by Bill Daly
Michael nodded curtly. ‘How is my father?’
She didn’t answer the question. ‘Dr Bell would like a word with you. If you’d care to take a seat I’ll let him know you’re here.’
Michael didn’t sit down. He stood by the window staring out at the falling snow until the receptionist called across to let him know Dr Bell was available.
Michael’s footsteps rang out on the marble floor as he strode down the oak-panelled hallway of what had once been a stately home towards the office at the far end. Gavin Bell gestured towards a seat as he opened the folder on his desk. Michael noticed his right eye was bruised and swollen.
‘I’m afraid it’s not good news.’ Michael frowned. ‘Your father’s Alzheimer’s has reached an advanced stage and, together with his schizophrenia, this appears to be triggering unpredictable, irrational behaviour patterns. Yesterday was a case in point. Your father seemed to have got it into his head that we were trying to poison him. In the restaurant last night he grabbed one of the staff by the throat and tried to strangle her. We had to restrain him forcibly.
‘I spent the best part of an hour trying to reason with him, but to no avail. He would remain calm for a few minutes, but then the violence would suddenly flare up again.’ Bell touched the painful-looking swelling below his right eye. ‘Finally, I had to sedate him.’
‘How is he today?’
‘He seems to be a bit more relaxed.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘Of course. But do understand that your father’s condition has deteriorated significantly in the past couple of weeks, Mr Gibson. You’re going to have to reconcile yourself to the fact that in the near future it’s possible he won’t recognise you.’
Michael walked up the wide staircase to the first floor and knocked gently on his father’s door bedroom before entering. George was sitting up in bed, his back propped against two pillows. He was staring out of the window. His skeletal head turned round slowly when he heard someone come in.
‘Who is it? What do you want?’
‘It’s me, Dad.’
‘Is that you, Michael?’
‘Yes, Dad.’ Michael sat down on the upright chair beside the bed. ‘How are you getting on?’ he asked.
George’s rheumy eyes opened wide. ‘It’s good to see you, son, though, God know, I can hardly see anything these days because of the damned cataracts.’
‘Before I forget, Charlie Anderson asked me to pass on his regards.’
‘Charlie Anderson? Is that old codger still on the go?’
‘He’ll be retiring soon.’
‘Do you know if Vince is coming today?’
Michael hesitated. ‘Vince is dead, Dad. He died last year. You went to his funeral. Don’t you remember?’
‘Vince is dead?’ George rubbed at his eyes with the heels of both hands, then leaned across the bed to whisper in Michael’s ear. ‘Whatever you do, don’t eat anything, son. They’re trying to poison us.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Michael said reassuringly. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘He wants my room.’
‘Who wants your room?’
‘Tommy Mooney. He’s got the room next door, but mine’s bigger. I overheard him telling one of the carers that he wants my room as soon as I pop off.’
‘You might have been mistaken, Dad.’
‘My eyes might be going, son, but here’s nothing wrong with my hearing. I heard him all right.’
‘Even if he did say something like that, there’s no reason to think anyone would try to poison you.’
George sat bolt upright and tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘You don’t know the half of what goes on around here, son.’
‘No one’s going to poison you, Dad.’ Michael took hold of his father’s hand and started to massage his thin, liver-spotted fingers. ‘I’ll make sure of that.’
George relaxed and let his head sink slowly back onto the pillows.
‘You’re very good to me, son. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Nobody else comes to see me. No one else gives a toss about what happens to me – apart from Vince, of course. He often comes to see me.’ George’s breathing was shallow. ‘He’s coming this afternoon.’
George closed his eyes and fell silent while Michael continued to massage his fingers gently. He stayed there, holding George’s hand, until he heard the sound of gentle snoring.
Michael walked slowly from the building to the car park and got into his car. He didn’t start the engine, staring instead at the Christmas card scene of the granite mansion encrusted in snow and gazing up at his father’s bedroom window on the first floor. The lights were on and the lace curtains were drawn. He felt emotionally and physically drained. Closing his eyes, his chin sank onto his chest.
