Dark Oceans

by Mark Macrossan

  Totally obvious and totally simple, and how often did the two go together?

  So he got to work as soon as he returned and spent the following week targeting shares and real estate and the following month acting on his hunches and investing most of the million pounds. It was a healthy amount, enough to more than supplement his now modest and fast-shrinking income at the Bar. He could get by, in other words, even without his practice recovering. And then it occurred to him that he may as well create the impression he had a busy practice, even if he didn’t – he could have quite a comfortable time of it while he waited for things to improve. It was a perfect set-up, if he could keep it going. If no-one came to collect what was rightfully theirs.

  And no-one did.

  And for a while, with nothing compelling him to improve his practice, nothing changed. And the longer nothing changed, the more he realised he needed to hide that fact. He needed to continue the impression of a busy practice so that his real practice still had a chance of rekindling. And thus his temporary double-life began in earnest, and for a while he found himself proactively constructing this new, fake practice, complete with fake briefs, fake solicitors and fake clients. It was tiring, but necessary (and it paid well!). In the meantime, he could tell no-one the truth. Not even Tiffany. Barely even himself.

  Eventually, his plan worked. People are attracted to success; confidence is the best kind of come-on. And so genuine briefs began to trickle in, solicitors he’d never heard of began to call him. The trickle turned to a flow. The flow became a flood and his double-life was over. He was, at last, a successful barrister. He no longer needed the million pounds of investments and he gradually forgot about them.

  He should have followed it up with the Bank at the time. He should have been upfront about it. And assuming it wasn’t the result of a rich uncle’s demise, which it clearly wasn’t, he should have directed that the moneys be returned to whomever had transferred them. It was obviously too late now.

  One of the reasons he’d forgotten about the whole business with the money was that he’d treated it as being all in the past. He was wrong though. Because your past was never truly in the past: it was never fully passed. It was as much a part of the present as the dark clouds out your window.

  And now, had it caught up with him?

  9.

  About an hour after speaking to Ry, something very odd occurred. Jon’s desk telephone rang: it was Belle, on reception, telling him his client had arrived. But he didn’t have any conferences scheduled, he told her. Who was it? Hang on, Belle said, she’d check. And then moments later: she’s gone. Who? Who’s gone? The client, Emerald. Emerald? But he didn’t have any clients called Emerald. Emerald who? And where has she gone? Just Emerald, and Belle had no idea where she’d gone, she’d just gone.

  ‘Also, she’s…’ Belle began, but trailed off.

  ‘She’s what.’

  ‘I don’t know how to put it.’

  Very illuminating, so he left it at that.

  And then about fifteen minutes later, he saw her. He watched her as she walked into reception – he’d been talking to another barrister, Greg Burnham as it happened, and as if they both had the same radar system, they turned their heads simultaneously. Her eyes were what he noticed first, and as soon as he saw her, he knew it was the mystery caller, Emerald. There was something out of the ordinary, something not quite real about her. And not just because her eyes matched her name, but she even walked as though she were acting a role. As if she were auditioning for something. So was he the director? Or the audience?

  She had straight black hair that was so shiny it looked as though she’d stepped out of a shampoo advertisement. But it wasn’t her hair that had him spellbound, it was those bright green eyes…

  After confirming her identity with Belle – Belle had a glint in her eye that said See what I mean? – he walked over to where his visitor was seated.

  ‘Emerald…?’

  She looked up and didn’t smile, just nodded and gathered her things, she was down to business immediately. Or acting like it. When she was standing – she was almost as tall as Jon – she held out her hand and introduced herself.

  ‘Emerald Strand. Could we speak in private please?’

  She had an accent of some kind, although it was difficult to place: maybe German, or even Spanish, but he really had no idea.

  She hadn’t yet taken the seat that he’d shown her to when they walked in, she was just standing, looking out the window. What on earth was she looking at, the grey solitude of the sky? Or the miserable citizens below, going about their quotidian routines? Perhaps she was seeing problems in the clouds? If so, the problems, were they hers or someone else’s? Was she looking into the past, or into the future?

  ‘Ms Strand…’

  She turned and looked at him, and shot him a steely stare – an icy reception, if ever he’d experienced one. And he’d had some pretty tricky clients in his time.

  ‘Please. Have a seat.’

  Finally, she sat down. As she settled in, he looked across his desk at her. She was possibly thirty years old. She had Eurasian-shaped eyes, and yet they were green. Straight hair that was jet black, yet as light and silk-like as if it were blonde. The features of a northern European, but with the dark complexion of a honey-skinned Brazilian. Combined with her accent, she was one glorious contradiction.

  ‘It’s Miss, incidentally,’ she said.

  ‘Right―’

  ‘But call me Emerald.’

  ‘Emerald. Perhaps you’d better tell me what this is about.’

