The Man Who Built the World

by Chris Ward

  The Man

  Who Built the World

  by

  Chris Ward

  Visit Chris Ward’s Amazon Page

  Novels

  The Tube Riders

  The Tube Riders : Exile

  (Part Two of the Tube Riders Trilogy – due summer 2013)

  Head of Words (due spring 2013)

  Collections

  Ms Ito’s Bird & Other Stories

  Short Stories

  Benny’s Harem*

  Forever My Baby*

  Going Underground*

  Joyriders*

  Ms Ito’s Bird*

  Saving the Day*

  The Ageless*

  The Cold Pools*

  (*found in the collection, Ms Ito’s Bird & Other Stories)

  Castles Made of Sand

  Death Depends

  Forks

  The Tree

  Writing as Michael S. Hunter

  (The Beat Down! action/comedy novella series)

  Beat Down 1 - Clones

  Beat Down 2 - The Heist

  Beat Down 3 - Badassaur! (due January 2013)

  About the Author

  A proud and noble Cornishman (and to a lesser extent British), Chris Ward ran off to live and work in Japan back in 2004. There he got married, got a decent job, and got a cat. He remains pure to his Cornish/British roots while enjoying the inspiration of living in a foreign country.

  In addition to The Man Who Built the World, he is the author of the novels The Tube Riders and Head of Words (forthcoming) as well as the Beat Down! action/comedy novella series under the name Michael S. Hunter.

  “Like” Chris on Facebook at Chris Ward (fiction writer) or follow on Twitter @ChrisWardWriter.

  Join the mailing list for new releases

  http://eepurl.com/qceDj

  Chris also has a blog about his writing and his life –

  http://amillionmilesfromanywhere.blogspot.jp/

  “The Man Who Built the World” Copyright © Chris Ward 2012

  The right of Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

  Cover design by Su Halfwerk @ www.novelprevue.com

  This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  For Sharon

  Because you liked this one

  Herein are recounted

  the events of

  November 15th to November 17th

  1999

  Part One

  Men

  1

  ‘Matt?’

  Rachel’s groggy voice drifted up the stairs from the kitchen. ‘Matt?’ Then louder: ‘Matt!’

  He groaned, rolled over in bed and pulled the pillow over his face.

  Rachel didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I think you’d better come down here.’ He heard a grunt of annoyance then something hard and plastic slammed down, the noise muffled through the floor. A curse, then her heavy, tired feet on the stairs.

  No escape this time. He rolled over to face her as she appeared in the doorway, her eyes bleary like cloudy water and her hair unkempt as though she’d just been outside in the November wind. Her dressing gown hung open to her waist, the swell of her breasts pressing into the space but the nipples just hidden by the silk. Her belly was admirably flat considering the kids. He would have found her alluring if it weren’t for the marching band playing Land of Hope and Glory against the inside wall of his skull.

  ‘I’ve got a call for you. I take it you didn’t hear the phone?’

  ‘Can you get them to call back? Rachel, I’m –’

  ‘I don’t give a shit if you’re hungover. You’re always hungover.’ Her face hardened momentarily then softened a little. ‘I think you’d better take this one.’

  She stepped forward and began to pull the bedclothes away. Feeling a sudden surge of anger, Matt leaned over and wrenched them back out of her hands. She dropped the sheets and stepped back, her eyes lowered, afraid.

  ‘All right, I’m coming. Get off my fucking case will you?’

  Rachel didn’t look at him, just pulled her dressing gown tight and knotted the belt around her waist. ‘It’s your father, Matthew.’

  Matt thought he had misheard. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t spoken to him in years. Years, Rachel. How would he even know our number?’

  ‘You heard me. I have to get the kids ready for school now.’ Still not looking at him, she turned back towards the door. ‘I’ll tell him you’re on your way,’ she added, her voice losing its mettle. She reached up and touched a blemish on her cheek, the fading remnants of a bruise. Then, as though becoming suddenly aware of what she had done, she jerked her hand away. ‘And I’ll mix you an aspirin.’

  Matt rubbed his face, rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘Yeah, okay, thanks. Look . . . I’m sorry.’ He climbed out of bed naked and reached for a T–shirt and boxer shorts that were slung over a chair near to the window.

  Her voice floated back to him from the hall. ‘Okay, whatever.’ He heard the tired thud of her feet as she descended the stairs.

  Matt pulled on the clothes. He rubbed his eyes again, feeling no better. With a sigh he stumbled out into the hallway.

  ‘Hi, Daddy.’

  He almost tripped over Luke, their son, as the five–year–old came out of his bedroom, a school satchel hung over his shoulder, a blue woolly hat pulled over his head. Matt steered the boy around him, feeling unsteady on his legs. Luke looked up at his father, nervous brown eyes peering out of a soft, putty face.

  ‘Are you and Mummy mad at each other, Daddy?’

