"Excuse me, but are you Peter Bentwhistle?" the gentleman asked.
Suspicious of everything at the moment, and always more pessimistic than not, Peter suddenly became alert and aware of everything around him.
"I am," he replied cautiously.
The man offered out his hand.
"Good morning. I'm Oliver Burns, of Burns and Haybell solicitors."
Shaking the outstretched hand, Peter looked bemused.
"Nice to meet you."
"You don't know why I'm here?" asked Mr Burns.
"Sorry, no," replied Peter.
"We're handling Mr Hiscock's will."
"What has that got to do with me?"
"Mr Hiscock made you the sole executor of his will. You didn't know?"
"I had no idea," announced Peter, shocked.
"Well it's a little unusual," said Mr Burns, "but never mind. Basically Mr Hiscock left his whole estate to charity. There's some paperwork to do, and then you need to arrange for his possessions to go to the charity in question."
"Can I ask what the charity is?" Peter enquired.
"The children's hospital over on the other side of town."
Peter nodded thoughtfully.
"I wonder why he chose me?" he mused, out loud.
Mr Burns flipped open his paperwork and began to scan through it.
"Ahh... it says here, that as well as working for Cropptech, you are both of the same descent."
It was all Peter could do not to choke, as panic raced through every fibre of his body. He wanted to snatch the papers and destroy them, but instead stood very still, with everybody all around, watching.
Mr Burns studied the document in closer detail, before looking up. Peter's heart was in his mouth.
"Ah yes. Here it is. It says that you are both originally of Irish descent."
Relief, as well as steam, poured off Peter.
"That's right," confirmed Peter, "I'd forgotten I'd even told him about that."
"Well, that's cleared up why he selected you," said Mr Burns happily.
Before leaving the crematorium, Peter signed Mr Burns’ paperwork, and told him that he would go round to Mark's house and sort out his belongings. Mr Burns told Peter to make an appointment to see him once he was ready, and handed him Mark's house keys.
Having left the crematorium, Peter really couldn't face going back into work as he'd planned, so phoned and told them he'd be back on Tuesday, having already booked Monday off to attend the dragon funeral for Mark.
With the hockey having finished, the weekend passed really slowly, with odd jobs around the house that had been put off for months, the name of the game. Having ticked off nearly all the jobs from the list stored in his eidetic dragon memory, pleased with his day's work, he vowed that Sunday would be all about Mark's house.
After something of a Sunday morning lie in, Peter crawled out of bed, downcast at the thought of having to go to Mark's house to sort out all his belongings. It wasn't something he was looking forward to doing, and was compounded by the guilt that he felt for not having even thought about going to visit the sick dragon. If he could turn back time he'd have made much more of an effort, something of course we all wish we could do.
Making sure he had the keys to Mark's house, he drove with care through the quiet, suburban streets of Salisbridge. Turning into Romany Road, he tootled along with all the speed of a pensioner at the wheel, all the time keeping an eye out for number seventy-two. That was more difficult than it seemed because of wayward hedges, and the fact that some of the houses had names instead of numbers, so it was only when he reached number ninety that he realised he'd gone too far. Opting to park in a free space there rather than turn back around, knowing that he was only really going to be checking what was there rather than anything else, he headed back off down the street, looking for number seventy-two. Abruptly, the butterfly feeling he'd always associated with being bullied in the nursery ring, hit him like a sucker punch from a boxer. Scanning the immediate area, there was no sign of the nursery ring bullies.
It was then that he stopped dead in his tracks, the uneasy feeling in his stomach trebled. There, parked right outside number seventy-two, was the black Mercedes that Manson drove. He didn't even have to double check it. He was good with cars anyway, maybe because he had a fascination with them. That, combined with his eidetic memory, sent his stomach into a series of somersaults. Sweat starting to sting his eyes, and the thought of sticking out like a sore thumb in this quiet, leafy, suburban street, prompted him into action. Opening the gate and stepping onto the crazy paving path, Tank's words came bubbling back to him.
"I know you have it in you to stand up and be counted."
'Well,' he thought, taking the house key out of his pocket and lining it up with the lock on the door, 'I'm not at work at the moment, and I have every right to be here. So I WILL stand up for myself.'
Clutching the key tightly, he took a deep breath, and on deciding it was best to make as much noise as possible, he turned the key sharply in the lock and pushed open the door. Stepping over the threshold, he gazed down the long hallway, just making out the kitchen at the end. Out of the blue, a door halfway down the left hand side as Peter looked at it, snapped open, followed by the familiar sight of Manson, slapping his walking stick on the bare wooden floorboards as he moved. Framed by the open front door behind him, Peter stood still and waited for Manson's next move.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Manson sneered, his top lip wriggling like a caterpillar at a disco.
Using all his courage to compose himself, Peter replied,
"I might ask you the same question."
Manson appeared to consider his response carefully, something that set alarm bells ringing deep inside Peter's head.
"Mr Hiscock and I were friends," Manson said, changing his tone from disdain to blasé. "He even gave me a key," he added, holding one up that was identical to Peter's in every way.
"Still doesn't explain what you're doing here."
Manson's tone turned back to one of contempt, screwing up his face as he replied.
"I lent Hiscock a book and wanted to retrieve it before it was thrown out. It's very important and has been in my family for generations."
"Where is it then?" asked Peter, trying desperately to sound confident, even though that's not at all how he felt.
"It doesn't appear to be here," Manson said with murder in his eyes. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."
"I'm the executor of Mark's will. I'm here to sort out his things," replied Peter smugly.
A tense silence enveloped the hallway. Manson appeared to be weighing up his options. Seconds passed as both stood in silence, glaring at one another. Finally a look of resignation crossed Manson's face.
"I'll be going now. If you find my book, give it away with the rest of the stuff," he quipped, barging past Peter on his way out.
Peter stood in the entrance, watching him go. As Manson reached the pavement, he turned and shouted back to Peter, a mean expression imprinted on his face.
"I expect I'll see you at work."
Standing stock still, Peter watched as the black Mercedes tore off down the street, narrowly missing a cyclist.
Shutting the front door and making sure it was locked from the inside, Peter wandered back down the hall and into the room that Manson had just come out of. Unmistakeably it was the living room, but it looked as though a hurricane had cut a path through it. Books were strewn across the floor, DVD's littered the sofa, some open, all mixed up. The cupboard doors on the dresser were open, with the entire contents emptied out onto the carpet in front of it. A very odd and powerful smell seemed to be ingrained in just about everything.