  She looked at him as if he’d just said the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.

  ‘I have to tell you,’ he went on. ‘I don’t normally take on cases without a solicitor attached and it may be better if, to begin with, you were to see―’

  ‘This is not a case, Mr Marriner.’

  ‘Or advice. Same thing. You’ll need to do this through a solicitor.’

  She was silent for a moment. Regrouping, he assumed.

  ‘Yes, well,’ she said. ‘I’m not here for your advice either. I’m here to advise you.’

  ‘Advise me. OK. That certainly makes it easy. So what is it that you want to advise me?’

  There was another awkward pause, as if this woman was trying to work out what she wanted to tell him. Or was in the process of making it up…

  ‘It’s about your sister,’ she said, finally. ‘In part.’

  ‘My sister? I don’t have a sister. Maybe there’s some mistake here…’

  ‘You are Jonathon Marriner? The barrister? There aren’t any others are there?’

  ‘No. But I’m telling you. I have no sister.’

  She didn’t respond, and there was a sadness about her. As he looked into her green eyes – now more deep-sea dark than gemstone bright – he was momentarily overcome by a feeling of vertigo. It was strange, like everything else about this woman. Strange and beautiful and rare.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘it might help if you were to tell me a little bit about yourself. You know. Just the basics.’

  ‘The basics.’ She smiled, but it was at him, he felt, not with him.

  ‘Not your life story or anything, just…’ She wasn’t making this easy. ‘Your name I know, so… Can I ask what you do for a living?’

  ‘I am Danish. Courtesy of my father. Hence the surname, Strand.’

  ‘OK. And what about your―

  ‘Also courtesy of the fact that I was born in Copenhagen Although I can tell you, I haven’t lived in Denmark for a very long time.’ She nodded, by way of conclusion.

  And that, for now, appeared to be all he was going to get.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘You don’t look Danish by the way.’

  ‘You can thank my Ukrainian mother for that. I grew up in Kiev, for what it’s worth, but you know, I’m not sure how relevant it is what I look like.’

  ‘No, I didn’t say it―’

  ‘Looks are what get most peop
le into trouble, one way or the other, when you think about it. You would do well to remember that.’

  ‘I’ll try. Now listen. What I need to―’

  ‘No you should listen Mr Marriner. You need to learn how to listen. You guys never do enough listening because you are always talking.’

  She was right about one thing. Looks got you into a whole lot of trouble, and evidencing the fact, here he was, unable to take his eyes off this woman and unable to show her the door when they were precisely the two things he knew he should have been doing.

  ‘Can I call you Jonathon?’ she said, in what he took to be a welcome change of tone.

  ‘Sure. Just don’t call me before ten.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

  Jesus. ‘No. Yes. Listen… Emerald… I don’t know what sort of advice you’ve got for me, but I have a conference starting in half an hour, so unless there’s something that’s…’

  ‘Unless it’s urgent? Because yes, you could say it’s urgent. It’s definitely important. Like breathing. Urgent and important. Unlike breathing, though, this will require some explanation. Some of your time, Mr Marriner.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘I see. Well I’m sorry, but…’

  He knew what he had to do, but he was having trouble doing it. His reluctance to end their meeting was despite the not insignificant issue of the woman’s sanity. He toyed with the possibility (or probability) that she’d escaped from somewhere she shouldn’t have (her home, a home, a hospital, the police…), not to mention the very real prospect of there being some connection between her visit and recent events. She may have been mesmerizingly good-looking, but he’d have to try harder. Because beauty was one thing and death was another.

  ‘Can I at least deposit something with you?’ she asked.

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘A will.’ She pulled a folded document from her handbag.

  ‘Ah. Now that most definitely is a matter for your solicitor. You’ll have to leave it with him, I’m afraid. Or her.’

  She threw him a look of pure exasperation. Resignation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is that what you came here for?

  She just shook her head. And then:

  ‘May I use your bathroom please.’

  He hesitated, and then pointed her in the direction of the female toilets down the corridor. She’d taken her handbag, but left the will on his desk, face down. Had she done it intentionally or was it just an oversight? He assumed the document was the reason for her visit. He turned it over and read the cover. It was the last will and testament of one Martin Lemar Nevers.

  Was it the same Martin Nevers? Sir Martin Nevers, Lord Justice of Appeal? How many Martin Nevers could there be? He was dying to open it up and read it. What was she doing with the will of the next Supreme Court appointment?

  ‘Don’t forget your will,’ he said to her once she’d returned, handing her the folded document.

  She stared at it a moment, transfixed, as if under a spell of some kind.

  ‘I couldn’t help but notice,’ he added, ‘that it appears to be the will of―’

  ‘Are you telling me…?’ She didn’t finish her sentence though, just continued to stare at the document. Was she in a trance or just thinking of what to say?

