by JJ Marsh
I had dinner at Simone’s house with a bunch of awful, self-interested bores and found her husband actually chilling. What she calls his ‘sense of humour’ is anything but funny. He’s callous, cynical, and I rarely say this about anyone, but he has evil in his heart. No one even attempted to organise the New Year’s Eve party, but just to give myself an excuse, I booked a flight out on 30 December. I do still love my friends but could only cope with one at a time after what happened.
Gael refused my invitation to spend a day together, saying she was reducing her carbon footprint. We talked on the phone instead but I can sense her resentment. There’s nothing I can say, no explanation she would accept.
I spoke to Shemu and Asuwema this evening, in their separate rooms of course. I told them both that sometimes, being excluded from a situation is for a good reason. In some cases, their sacrifice saves the rest. In others, they are spared from circumstances they do not deserve. I blew each a kiss, told them to sleep and locked the door till the morning.
Chapter 28: Mika, Two Years Later
On my computer, I use a master password. You can’t write it down or record it anywhere, because if you get hacked, access to your emails, bank accounts, work sites and even your grocery shopping is open to all. My password is committed to memory. It saves me typing in my ID for all the platforms and apps I use.
The remote socialising app we developed two years ago was the single thing that got my company through the crisis. People still want to connect especially when they are forced to keep their distance. Even when the restrictions were lifted, the app remained popular.
We’re not having a university reunion this year, remotely or in person. Thank God. Just the thought of trying to avoid the elephant in the room is unbearable. I doubt I’ll ever see them again.
Clark is playing happy families in Canada and good luck to him. He fled to the furthest point he could find to quash any suggestion of visitors. Not that any of us would try. After all, he was the first to run.
Lovisa sent a group message saying she was only in Geneva for one week, flying back to Malawi on 30 December to spend New Year with her volunteer team. She’s an amazing woman. Her new ‘family’ of vulnerable charges are lucky to have such a Mother Theresa. I wrote back, wishing her a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Gael sent a thumbs-up emoji. No one else replied.
To know what is happening with Simone, you’d need to read certain kinds of gossip sites. Her second husband is on the board of one of Switzerland’s biggest banks. Even if the events of two years ago had never happened, she would have dropped us eventually. Her social circle does not include ex-university mates/conspirators.
The only one I worry about is Gael. Journalists with good memories and emotional intelligence eventually figure things out for themselves. That’s why I keep in touch, sending her silly memes about the current state of European politics and checking in at birthdays. If she has any questions about what happened on the first of January two years ago, I want her to come to me first. For her sake, I hope she never does.
Passwords should be memorable but not obvious. Meaningless to anyone but the five of us. Mine is 1999OddNumbers2019.
Chapter 29: Gael, Two Years Later
It’s a strange sense of sadness when you lose a friend. Not through sudden death or terminal illness, just the knowledge they want you out of their lives. When Clark told me he would come to Brussels to visit, it was a cushion to soften the blow. He wanted out, permanently. That hurt, but I couldn’t blame him.
My familiar connection to Lovisa and Simone fractured along with their friendship. Sisters in every way but blood, they were now distant acquaintances in fewer than twenty-four months. That hurt us all. Lovisa poured all her maternal feelings into her work and the beneficiaries of that huge heart are very lucky people. Simone’s feelings, if they can be described as such, are entirely self-interested. After the pandemic was over, I travelled to Geneva over half a dozen times for my job, but never saw either of them. There was not a whiff of future reunions. Our entire closeness had been based on a fallacy. What was the point?
Mika and I remain in contact, albeit loosely. That makes sense. He wanted a thin line of cotton linking us, so that when I worked it out, I’d talk to him. He underestimates me. I worked it out long ago and went two steps further. If I was about to blow the whistle, the last person I’d go to would be Mika.
