Midnight Rose

Joe Abbot

Description

Midnight Rose is a fast moving tale of mystery, secrecy and conspiracy, with themes of violence, alcoholism and romance. Samantha Jordan enlists the help of Harry Blake to sort out some mysterious information from her past. Harry lurches from clue to clue, before eventually stumbling on the shocking truth.

Informations

• Publié par: Help For Writers Ltd
• Date de parution: 21 octobre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781910823118
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © Joe Abbot 2017
Published by H4W, Leicester, England
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without writtenpermission of the author.
All trademarks are acknowledged.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-910823-11-8
www.helpforwriters.me
for Mother and Father
23 Nov 2016
Midnight Rose.
Chapter 1
August 2009
The gun lay heavily on my mind as I drove to the graveyard. It also lay heavily in my inside pocket.
As I entered the cemetery car park, I caught a glimpse of a blonde goddess as she drew her legs into the back of a Bentley Continental and slammed the door. It happened so fast that it was nothing more than a half-seen blur of red lips, blue eyes and golden hair.
Well, hello and goodbye. I’ll never see you again.
I parked outside the chapel, took the bunch of roses from the passenger seat and set off for Becky’s oak tree.
It was a beautiful day with a high sun and a deep blue sky. Birds sang in the trees and hopped across the branches. It took me back to years ago, when on a day like this, we’d be starting the car and heading for the countryside. Not today though. Today would be another miserable day. A third anniversary of total regret.
Her gravestone was a simple chiselled cross with her name, Rebecca Blake, 2004-2007.
We had intended to replace the cross with something a bit grander but had never agreed an alternative.
I removed Barbara’s wilted yellow tulips and rinsed out the vase at the nearby standpipe.
Kneeling in the shade of that solitary oak, I placed the roses into the vase then looked up at the sun shining through the branches. This was a day for the beach, the nature reserve or the amusement park.
I stared at the gravestone of our daughter, our child, our gift to the world.
Then, as always, came the bitterness and the recriminations. A man without a family is a man without a soul. A man without a soul is nothing. Nothing!
That thought condemned me. I took the gun out of my pocket. The voices stopped. I spun the chamber. One bullet. It was all I had. It was all I’d ever need.
Once again, I put the gun to my temple and, once again, I hung there in the moment.
This was my passport to life, up for renewal once a fortnight. Once every fourteen days with only a thought between me and eternity.
“Go on, pull the trigger!”
A million voices, endless inner voices.
“Go on! Shoot!”
I looked up at the tree. A gentle breeze played through the leaves.
What makes a man pull the trigger on everything he’s ever known? His thoughts, his loves, his dreams. What overrides the will to live? That brief, catastrophic impulse that darts from brain to finger. That short trip down the arm into oblivion. I knelt there halfway between a yes and a no.
After a few seconds, I lowered the gun and stared at it. A black revolver, with sweat from my hands dripping from the ring at the bottom of the wooden stock. My hands shook. My whole body trembled.
I put the gun back into my pocket. The decision had belonged to the moment and the moment had passed.
Immediately, the blame game returned, shouting and prodding. I shook my head in a useless attempt to forestall the inevitable, and I was just about to dive deeper into the torture chamber when I heard a fuss coming from the direction of the car park.
I stood up and looked over my shoulder. An elderly man stood scratching his head and staring down at his wheel. The Bentley Continental had a flat rear tyre, and the old boy was cursing his luck.
“Look at the damn thing! Bloody flat!”
I was in no mood to help and I almost ignored him. But the glimpse of the blonde had returned to my mind, and the next thing I knew, I was across there and standing alongside him.
His face brightened. “Can you change it? I would be ever so grateful.”
I pointed to the rescue badge on his windscreen. “Why don’t you phone them?”
“I can’t afford to wait. You do it. I’ll pay you.”
Before I could reply, he slid into the front seat, fiddled with a switch, and the rear-end came up smoothly on a pair of hydraulic jacks.
To hell with it. Why should I help? I was on the verge of telling him that he couldn’t expect to buy everything. But now that I had decided once more to stay in this world of wars, pestilence and shattered dreams, I might as well try to make it a better place.
He handed me the wheel brace. I took off my jacket. “Okay, I’ll do it for you.”
He smiled. “I have to think of the ladies, you see. They have to get home in good time.”
The ladies he referred to sat in the back of the car, their features obscured by the darkened windows. As they turned to each other to exchange a nod or a word, I could see that the blonde was much younger than the other woman.