  ‘I thought it was going to be your will, but… clearly not. Is this Martin Nevers the judge?’

  She ignored him, and slowly touched the document as if it were three thousand years old, straight from a pharaoh’s tomb. He could have sworn her eyes glowed.

  ‘Emerald?’ He was getting worried now. Was she ill? On drugs? He sighed a nervous sigh, looked out at the people in the square below, people hurrying along from A to B, did they have problems like the ones he had? Like the additional one he appeared to be acquiring? Because this document had a definite smell to it, and it was the tang of trouble. Not to mention the pugilistic attitude of its most unusual bearer…

  ‘Have you read it?’ she eventually asked, fingering the corners.

  ‘No of course not. Just the cover.’

  ‘You opened it.’

  ‘No. No, I nearly did though. Given it seems to be why you’re here.’

  She was looking at him – intently – and now her green eyes weren’t just bright again, they were burning. He could see the flames.

  ‘I mean,’ he clarified, ‘to seek advice on it.’

  ‘Why would you think that? I wasn’t clear enough before?’

  ‘Well I assumed that―’

  ‘Do not assume anything Mr Marriner. Please. Do not assume… anything.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, raising his hands. ‘OK. Just tell me what you want me to do.’

  ‘What I want you to do,’ she said, looking at the document again, ‘is not possible.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Unread it.’

  ‘Unread it.’

  ‘Forget it completely. Forget I was even here.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ he said. ‘I have an excellent short term memory, but a pretty rubbish long-term one. Alzheimer’s probably.’ He smiled, a last ditch attempt at lightening things.

  ‘You think this is a joke?’ she said calmly. ‘Because it’s not.’

  And with that, she picked up the document, elegantly slipped it into her handbag, and walked out. Simple as that.

  A spell of some kind had been cast, perhaps. Because the moment he closed his eyes, she was there, opening hers. They were a deep green, now, her eyes, and they held his gaze. She was trying to tell him something. What was she saying? But her lips, with their beautiful curl, they weren’t moving. She said nothing, just smiled at him. Looked down. And there, although he couldn’t see what it was, he knew there was something important. Emerald, he said. Emerald, listen to me, what is it? But she just kept looking down, her glistening dark hair falling forwards in sections….

  And so there he was, shaking off cryptic daydreams and looking out through his chambers’ dirty windows that fateful day –

  Wednesday

  16 October

  as his desk calendar was insisting with a clamour (these things only stick in the mind later) – taking stock of the previous seven days and philosophizing about luck and provenance and things beyond our control. And Emerald. And the more he thought about it all, the further it seemed to drag him from an answer, so he decided, simply, that it was time to head home. Time to give his head a rest. From now on, he’d just take things as they came. After all, that was all we ever did, wasn’t it, we humans?

  10.

  By the time he’d stepped out of the West Kensington tube station and plunged into the torrent of humanity that churned up, down and around North End Road – pedestrians, cyclists, buses and cars – he was in another world. He’d forgotten, for the time being, about his mysterious visitor called Emerald, and had almost forgotten about the incidents.

  Almost, but not quite.

  As he crossed at the pedestrian crossing, he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a double-decker pulling up abruptly at the red light, inches away, as though stopping were an afterthought, and for a split second he thought being run over by a bus was going to be the completion of the sequence. It was, however, just normal bus behaviour. And as he approached the corner he’d rounded the previous two evenings in order to escape the buses and the busyness of the main road, he realised it was the street with the trees. The tree branch was still there too, like a body on the footpath, waiting to be removed.

  He changed his mind and kept walking straight ahead down North End Road.

  A black guy with a posturing reggae air about him stared and smiled. Smiled right at him and almost laughed too, in fact did laugh, a loud sneeze of hilarity, all eyes and teeth. Jon chuckled back, although immediately regretted it, as there was clearly nothing funny going on. Nothing funny ha ha, that is. Plenty funny strange.

  A few steps further on, he looked up and a girl was approaching him o
n a bicycle, cycling in his direction, looking at him, but not smiling, not like the reggae guy was, she was just staring. She looked familiar too. No. She looked really familiar. She had red hair… Where had he seen her before?

  A loud police siren startled him and broke his train of thought. When he looked back at the girl again, she was gone.

  Next thing he knew he was in Tesco buying smoked salmon, and eggs, milk, apples and steak. And wine. It was like there was something in his head, something important which he couldn’t access. Didn’t have the password. Didn’t have the key.

  The self-service checkout machine seemed to glare at him when he approached, and sure enough, twenty seconds into the process a message flashed up: “Unexpected item in the bagging area”. His heart almost missed a beat, he didn’t need any more of the unexpected. And just to put the boot in, when he tried to pay, the rogue machine first rejected his money entirely and then, in a parting shot, spat out his change in a fistful of coppers.