The Hermit Next Door

by PJ Vye

  It was a risk, but not an overly big one.

  Chapter 8

  Daniel placed the mail onto the kitchen table and cursed under his breath. It was the last day of May and still no cheque.

  It was eight weeks late.

  Did this mean it wasn’t coming this year?

  Would it come again next year?

  He was a numbers man. A young man of finance. And he hated it when his budgeting wouldn’t balance. It was his own fault, he supposed, counting on money that he had no way of verifying or laying claim to. But he’d received a cheque for seven grand every year for twelve years, since he’d turned nine, and he couldn’t have predicted it would stop now.

  Maybe it was a twelve year thing. Or maybe it was until his education was over. After all, he’d paid off all his student loans and had almost saved enough of a deposit to purchase his own home. He prided himself on his ability to be smart with money. But counting on an annual cheque sent by a mystery benefactor was not smart, and he had been berating his foolishness for weeks.

  Only a matter of days and he would be a fully qualified accountant. That was why he felt the time was right to ask his girlfriend, Teagan, to marry him, and he was to use this year’s cheque to pay for the ring. Spending money that hadn’t been earned was a rookie mistake. Now the engagement would have to wait until he had saved the money himself, which would take at least another year. He’d already hinted that he might propose soon and the thought of losing her through inaction was frightening.

  Daniel preferred certainty. He couldn’t sit around and wait until next year to see if the cheques really had stopped for good. He couldn’t live with that kind of ambiguity.

  He had to find out, once and for all, where the money was coming from, why it came to him, and why it stopped this year. It was time for answers.

  But with the decision to act came a barrage of doubt.

  What if the twelve years of payments had been a mistake? What if he was ordered to pay the money back? Should he just leave it alone and count his good fortune while it lasted?

  What if it was from a family relative? Was he ready to meet them? Have a relationship with them? Accept his past?

  Maybe he should speak to Teagan about it first, confess the whole thing.

  He searched his records to find the copy he’d taken of last year’s cheque, folded in the original envelope. There had never been a return address, but he had the name and location of the bank that issued it.

  The young accountant wanted to start this new phase of his life with Teagan, knowing the slate was clean, with no secrets and no unsolved mysteries from his past.

  It was time for action.

  He would manage the consequences.

  He called the bank.

  Chapter 9

  Jack hated these meetings. Forced to sit and wait in the corridor until he was called into the boardroom, like a recalcitrant school boy.

  He was significant. He shouldn’t have to wait, damn it.

  “Mr Gilmore, the board is ready for you now,” said the secretary, who held open the door. He entered the brightly lit room that smelt partly of old man and partly of savoury rolls, and gave them a large, confident smile.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Jack, shaking hands with the aged, fragile looking man at the head of the table before taking a seat at the furthest end. Looks can be deceiving and this was never truer than in the case of the Chairman. In his early nineties but still ruling with the vitality of a man a third of his age, he was a concrete brick wall that Jack had often beaten his head against. But today would be different. Today, Jack would shine.

  “Thank you for being here, Jack,” said the chairman. “Firstly, the board wishes to acknowledge your work with the Australian woman—” He momentarily looked over the rim of his glasses to read the sheet in front of him, “Willa Jones. We believe sales have been spectacular?”

  “Yes,” said Jack. “All the singles were multi-platinum and sales are still stable. No sign of dropping off yet.” He allowed himself to gloat a little. “And of course, with the lucrative deal I managed to secure with the woman, EP Records has seen a significant boost in solvency. So much so, that I think it’s safe to say we are no longer the poor aunt of this company. I take it the future of EP Records is absolute?” He couldn’t help the smug look on his face. He tried to stop it, but it wouldn’t budge. After two years of reporting deficits, he was enjoying his moment of victory. “If you would turn to the actuals on page three of the report—” continued Jack.

  “Mmm, yes,” the chairman interrupted. “We agree the figures have been impressive, but our emphasis now is finding more long-term productivity solutions. What is your next strategy, Jack?”

  He cleared his throat, preparing himself for the battle ahead. This was the chink in his armour and he was pissed that they had come to it so quickly. “We’ve been searching extensively for a new, fresh artist, whose talents emulate Miss Jones’ particular strengths.”

  The sniggering and objections from the board of men reminded Jack of a tin of living sardines, all jiggling the same way in exact unison to the confines of their semi-oval room. The chairman replied, “The board feels that you shouldn’t be looking elsewhere. Willa Jones is the only artist you should be concerned with right now.”

  Jack took a slow, long breath in and released it loudly so the others could appreciate his frustration. “As I have explained several times, Mr Chairman, subsequent recording sessions with Willa Jones are not possible. It’s just not an option, I can assure you.”

  “Her reticence is part of the fascination,” said the second oldest member of the board, his nose virtually touching his iPad, reading the data. “Have you not seen the number of social media links to this woman?”

  “The impact she is having on people, Jack, is astounding,” said the Chairman.