I rolled up my sleeves and set about tackling the job I’d been volunteered to do, and after loosening the nuts, I made sharp work of removing the punctured wheel.
“I can change a wheel, you know,” the man said, “But I must keep clean for the reception.” He offered his hand. “I’m Clarence, Clarence Jordan.”
“I’m Harry Blake.” I shook his hand, which was cool and dry. His face was sunburned, and he had a spare, wiry build. “This is a great car you’ve got, Clarence. I like the paintwork.”
“You like green, do you?”
“I like two-tone green, especially light over dark.”
“It’s a fifty-nine Continental Flying Spur. Body by Mulliner. Strictly speaking, it’s not mine, it’s Father’s. We’ve just said goodbye to the old boy, so he won’t use it again. I suppose its Mother’s now. That’s the thing about belonging to a long-lived family. By the time the silver comes down to you it’s antique.”
“I bet she’s still fast.”
“Massive engine. Bags of power.”
“Massive thirst?”
“What can you expect with five litres under the bonnet? Is that your car by the gate? The charcoal grey?”
“It’s a Vanden Plas, Four litres.”
“What year is it?”
“Sixty-eight.”
He took out a silver cigarette case. “It’s a nice looking car. Cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke. I gave up a while ago.” I levered the spare wheel over the studs. “This won’t take long.”
“So, young Harry,” he said, leaning against the wing, “What’s a young man like you doing in the middle of a graveyard?”
“Me? Just call me lucky.”
“Not booking in, I hope.”
I pointed across to the oak tree. “My daughter’s grave is over there. I wish it was me instead of her. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh dear, that’s awful. How old was she?”
“Three.”
He shook his head. “Dreadful.”
“It was a boating accident. Sort of.”
“I say, Harry.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s my thirty-fifth birthday today.”
“I won’t wish you happy birthday.”
I nodded towards the ladies. “It’s a sad time for all of us.”
“Indeed it is. Like I said, I’ve just lost my father. It was his time. He was ninety.”
“That’s a good age.”
“It is. We’re a long-lived family. We have good genes.” He brushed some dust from his sleeve. “I think I’ll have to buy myself a new black suit. I’m seventy. How’s that for optimism?”
“I had to borrow one for Becky’s funeral. I would buy a new one, but it seems like tempting fate.”
“Young people don’t realise their luck. As soon as you hit about sixty, you start going to funerals. Of course that’s in an ideal world; it’s a shame about your little girl.” He thought for a moment. “Not much call for black suits in a hot country like Greece, although that used to be the fashion. I’ve been in Greece for twenty-five years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Not if you’re an anthropologist, which I’ve been for forty-five years. I had to come back for the funeral. Mother’s upset.”
“She’s bound to be.”
“Quite. That’s her in the back seat with Samantha; she’s my niece, my younger brother’s daughter.”
Staring down, he flicked some ash from the knee of his trousers. “He’s long gone, too, and well before his time. Edward was only forty-five. No age at all.”
He took a long draw on his cigarette. “He’s been gone more than fifteen years. I feel very concerned for Samantha. If anything were to happen to mother or me she’d be left on her own.”
“How old is she?”
“Mother? She’s ninety-two. She’s a bit doddery, but she’s all there.”
“No, I meant Samantha.”
“She’s twenty-one. She’s had it a bit rough, lately.”
He went quiet for a minute. I looked up, thinking he had gone, but he was still there with a faraway look in his eyes.
“She’s had it a bit rough,” he repeated.
I gave the wheel nuts a last turn and replaced the hubcap. “There you are. Job done.”
“And I’m very grateful to you, Harry.” He pulled out a wallet. “I’ll have to give you a cheque. Will fifty pounds do?”
“No, it’s alright. I’m pleased I could help.”
“Not half as pleased as I am. I’ll have to give you something.”
“Give me happiness. Can you do that?”
“Of course I can. Would you like a single or a double?”
“I’ve tried that. Maybe I should try it again.”
“I can’t give you happiness, Harry. Only time can do that. Time and a good digestion.”
He dropped the cigarette end and ground it into the dirt. “I’ll tell you what I can do. What have you got on for the rest of the afternoon?”
I hadn’t planned that far ahead.
“I think I’ll go to see my wife. My soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“Ah, the child’s mother. Where does she live?”
“Shepperton. I live in Redhill.”
“Shepperton?” A mischievous look came over his face. “That’s just round the corner from us. We’re in Virginia Water.” He looked at his watch. “It’s only two o’clock. Come with us and have a tot. What do you say?”
I hadn’t socialised properly for a long time, and lunch had not been in my plans. I looked at the Bentley. The younger woman’s profile was barely visible through the shaded glass. I could see that her golden hair was taken up at the back and her head moved gently as s