  Matt sighed. Not this again. ‘No, Luke, it’s just the morning, everyone gets a little touchy in the morning. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘But you sounded really mad.’

  Matt patted Luke’s head, distressingly aware of the way the boy flinched away from his touch.

  ‘Everyone gets a little mad sometimes, Luke,’ he said, trying hard to hide the impatience he felt. ‘It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other, or you and Sarah.’

  God, the words sound so fucking hollow.

  He turned away towards the stairs. Luke followed him down, humming a tune from a kid’s TV show. Through the open door of the living room, Matt saw Sarah inside, cross-legged in front of the TV, watching cartoons.

  ‘Go and sit with your sister for a bit,’ he said, steering the boy through the doorway with one hand, while holding the stair banister for support with the other.

  Rachel was waiting in the kitchen, holding the cordless telephone. As Matt entered, she lifted it to her lips and said, ‘He’s here now,’ into the earpiece. She handed it to Matt and walked out without another word.

  Matt sighed. The stupid cow didn’t have the faintest idea how hard this would be. Fourteen years was a long goddamn time, and a word of support wouldn’t have hurt. He stared down at the receiver in his hand as if he had just found a dead animal there. He wanted to drop it, turn and walk away, forget about it.

  What do I say to him? And what could he possibly want to say to me?

  He took a deep breath and lifted the receiver to his ear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Matthew?’

  That deep–throated growl, like the boom of distant thunder, was unmistakable.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘How are you . . . son?’

  He felt as though the cold
air had filtered in through the windows and wrapped itself around him like a protective blanket, pressing in against his skin, smothering him. He felt it squeezing into his mouth and down into his lungs, icy fingers tightening around his neck.

  It was difficult to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. ‘I’m okay, couldn’t be better. Life’s grand and all that. What do you want, Dad?’

  ###

  Bethany’s Diary, October 10th, 1984

  Hello diary, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Bethany, and I’m your new owner. I’m sure we’ll have lots of fun getting to know each other, won’t we? I’m a little girl and I am seven years old. I have copper coloured hair, the same colour as a shiny 2p, and brown eyes. I live in a big, big house with my dad and my brother. My Daddy loves me, Matty loves me, and Uncle Red loves me. But Mummy doesn’t love me. Mummy can’t love me. Otherwise she wouldn’t have flown away to the stars, to the stars, to the stars . . .

  2

  Rachel got back about half past nine, after dropping the children off at school and stopping off at the Esso on the way back to fill the car up and pick up some bread. The house was quiet when she entered and at first she thought Matt had gone back to bed. He had taken to rising late over the last few months, which suited Rachel fine when she considered the moods he had been in. Only when she sneaked into her bedroom to get her slippers and found it empty, did she remember who had been on the phone.

  His father.

  She found Matt in his study, a cramped, cluttered space converted from a small third bedroom between the bathroom and the kids’ room. He had his feet up on his desk and was slumped back in his recliner. A half full glass of whiskey hung precariously from his fingers, and his head lolled back against the chair’s neck rest. At first she thought he was sleeping. The computer and radio were both turned off, but a window was open to let in a fresh, chilling breeze. She shivered, unsure how he could stand it.

  ‘Matt?’

  She walked around the front of his desk. Her nose wrinkled as she smelt the whiskey, and she looked down at the glass he held and scowled, noticing he had mixed it with soda so he could stand it so early in the morning. Takes the bite off the first drink, he had told her once, when they had been fellow happy drunks at university. Especially if you have a hangover. Once the first one’s down, you’re away. She remembered the way he would have grinned after saying that, fiery, mischievous. One of many things about him she had fallen in love with. How long had it been since he had last smiled like that?

  His eyes were closed, but she realized he wasn’t asleep at all. He was moving, almost reverberating, and a hollow clicking sound was coming from deep inside his chest.

  She recognised the sound immediately. She knew it well herself. She had often choked down her own tears. It was easy with practice; you just had to clench your chest tight and squint your eyes a little. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. Don’t let him think he’s won.

  ‘Matthew?’

  He opened his eyes. They were still bleary from sleep, but had regained the familiar drunken sheen that she saw so often these days, telling her the drink wasn’t the first even at this early hour. She sighed and closed her eyes briefly, tired and upset.

  ‘What did your father want?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ he slurred, and closed his eyes again.

  ‘He rings you up for the first time in fourteen years, and he wants "nothing much"? Come on, Matt, you can do better than that.’

  ‘Don’t nag me.’

  ‘I’m not nagging you. I just want to know why you’re getting hammered again at nine-thirty in the morning.’ She shook her head and ran a hand through her hair. ‘You usually wait until lunchtime at least.’

  His eyes jerked open and he fixed her with a long stare. Rachel wondered if she had pushed him too far. He had only struck her once, and it hadn’t been that hard, only enough to leave a small bruise

  (it was the surprise that caused you to slip and fall, was it? Come on Rachel, be honest, he really went for you)

  but so much latent energy had emerged with that strike, enough to terrify her, open a chasm between them that would take months, maybe years to close. Assuming, of course, either of them had enough strength left to try.

