“That’s right.”
“You’re alive?”
“That’s correct.”
“But… But… How? Why?” Fred spluttered as his face continued to grow redder and redder.
V I I I
Norman leaned down to the clock on the mantlepiece and looked closely at it. There — right in the centre — he could see the tiny hole in the face. Nestled on the other side, the latest in surveillance equipment staring right back at his face. With a buzz of excitement he hurried from the room and retired to one of the spare rooms; a room so infrequently used he often kept it locked.
Inside the room was a full set up of monitors — each capturing a different part of the house from the front door right the way through to the rear of the property. Wherever someone was, he would be able to keep an eye on them and — thanks to the audio recording equipment — he’d be able to hear them too. A cunning plan to see — and hear — what people really thought of him; a plan devised with the help of his solicitor when he admitted to struggling about what to do with his Will.
“There is one thing we could do,” Graham had said, “but you might think it somewhat extreme. It all depends on how desperate you are to ensure the money goes to the right person,” he continued.
Graham had helped Norman obtain the equipment and he even helped arrange the fake funeral and send out the invitations to the wake. Some of Norman’s most trusted staff — such as the butler — being on hand to help out too; the promise of a bonus payment in their monthly wage if they kept the whole thing secret. Graham — and some of the staff — had been instrumental in the keeping up of appearances and all for a very modest fee.
Norman didn’t mind paying the fee. It meant he got to see how his ‘guests’ behaved at the funeral. It gave him the opportunity to decide who to give the money to and who to cut from his life completely; clear the freeloading scum out, so to speak. And — with the final camera set up in the clock — it was time. All he needed to do now was ‘die’ and go away for a bit. The butler made the call to the families whilst Graham made the necessary arrangements with the funeral home and cemetery to ensure all were paid off and happy to go along with the scheme.
It couldn’t have gone any better. It was like a well-oiled machine. A well-oiled, well-financed machine at that.
I X
Fred was sitting in his beat-up car. Jude was sitting next to him. Neither were saying anything; both lost in their own little worlds, staring through the car windows. Fred’s mind was contemplating what he was going to do now. He had counted on that money to pay off some debts and live his life, never really finding his own success. He presumed that — one day — it would land in his lap. He just needed to be patient. That chance was gone now. His brother had made that very clear when he booted Fred — and the other freeloaders — from the house informing them they’d never receive a sniff of what he had to offer in the Will; superseded with a long lecture about how he’d been watching the reactions of the guests in the other room. Norman had referred to them all as parasites and bottom-feeders and then promptly kicked them out, telling them they were not welcome back. Fred had lost the money. Fred had lost his brother. The cash upset him.
Jude’s own little world — the one she was lost in now — had been much simpler when she had first met Fred. He had been drinking in the bar she waitressed at. He was as drunk as a skunk, moaning about his millionaire brother not helping him out with a business plan he had thought of. A drunken ramble wishing for his brother’s demise so he could inherit the money and do with it as he saw fit. Seeing the state he was in, Jude had helped him home that night and ended up staying with him — listening to stories of what he would do with that cash as his hands ran over her tight body.
Now — with no chance of the money coming their way — her mind consisted of the one nagging thought, How much does a divorce cost?
T H E E N D
Lost Love
I
“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asked between mouthfuls of his dinner, lovingly prepared by his wife Anne. He was talking to Frankie, his eldest daughter at nineteen years old. Steve had noticed she had been quiet all day. It was hard not to. They worked together in a vape/e cig shop and usually it has hard to get her to quieten down. But today she had hardly said a word. She had just kept staring at her phone whenever the shop was empty of customers.
“Nothing,” Frankie said.
The family was sitting at the dining room table; Anne and Steve — the parents — and the two children, Frankie and her younger sister, Billie-Jo. Frankie had been pushing her food around her plate for the last ten minutes; actions which hadn’t gone unnoticed by Anne or Steve.
Steve had had enough. She had been miserable in front of the customers and now she was creating a bad atmosphere at the dinner table.
“Nothing?” he pushed her. “You have a face like a badger’s arse and you’re saying there’s nothing wrong?”
“What does that even mean?” Frankie asked, irritated she was even having this conversation in the first place. She just wanted to be left alone to her own private thoughts. It was only because her mum insisted she ate something that she had even bothered to come down from her room.
“Shaun’s ignoring her texts,” Billie-Jo said with a smirk on her face.
“Shut up!” Frankie hissed. Billie-Jo stuck her tongue out at her, happy to have one up on her sister. Billie-Jo was your typical teenager. She hardly ever left her room, she hated school, was definitely mouthy but also had a good sense of humour — when she wasn’t being a wind-up merchant.
“His phone’s probably out of charge,” said Anne.
Just as Billie-Jo was your typical teenager, Anne and Steve were your typical parents. Steve was the big burly bloke who liked to take the piss out of everyone — usually with many explicits involved — and Anne was the calming parent who went out of her way to be nice to everyone. They were like chalk and cheese yet — somehow — as a couple, they just worked.
“Or he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Steve laughed. Frankie gave him a ‘fuck you’ look without actually saying the words. Her dad’s language was sometimes described as colourful but he still probably wouldn’t have been very appreciative if his daughter had sworn at him. He gave her a playful smile.
They had been dating a while now — Frankie and Shaun — and, although they might not have been able to talk every day, they at least shared text messages. She couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been in touch with her throughout the day. Even if he hadn’t been able to use his phone — for whatever reason — he still would have somehow got word to her, explaining his silence.
“Maybe he’s practising for a gig?” Anne offered another — kinder — suggestion than her husband’s.
Shaun was the singer of a band called ‘The Always’ — a band struggling to find their way in the world of mainstream music despite performing as many gigs as they could. By day his life was slightly less glamorous as he paid the bills by painting and decorating. The single thought keeping him going that — one day — his music would take off; an optimistic quality that Frankie both loved and respected.
“He’s not normally this quiet,” Frankie said.
“Well have you tried calling him?” Anne asked.
“Yes. It goes straight to voice-mail.” She paused for a split second before continuing with, “And yes I left a message!” She knew it would have been the next question from her mum’s mouth. Frankie put her knife and fork down. She pushed herself away from the table and stood up.