EIGHT
Michael woke with a start, disoriented and shivering. It took him a few seconds to realise where he was. He peered through the gloom at his watch. Twenty past three – he’d been asleep for half an hour. He pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes before replacing his glasses and glancing up towards his father’s bedroom window. The lights were out. Fumbling for his mobile phone, he called his office.
‘Sheila, tell Peter Davies I’m running late. I’m just about to leave Crighton Hall. I’ll be back in the office as soon as I can.’
Firing the ignition, Michael spun the car round in a tight skid in the empty car park and accelerated away down the long, poplar-lined avenue. As he watched the building recede in his rear-view mirror he wondered if his father would recognise him the next time he came to visit.
Roadworks on the Stirling Road slowed down the traffic and it was after half past four by the time Michael pulled up in the parking bay beneath his office. He loped up the stairs, panting for breath by the time he got to the top.
‘Is Davies still here?’ he asked Sheila.
‘He waited for you until half past, Mr Gibson, but he had to leave for an outside appointment. He won’t be back in the office today.’
‘Damn! I suppose I’ll have to smooth his ruffled feathers in the morning. In which case,’ he said with a sigh, ‘there’s not much point in me hanging around here. I’m off home.’
‘You haven’t forgotten that you have both your car and your wife’s car here? What do you want to do about that?’
‘Bloody hell! I had forgotten – completely.’ Michael paused to consider. ‘Would you do me a favour, Sheila, and drive one of the cars over to my flat? I’ll drop you back at the office.’
‘Of course.’
Sheila got behind the wheel of the Mercedes and drove Michael to the multi-storey car park. The city centre streets had been gritted and most of the snow had cleared away. Traffic was flowing normally.
‘I’ll wait for you at the car park exit,’ she said as he got out. ‘Then I’ll follow you.’
Michael drove the Volvo slowly, continually checking in his rear-view mirror to make sure Sheila was still behind him. When they reached Dalgleish Tower he operated the remote control to open the doors to the underground garage and signalled to Sheila to drive down first, following her down the steep ramp as the doors clanged shut behind them.
When they got out of the cars, Sheila handed over the Mercedes’ key. ‘Do you want to take the Volvo or the Merc to drive me back to the office?’
Michael hesitated. ‘Do you have time to come up for a quick drink?’
‘I never drink during the day.’
‘How about making today an exception? I’ve got a big decision to make and I’m badly in need of some sensible advice.’
Sheila blushed, flattered by the compliment. ‘It would have to be a very quick one. I asked Sandra to hold the fort and I told her I’d be back within half an hour.’
Michel flicked open the control panel and tapped in the security code. The lift was waiting. When they arrived at the fifteenth floor he unlocked his front door. ‘Let me take your coat.’ Slipping her coat from her shoulders, Sheila handed it ac
ross. ‘The lounge is the first door on the right.’ Michael indicated the corridor straight ahead. ‘Go on in. I’ll join you in a minute. I need to use the bathroom.’
Sheila was standing by the window, gazing spellbound at the view, when Michael came into the lounge.
‘Impressive?’
‘Incredible, Mr Gibson.’
‘I think we might dispense with the Mr Gibson. It’s Michael.’
Sheila reddened visibly. ‘All right. But only when we’re away from work. In the office it has to be Mr Gibson.’
‘That’s a deal. What’ll you have to drink?’
‘Vodka and tonic please, Michael. You know, I don’t think I could ever get used to calling you by your first name. In ten years of working for your father I never once referred to him as George.’
‘I’m not my father – at least, I hope I’m not. Ice and lemon?’
‘Please. And a very small vodka, with lots of tonic.’
Michael went to the kitchen to fill an ice bucket and carried it to the bar at the far end of the lounge where he fixed Sheila’s drink. Opening a fresh bottle of malt whisky, he poured a generous measure into a crystal tumbler and dropped in two ice cubes. He carried the drinks across to the sofa where Sheila was seated and sat down beside her. ‘Cheers.’ he said, handing her her glass.