  “Some conspiracy theories suggest she is not-of-this-world.” Koleman Porter opened his wide eyes behind his glasses, giving him the illusion he was not-of-this-world.

  “The religious extremists are screaming red blasphemy,” said George Brampton.

  “But nobody can say why,” added Jonothon Ford.

  “They have banned her completely in Saudi Arabia,” finished George.

  “Supermarkets and shopping centres have taken her off their in-house music programs,” added Koleman.

  “Why’s that?” the other men asked in chorus.

  “Costumers stopped making purchases in order to listen to the music being piped into the stores. It was like hypnosis, people standing still in the aisles with nobody buying anything—it was bad for business.”

  The men chuckled their agreement that this, indeed, would be a bad thing.

  “The guards from Clinton prison in upstate New York have requested more recordings to pacify inmates. Violent incidents have reportedly declined since playing her recordings in the yard,” said George.

  “You’re kidding me? I hadn’t heard that,” said Jonothon.

  “Yes, well it seems the songs transported them to a ‘happier’ place in their mind.”

  The Chairman stared down the length of the table at Jack and demanded, “We want an entire album and then a national tour from the woman.”

  Jack had watched the entire conversation playing out in front of him, surprised at how invested and informed the board were on the matter. But still he shook his head in denial. “Can’t be done.”

  “Make it happen.”

  He gritted his teeth and felt the heat flare in his face. He understood how desperate they were to have her re-sign with the company, because she was a guaranteed gold-spinning investment. But why did they not trust his judgement on this?

  “With all due respect, Mr Chairman, you cannot make someone do something they just don’t want to do,” said Jack. “If this woman was going to sing on a record, she would have done so for me. It’s as simple as that. If she won’t record for me, she won’t record for anyone. There is a limit to what money can buy, S
ir, and not everyone on this planet is motivated by greed, power or sex. As hard as that may be for you to believe.” Jack sat back in his chair, knowing he had pushed too far, but unrepentant. Damn him for questioning his management of the matter.

  The Chairman carefully closed the report in front of him and slowly reached across for a small, thin file. As he slowly and methodically placed the papers in a row, Jack sensed the old man was savouring his moment, proving his power was undeniable. In a voice of steel, the Chairman threw his first verbal punch. “There have been some complaints, Jack, about your leadership at EP Records.”

  “Bullshit. You are just looking for an excuse to—”

  “Karyn from marketing said you called her a maggot.”

  “If you could have seen the mess she left—,” he said, looking around the table for support but finding none. “It’s an endearing term, really…”

  “Another complaint from a worker on your floor says you called her stupid.”

  “I didn’t call her stupid. Her work was stupid. She cost us thousands of dollars, misquoting a job sheet.”

  “Another memo here about an incident with a pen an—”

  “Is there a point, Sir?” asked Jack.

  “The point is, you got lucky this time, with Willa Jones. It’s bought you some time. But you need to think carefully about your future here, Jack. If you want to stay on at EP Records, you need to prove your capacity to manage the job you have been employed to do. And it seems the best way of doing so is by securing a record deal with the woman.”

  “It’s. Just. Not. Possible.” Jack slammed the desk with his hand in frustration with every word, leaving the sound ringing into silence.

  The small man beside the Chairman cleared his throat and then, in a low, gentle voice that took the heat out of the room, said, “Can I perhaps say something?”

  The CEO drew a long sigh and answered. “Of course, Larry, go ahead.”

  “My wife is a kind woman, Jack. I think you’ve met her?”

  Jack nodded his agreement. “Yes, Lauren isn’t it?”

  “Wonderful woman, my wife.”

  “Yes, of course.” Jack tried not to let his frustration show.

  “She raised our four kids, virtually on her own—and not a day’s complaint.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Larry,” Jack said between tight lips.

  “The thing is,” Larry went on, unabashed, “after forty-five years of marriage without a single demand or grievance—she finally asks me for something; something I can do to make her happy. And I tell her, I would do anything. She just has to name it.” The small man stopped speaking, to look directly in Jack’s face. “What do you think she asked for, Jack?”

  “A younger man?”

  A few chortles escape the men around the table before they could stop themselves.

  Jack leaped back in before the Chairman had time to berate him for his misconduct. “I’m sorry Larry. I do understand. Your wife wants to listen to more music from Willa Jones. I get it. I do. More than you know. And I wish it were possible. But it isn’t. I’m sorry.”

  The Chairman laid his faded cold, blue eyes onto the CEO and spoke with his teeth dangerously clenched. “It’s not a request, Jack. Get it done.”

  The board murmured their agreement and Jack felt the tide of resistance swing against him.

  “Jack, the woman is a national treasure. There is no question of failure. She must be convinced.”

  “What do you suggest I do?” asked Jack.

  “We’re not here to tell you how to do your job,” said the Chairman, closing the report.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then we’ll find someone who can.”

  He pondered his decision late into the night, trying to untangle the terrible dilemma he’d found himself in.

  Jack recalled the alarming conversation he’d shared with Jonothon Ford in the corridor directly after the day’s meeting.