  ‘Please Matt, it was obviously important.’

  As if to emphasize the point, the glass slipped from his hand. It didn’t shatter, just bumped on the carpet, spilling its contents across the beige pile. The spots of golden whiskey, where they landed and began to sink in, looked like urine.

  Matt made no attempt to pick up the glass, and Rachel didn’t dare get any closer.

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘I’m your wife, Matthew, of course I do.’

  He looked away from her, out of the window. The second floor view reached over the rooftops of the street opposite, down the angling hillside of their town, towards a church at the bottom, its spire reaching proud and ancient up into the sky. It was a nice day outside, cold but with a bright sun. She would love to be out there now, walking in the park, breathing in the fresh, unthreatening air. Despite the open window, the air in here was stale, dangerous.

  When he looked back at her his eyes shone with tears. ‘Oh, he just rung me up to say hi, to have a chat, you know the usual. Us being best buddies and all. Oh, and yeah, to let me know my sister is dead. Dead.’

  Rachel stared, incredulous. ‘Um, excuse me? Your what?’

  They had been married ten years, most of them happily, often blissfully so. But in all that time, he had never, ever mentioned a sister. He had claimed to be an only child. He had told her that his mother was dead and he was estranged from his father, and wouldn’t go any deeper. She had accepted his secrets, partly because she loved him and partly because everyone had things they didn’t like to talk about, even her. It was a trust thing, and she had trusted him with her life, and her heart.

  But why lie about a sister? What possible harm could it do?

  ‘My sister. Bethany. Dear sweet loving Daddy rang me up to tell me Bethany is dead. Now wasn’t that nice of him?’

  He looked up at her, and his tearful eyes became suddenly desperate, pleading. For all the years of hurt he had caused her this was one moment he couldn’t deal with alone. Rachel felt a terrible sense of guilt, as though it had been her who had shut him out, rather than the other way around.

  ‘Oh, Matthew,’ she said, and went forward to put her arms around him. He hugged her back hard, his hands gripping her waist and his head pressing against her stomach. She felt him shake as sobs wracked his body, and, overcome by the situation, she found herself crying too.

  ‘Bethany’s dead,’ he murmured once more, his voice muffled by the pullover she wore, his desperate words all but lost. ‘At last . . . Bethany’s dead.’

  Rachel was a little shaken by this, but she said nothing and helped him to bed to let him sleep a while. He needed time, not just to get the alcohol out of his system, but to let the news sink in. When he woke he might just deal with it a little better.

  And Rachel needed time too.

  Bethany.

  Did he really have a sister? Or more exactly, had he really had a sister?

  Part of her wanted to hate him for lying to her all these years, and for the easy, flippant way he had given up the information after he found out about her death. But that relentlessly loyal part that still loved him fiercely had raised its head again, and all she could feel was pity, sadness, and a companionable loss. Technically, this Bethany was Rachel’s sister–in–law. They were family.

  Rachel left him to sleep and went out for a walk. She circled the block a couple of times, then walked down to the High Street and glanced into a few shop windows. She didn’t have much money to buy anything, and found herself looking at job advertisements in the window of the Post Office, aware that if Matthew’s books didn’t start to sell better soon she would have no choice. While Matt’s books had been selling well they had enjoyed a degree of comfort, but now, with
his sales slumping and with a complete absence of any fight to spur him on, the future looked bleak. She could see herself behind the checkouts that she had once felt a little snobbish towards as she stood there in line, her basket full of the kind of products most people only bought for special occasions, and she realised just how close to a precipice everything stood. Success, wealth, happiness, love, it could all plummet in an instant.

  Who was Bethany? Could he really have had a mystery sister? Part of her felt betrayed. Another part felt desperately sorry for him and yet another part wondered just what had happened to him all those years ago to make him hide a sister from her.

  Perhaps he would tell her, now the floodgates had opened. She could only hope.

  She resisted the urge to drop round to see Liz, her best friend, who lived a couple of streets away, because she knew the revelation would slip out, and right now there was little to tell that wouldn’t bring up more questions she couldn’t yet answer. Instead she headed back to the house, made herself a sandwich for lunch and stared blankly at Australian soap operas for an hour or more while she waited for him to get up.

  #

  At about half past two she heard him stomping along the upstairs landing, heard him groan and could imagine him rubbing a hand through his tousled hair, wiping sleep from his eyes. She got up and went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on.

  Matthew appeared in the doorway a moment later. He was still wearing the same clothes from that morning.

  ‘I’ve just put the kettle on. I’ll make you a coffee.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He grimaced. ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ She made no move towards him. They sometimes still had sex, but there was rarely any tenderness. Otherwise they hardly touched each other anymore. There didn’t seem to be a reason why they should.