Sheila held up her drink and chinked it against his. ‘So what’s this big decision all about?’
Fixing his gaze on his whisky, Michael swilled the ice cubes round several times before gulping down half the contents in one swallow. ‘I’m going to leave Anne,’ he said quietly.
Sheila put her glass down on a coaster on the coffee table. There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘Are you sure this is something you want to discuss with me, Mr Gibson?’
‘Michael.’
‘Michael,’ she repeated softly. ‘How did Anne take the news?’
‘I haven’t told her yet. That’s why I wanted to get home early today. She’ll be here around six-thirty. I’m going to tell her then.’
Sheila hesitated. ‘I’m not sure what you expect me to say. Do you want me to try to talk you out of this? Or do you want me to encourage you, or sympathise with you, or what –?’
‘I really don’t know what I want,’ Michael said, dragging his fingers through his hair. ‘I just need to talk to someone. I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing.’ He drained his whisky and held his hand out for Sheila’s glass. ‘Same again?’
Sheila shook her head as she picked up her glass and covered it with her hand. ‘I’m fine.’ Crossing to the bar, Michael poured himself another stiff drink. ‘If I may be so bold as to ask – why are you going to do this?’
‘There’s someone else.’ Michael took a sip of whisky. ‘I suppose you know who she is?’
‘I’d have to be blind not to. I think everyone in the office is aware that you are – how can I put it – ‘in a relationship’ with Philippa Scott. And if anyone had the slightest doubt, the office party last Christmas convinced them. You hardly spoke to anyone else all evening.’
‘As obvious as that, eh?’ he said ruefully. ‘In which case it’s probably just as well it’s all going to be out in the open. Philippa and I will be moving in together.’
‘You have thought this through? This isn’t just a seven day wonder?’
‘I’m sure. At least – I think I am,’ he said, throwing back another slug of whisky. ‘Anyway, it’s too late to go back now. I’ve promised Philippa that I’ll tell Anne tonight. Tell me honestly, Sheila, what do you think of Philippa?’
Sheila got to her feet and walked towards the window. ‘That’s a most unfair question. What I think of Philippa Scott is neither here nor there. It has no relevance whatsoever to your decision.’
‘I’m sorry. As usual, you’re right. It was just something Paul said this morning. He implied that everyone in the office thinks Philippa’s a gold-digger. She’s not like that. Really, she isn’t.’
Sheila turned round to face him. ‘It’s not me you have to convince, Michael.’ She walked towards the coffee table and put down her untouched drink. ‘I really must be getting back to the office. Sandra’s on her own. And you’re not driving me,’ she added. ‘Not after what you’ve had to drink. I’ll get a taxi.’
‘Are you sure? I’m okay to drive.’
‘Quite sure.’
‘There’s a taxi rank outside the building. There are normally plenty of cabs around at this time of day, but I’ll come down with you to make sure. If there isn’t a taxi waiting, I’ll get the caretaker to call one for you. And thanks for the advice,’ he added.
‘I haven’t given you any advice, but I will give you some now. If you’re dead set on going through with this, then ease off on the whisky. You’ll need to be sober when you break the news to Anne. You don’t need me to tell you how she’s going to react.’
Michael screwed up his face. ‘I’ll get your coat.’
Having summoned the lift, they descended in silence to the ground floor. When they went outside there were several cabs waiting in line.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ Michael said.
‘Good luck.’ Sheila proffered her hand. As Michael clasped her hand firmly, she leaned forward and pulled him towards her to whisper in his ear. ‘For God’s sake, Michael, don’t waste yourself on Philippa Scott.’
Without waiting for his reaction she broke his grip and ran towards the taxi at the head of the queue. She didn’t look back as it sped off.
NINE
Anne Gibson was in a foul mood as she hailed a passing cab outside the St Andrew’s Bridge Club. She hated losing and her partner had misplayed a straightforward contract at the last table which had cost them the tournament.