  “Jack, there’s something you should know. The old man has a grandson who has his sights set on your job.”

  “Well, that explains a few things.”

  “Yeah. The Chairman’s been digging around, looking for an excuse to get you out. Apparently this kid’s pretty determined—he has a particular interest in the music industry—likely he’ll bring the label to its knees in less time than it takes to make a sandwich. But there it is. You can’t reason with the old man when it involves family.”

  “What are the chances he’ll change his mind?”

  “I can see only two ways you are going to keep your job, my friend. The first is if the grandson gets hit by a bus; the second would be if you deliver on the Willa Jones thing.” Jonothon slapped him on the shoulder as he passed by in a gesture of goodwill, but it only served to push Jack into a slumping position against the wall of the corridor.

  It was no secret Jack had a loud, fiery temper, but he was a good leader and he was confident his staff hadn’t turned on him. But if there was a spy somewhere in his company, then the Chairman would also know that Jack hadn’t been working at his best over the past few months. His life had seemed to have lost its rhythm and purpose and as his motivation had waned, his drinking had increased. It wasn’t a good time to be under scrutiny.

  Jonothon’s admission had hit him hard, and neither the passing hours nor the flow of alcohol could ease the heaviness in his heart.

  Fame. His life’s focus. To make people famous.

  Such a funny thing, fame.

  Why was it, when fame had its pick of willing participants, throwing themselves at its feet, would it turn its back on them all and search out its own hero?

  Why did they love her so? What made Willa the exception? If she had been the one who’d sought the attention, would she have found this phenomenal success, or would it have been as elusive for her as the next person? Was it her absolute refusal to be caught up in the celebrity that propelled her into the household name she was today?

  Or was she special? One-of-a-kind, kind of special.

  The more he thought about it, combined with the gradual reduction of the bottle of brown spirits he was consuming, the more philosophical he became. And with his head full of notions, he did something he hadn’t done in many years…

  He began to write…

  An elusive and ravenous creature warmed by an artificial sun

  That tantalises its prey with promises of specialness and joy forever.

  Many seek the chance to control its prickly fire

  To bask in the splendour of its glorious prongs.

  But none can tame the beast without first paying the toll.

  And whilst the toll can continue long into the black night,

  The creature for which they’ve paid,

  Slips intangibly away

  Searching out another light…

  On completion he threw down the pencil in contempt of his deep reflection. This should have been an easy decision. So why was it so damn hard? Doing things the right or ethical way had never been an impediment to him in the past. He was a risk taker and not afraid to put himself first. But he’d felt a connection with the Australian girl. Her simple, uncluttered life had touched something in him and he was finding it hard to be flippant about the consequences his actions would have on her.

  But it was his life too. And his staff depended on him.

  It was a beastly thing to do, and Willa would be heartbroken.

  With any luck she would never know it was him.

  He lifted his head from his hands and picked up the phone to make the call.

  Chapter 10

  Carl Jones was a loner. Stout, balding and the eldest of the three Jones siblings, he owned a small second-hand bookstore in the city. To his parents, he had always been the clear favourite, and Willa considered him the ‘nice’ brother. Though he held no formal qualifications, he tended to be the ‘go-to’ sibling for all things business related.

  So ten years ago, when Willa had needed help to coordinate the anonym
ous payments to the boy, Carl was the brother she turned to. He had thought her decision to support Daniel was admirable but unnecessary, and worked hard to convince Willa it was ill-advised and could potentially do more harm than good. She was not responsible for the boy, financially or otherwise, and it was a great cause of friction between them for quite some time. Still, in the end, he had agreed. He was one of only a handful of people who knew why she felt compelled to subsidize the boy’s upbringing—and Willa trusted Carl completely.

  Over the years Carl monitored the boys progress; his education, his career, his personal relationships—and then gave Willa the occasional report. It was essential to Willa that Daniel never discover her connection to the payments.

  Carl was convinced he was acting in Willa’s best interest ten years ago when he surreptitiously siphoned off half of every payment—meant for the boy—into a separate account, as a secret safety net for his sister should she need it in the future. And this had been a good plan. Over time, the money grew to such a large amount, that it was unwise not to invest it. So with the very best of intentions, he started learning about the stock market, and making investments on her behalf.

  Carl was a single, middle-aged man, with a considerable amount of free time and he soon found the share trading intoxicating. Buying and selling shares became his new favourite pastime and he read everything he could on the practice.

  Initially, the bottom line soared, and with the second hand book market collapsing before his eyes, he saw himself moving into a career of lounge chair trading. With every success came the desire to risk more, to make bigger gains, faster. To wake up and find the shares he’d purchased made him hundreds of dollars overnight was a rush he hadn’t felt in a long while. So we went consciously looking for the quick buck, spending hours researching, trying to anticipate the market forces, and though his risks were informed and often innovative, they didn’t always work out well. With every loss, he grew more impatient to make the money back. Within a year, the $100,000 nest egg he had carefully accrued for his sister was gone.