Simone and Lovisa thought I bought their story. Mika wasn’t sure. Clark knew I didn’t. He understood me better than most. That’s why he left when he did. He sussed that if I hadn’t clicked yet, it wouldn’t take me long. The thing that still makes my throat contract is that he locked me in my bedroom while they did what they did and got rid of the evidence. He gave me a bottle of Bailey’s and an alibi. He made sure I wasn’t there.
I’ll never be certain exactly how they did it. Frankly, I’d rather not speculate. It can’t have been easy, with Clark’s arm in a sling and Lovisa wearing a bandage, so I’m guessing Mika was the workhorse and the others acted as restraints. My research shows the camper van was returned to the hire car company on the first of January at 09.47. The CCTV shows a tall Caucasian male dropping the keys into a post box. A Volvo pulls up behind; the driver gets out and into the passenger seat. The tall man gets in and drives them both away. You can’t see their faces clearly and the Volvo’s number plate is conveniently obscured by snow. Unless you knew them, you’d never be able to identify either. The video quality was crap, but I recognised them both.
The body, to my knowledge, has never been found. Believe me; I still check every Swiss news site before I open my emails. I would know. No unidentified Asian male’s corpse has turned up on a ski slope, in a crevasse, buried under a boulder or even sunk to the bottom of a lake. It will, one day. And then, perhaps, we’ll have closure. Or not.
I know what they did. I don’t know how but the one thing I do understand is why. Because I wanted to do the same thing.
As for pursuing this as a story, no chance. Not because it’s not newsworthy, it’s bloody gold dust. I just can’t take the risk. How shitty would I be to expose my friends? How stupid to implicate myself? How far would my old mates go to keep their secret? I think I can answer that for myself.
So the narrative remains the same. A tragic accident in 1999. Two decades later, a bizarre night of confusion, bitterness and anger, which put an end to our reunions. Enough is enough. Time to move on.
Anyway, what do I know? I wasn’t there.
Message from JJ Marsh
I hope you enjoyed Odd Numbers, my first foray into psychological drama.
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Here's the first chapter of my next psychological drama Wolf Tones, coming to you later this year.
Wolf Tones
By JJ Marsh
Chapter 1
The call came just before six. He was tempted not to answer as he was rehearsing the final movement of Bach’s Suite No. 5 in C minor. But he put his instrument aside and picked up the telephone.
They had seen him perform. They were impressed. They extended an invitation to audition. He received the news with humility and expressed his astonishment, acknowledging the honour. He said he was surprised. Shocked, in fact. That was what they expected to hear, of course. They warned him not to get his hopes up. It was an audition, nothing more.
Rolf assured them he understood. He would take this in his stride. In truth that was an understatement. He could barely breathe as excitement and escape routes from his current situation thundered through his mind like freight trains, whistling their potential.
He pulled his attention back to the handset. He remembered to say thank you when they wished him luck and ended the call. He paced the tin
y apartment, seeing nothing but the carnival in his head. In three weeks his life could change forever. Our lives, he corrected himself. Should he call her and tell her the news immediately? Or wait till she got home? He would calm down, cook a celebratory meal and tell her over a glass of wine. He couldn’t wait to see her face; glowing in the knowledge her faith in him was validated. He grabbed his jacket and ran down four flights of stairs, so light on his feet he seemed to be flying. The stench of boiled cabbage and mould didn’t touch him because his mind was already sampling coffee and pastries at a riverside café.
At the supermarket, he grabbed a packet of pork chops at 20% off and a bottle of Hungarian red. Whether it was any good, he had no idea. That was yet another area where Leonor’s expertise exceeded his. But if I get the job ... he corrected himself again, thinking positively. When I get the job, we’ll drink wine every day! He broke into a jog on the return journey, for no other reason than an excess of energy.