She alighted in front of Dalgleish Tower, stepping carefully from the taxi in order to avoid a large puddle of slush. As the driver got out to open the boot, she belted her coat tightly to protect herself from the chill wind that was whipping round the corner of the building.
‘How much is it?’ she asked.
‘Four pound fifty,’ he said, lifting out her suitcase.
She took a five-pound note from her wallet and handed it across. ‘That’s okay.’
‘Thanks. Would you like me to carry your case up the stairs?’
‘No thanks, I can manage.’
‘Mind how you go. It’s starting to freeze and those steps look gey slippy.’
As the taxi sped off into the darkness, Anne negotiated the steps in front of the building gingerly and when she got to the internal door she slammed her suitcase down in frustration. She had trouble recalling the access code at the best of times, but after she’d been away for a few days she could never remember it. She wrenched her diary from her handbag and flicked it open at the back page. ‘YK1193,’ she muttered to herself, dropping her diary back into her bag. ‘YK1193,’ she repeated under her breath as she tapped at the control panel.
When she reached the fifteenth floor she opened the apartment door and saw a shaft of light flooding from the lounge into the hallway. She stopped and listened. The noise of the door being opened had roused Brutus and he emerged from the kitchen, bending his back and stretching out his sinewy rear legs. Looking down the hall, he recognised his mistress and padded briskly towards her, tail erect, miaowing loudly.
‘Michael, are you there?’ Anne called out anxiously.
‘Yes!’ the familiar voice from the lounge replied.
Anne gave a relieved sigh as she bent to stroke Brutus who was weaving in and out between her legs and rubbing himself up against her. ‘Have you missed me, my beautiful big boy?’ she whispered, running her fingers through his thick black fur. She took off her coat and draped it on the hallstand. ‘You gave me the fright of my life,’ she called out. ‘You’re never home at this time on a Monday. Is everything all right?’
There was no response. Leaving her suitcase in the hall, she walked into the lounge and saw Michael slumped on the settee, a tumbler clenched tightly in his
fist, a half-empty whisky bottle on the coffee table beside him.
‘For goodness sake, Michael! Is it not a bit early in the day for that?’
‘Sit down, Anne,’ Michael slurred as he struggled to sit up straight. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Anne walked slowly across the room and sat bolt upright on the edge of the chair facing him as Brutus sprang onto her knee and curled up on her lap, purring contentedly. ‘Hurry up, then. What is it? I want to take a shower.’ Anne sat impassively, gently scratching at Brutus’ forehead with her long fingernails. When Michael glanced up, Brutus’s yellow eyes seemed to be fixed on him – unblinking, threatening.
‘I’ve thought about this very carefully,’ he began in a hoarse whisper. ‘Things aren’t right between us. Haven’t been for some time. So I’ve decided… I’ve decided… I’m leaving you.’ He lifted the whisky tumbler to his mouth and swallowed the contents.
Anne stopped stroking Brutus and gripped the sides of her chair with both hands. She sat for a moment in silence. ‘You can’t do that, Michael.’ Her voice was quavering. ‘We need to talk about this. We have to find a way to –’
‘You heard what I said, Anne,’ he interrupted, deflecting his eyes from her gaze. ‘I’m leaving you.’
‘Don’t say things like that,’ Anne pleaded. ‘We can find a way… – we will find a way to get through this.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘This isn’t you talking, Michael. It’s the whisky. Have a shower and go to bed. We’ll talk about it in the morning.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about, Anne,’ he slurred. ‘It’s over between us. That’s how it has to be.’
Anne stared at him. ‘That’s not how it has to be, Michael! No matter what’s happened, we can work things out. We just need to talk about it – to be honest with each other.’
‘It’s too late for that, Anne. There’s someone else.’
‘Someone else? Not the waif from the office, surely?’
‘There’s no point in discussing this, Anne. I’m leaving. As a matter of fact, I’m leaving tonight.’