunity to burnish my hard fought for yet dwindling reputation. People did contact me from time to time and had something complimentary to say, unlike those package holiday merchants and assistant producers and their crazed fixation with deadlines. Or, you never knew, she could be someone organising a writers’ festival or workshop. A trip to a seaside resort town. A bunch of would-be writers eager for some insight from one who had made it. A few signed copies of my books (both of them) on sale in the foyer. Maybe even a dalliance with an entrancing young arts student with the face of the Capodimonte Danaë – one had one’s standards, after all.
Or, I thought, it could be someone who just needed to talk, even to a complete stranger. I’d been there. It wasn’t an echoing silence at those times; it was thundering, and to my surprise a stranger’s voice could alleviate the terror, even if only temporarily. What the hell. Just a moment more and I’d know.
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Kincaid.’
A pause.
Not this again. If she didn’t get on with it, I’d pass out and she’d be left to listen to my deep breathing punctuated by the occasional snore.
‘My husband and I would like to meet you. We were wondering if you might be interested in a… project, I suppose you could call it. You see, I read your articles whenever I see them. I first became aware of you with No Step Back. I thought it was absolutely riveting. I have never been able to forget it. How you found out he was in town at the time. How you tracked him down and got him to confess. It has stayed with me for years.’
Her animation ended as abruptly as it began. Before we got caught again in the trench warfare of pause and counter-pause, I jumped in.
‘You said “project”, Ms Hendry?’
‘Please, Cynthia. No one calls me Mrs Hendry and certainly not Ms Hendry. I’m sorry to be presumptuous but if you look us up – Bill and Cynthia Hendry – you’ll see that we lost our son some years ago. There was an inquest. The case is closed but I – we – want things to be looked at again. Goodness, this is really very embarrassing for me to say, but if you look us up you will see that we are… sorry, this sounds awful, but we would like to talk to you about this as a business proposition.’
‘A business proposition?’
‘Yes, you see, we want to engage you to review the case.’
‘I’m sorry Mrs… Cynthia, but I’m a writer not a private investigator. I wrote No Step Back but everything I’ve done since then has been quite different. Completely different.’
‘Surely not everything. You’ve written articles on other criminal cases as I recall.’
‘Colour pieces only. All the hard investigation was done by others.’
‘You’re being too modest.’
‘Few people would accuse me of that.’
‘Perhaps we could just meet?’
Reality walked into the apartment. Unbidden. Menacing. Always with that ‘I told you so’ smirk on its face with its features otherwise blurred beyond identification. And so I reasoned with myself: the Hendrys are loaded or so she intimates. A quick internet search will show that. They want to pay you money. You need money, you dope. Go to the damn meeting.