The sparse and cramped apartment, which usually depressed him when he opened the front door, failed to bring him down today. He stood at the threshold, mentally transforming it into their new quarters. Instead of one room doing double duty as his study by day and living room in the evening, he would have a music room of his own with French windows opening onto a lawn. Strains of Mendelssohn would float across the grass as wild birds added their natural accompaniment. Their kitchen would be the size of this whole apartment, an island in the centre where Leonor would experiment with fresh ingredients she had bought at full price. They’d have a wine rack and expensive cookware and Turkish rugs and a group of young, talented friends round for dinner.
He put the wine and the cheap chops on the small kitchen table under the window which served as their dining room and found an out-of-date packet of instant mashed potato in the cupboard. Even his limited culinary skills were up to chopping an onion and making a sauce for the meat. She would come home to a feast, at least by their standards. He put some Bartok on the stereo and hummed along as he cooked.
This was his moment to win; he just knew it in his gut. He was hungry for success. There was a time when he considered this apartment a step up, but now he could see it for what it was. A step up for him, a long fall down for her. Comparisons with her ancestral home were a waste of time, but he couldn’t help thinking of those crenellated towers, the buttressed walls, the huge works of art, the grand piano, the stables, the sweeping gardens down to the lake. Now she was reduced to three parsimonious rooms they could barely afford on his orchestra pittance and her income as a music teacher.
Her sense of humour had kept them going. She would make him laugh by describing the apartment in real estate agent terms. Bag a Bargain in Bratislava! A bijou residence in an up-and-coming suburb, with a view of three countries and even if you can’t quite see the Danube, you can smell the brewery. He’d join in, describing the rooms as if finding some joy in their failings. From the roof of their block you could see three countries, that much was true. To the north-east, the rest of Slovakia. That blue haze to the south was the border with Hungary and a mere twenty-minute journey to the west lay Austria, land of Schnitzel, confectionery and Mozart.
Austria! Things were about to change. This was a new reality. He’d been invited to audition. That kind of opportunity comes once in a lifetime and he would not let it get away. A sharp pain made him wince. Blood seeped from a cut on his index finger, contrasting with the white chopping board and the thinly sliced onion. Her voice rang in his ears, as clearly as if she were in the room. Look out for your hands, Rolf! Treat them gently. They are your instruments. He wrapped a tissue around his finger and focused on what he was doing. Making her a meal was an act of love. Her idea of an act of love involved more energy, bare skin and sometimes a little seasoning, but fewer ingredients. Just him and her.
He ignored the pulse in his groin and opened the window before he started frying the onions. Leonor hated coming home to the smell of cooking. She said she smelt it all day at school and home should be a rest from a constant assault on her senses. Delicate aromas of pear or sweet peas, subtle tastes such as smoked salmon and most importantly for her ears, silence. He checked his watch and switched off the string quartet. She was due any time in the next twenty minutes.
Because it was a Friday evening, she should be in a better mood than usual. She would enjoy the meal, rejoice at his news and sitting at the kitchen table, plan the audition strategy. She’d know what pieces to choose, how best to show off his skills. If it weren’t for her, he’d still be a mediocre violinist.
Leonor had always watched him closely. She was the first to notice his upper body strength and long thing fingers would be better suited to the cello. It has a depth, a melancholy. Just like you. You just need to spread your legs a little wider. His groin twitched again as he recalled her mouth splitting into a wicked smile.
Leonor was the one who found him the best teacher. An ageing virtuoso who had long since refused new apprentices, he made an exception for her. ‘Your father was a great friend to me. We can come to an arrangement,’ he told her, with that simian smile. Rolf recalled those long afternoons with Jakobisku with little fondness, if he were honest. The man’s revolting face snapping out criticism and contempt, exacerbated by the scent of mothballs and body odour made each lesson last an eternity. Yet the younger man’s talent had flourished under his tutelage and although it was impossible to deny his mentor’s influence, Rolf was coming into his own. He shook himself. Time to focus on mashed potato.
The door slammed shut just as he was uncorking the wine. His nerves fluttered, listening for any sounds to indicate her mood. Keys left in the lock, not flung at the wall. Coat and shoes off inside the door, bag rested on the floor, not dropped from a height. All good signs. He poured two glasses and waited for her to appear.
Leonor von Rosenheim stood at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the door jamb, her expression quizzical. “What’s all this?”
He’d been rehearsing what to say from the moment he put down the phone, but now he just drank her in. Her lean, muscular form, her strong jaw and that incredible pair of dark brows arching over her hooded eyes. Even when she came home to him every night, even though she had an insatiable need for his body, he still couldn’t believe his luck. Leonor von Rosenheim, who could have had anyone she wanted, chose him.
“Whatever’s in that pan is burning,” she said, flicking her gaze to the stove. He flipped the chops, turned down the gas and handed her a glass of wine.
“I had a call today,” he said, remembering his lines.
Her voice dropped as her pupils dilated. “A call? Tell me more.”
“I’ll tell you everything. Sit. We’re having pork chops with mash and onion gravy. And a glass of Bull’s Blood.”
Their eyes locked as they drank, a smile teasing the edges of her mouth. He folded up two pieces of kitchen towel as napkins, splattered a dollop of mash on each plate, added a chop and poured over the gravy. He closed the window so the draught would not ruin the ambience and sat opposite her, failing to suppress his grin.
She thanked him for the meal and sliced into the chop. “This is exactly what I needed. The food, the wine and the good news. Come on, then. You got a call. Don’t tease me,” she said, looking under her eyelashes.
He swallowed and tried not to get overexcited. “The board of an orchestra telephoned. They asked me to an audition. This is my chance, Leonor. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
She placed her cutlery on the table and clasped her hands to her cheeks, her eyes lit up by the light over the stove. “An audition? So soon? That is the best news! Na zdravie, my love! I am so happy for you! Here’s to the Windy City!”
His glass kissed hers and they drank, holding each other’s gaze.
“Can you believe it? I’ll have to rehearse like crazy and choose pieces to demonstrate what I can do, but we can work on that together.”
She scooped up some potato and gravy, her expression
intense. “Yes, we need to choose carefully, look at their suggestions and repertoire. Then we rehearse as if our lives depend on it. How long do we have?”
He picked up his chop to gnaw the meat from the bone. “Three weeks. They’re paying my fare and hotel, so we don’t need to worry about finances.”
She stopped chewing and took a swallow of wine. “Three weeks? Are they crazy? We won’t even be able to get visas in that time!”
“Visas? Why would I need a visa for Austria? They’re paying first class train travel from here to Salzburg. I will have a compartment to myself and can keep my cello by my side the whole time. In Salzburg, I have a hotel for two nights, one before the audition and one after. I suppose the second night is in case I get a recall.”
Seconds ticked past as she stared at her plate, saying nothing. He replayed his response, questioning himself. Was he being insensitive? He had only stated the truth.
She resumed eating, flashing him a bright smile. “This pork chop is delicious. Did you make the sauce yourself?”
“It’s not as good as one of yours, I know, but for a kitchen amateur, I was pleased. You know, we could probably afford another ticket if you wanted to come too.”
“We could. If I used up the money for the gas bill and bought no groceries for three weeks, we could stretch to a second-class seat for me to accompany you. While you recline in your compartment with your own private butler. Maybe I’ll just stay here and defrost the fridge.”
They ate in silence until their plates were empty. He racked his brains to think of a way to recover the ambience but failed.
She spoke first. “If you pass the audition, then what?”
“When I pass the audition,” he gave her a hesitant grin, still wary of her temper. “Then I’ll start on the bottom rung. But even at that level, we’ll have a bigger, nicer apartment, because the orchestra have accommodation for its members. You can still teach because Salzburg is filled with music students and I’ll work like crazy to become a first cellist. We can go up in the world! I mean, back up in the world in your case. It’s what we’ve always wanted, no?” He waited for her to lift her gaze from her plate, hoping for the best.