by Sam Short
The little man smiled. “Henry, please.”
Millie raised an eyebrow. “Okay. What the hell are you doing here, Henry? I don’t know why I let you in, but I’m just about ready to throw you out.”
Henry looked up from his book. “I’m no threat to you, Millie. You must be able to sense that?”
Millie narrowed her eyes. The man was small, and had to be nearing seventy years of age. She imagined she’d be able to fight him off if he did become a physical threat, but Henry was right — Millie did sense that he was no threat to her. “Strangely, yes, I do sense I can trust you,” she admitted.
“Strangely?” asked Henry, peering over his glasses.
“I’m not the best judge of character,” explained Millie. “Recent events would pay testament to that statement,” she added.
Henry took a fountain pen from his breast pocket and put nib to paper. “Curious,” he said, taking notes. “The recent event you’re referring to is the unfortunate incident involving the woman who tricked you out of your savings, promising you a job as a…” He studied the page again, and smiled. “…model?”
“Why the pause and the smile?” said Millie. “Are you inferring I’m not model material? And how on earth do you know about that anyway?”
Henry tilted his head, his eyes inquisitive as he stared at Millie. “No. I’m not inferring anything. Not at all. I’m surprised you’d want to be a model. That’s all.”
“You’re acting as if you know me,” said Millie. “You don’t know what I want or don’t want in life. How could you? Just why are you here, Mister Pinkerton? And why do you have notes about me in that book of yours? How did you know that I was conned? Tell me right now, or I’m going to have to insist you leave. And then I’m going to phone the police.”
Henry glanced upwards as the light-shade swayed on its cord, and looked to the left as crockery rattled on the sink. “Impressive,” he said. “Could you do that once more for me, please?”
Millie took an exasperated breath. “I’m going to have to insist you leave. And then I’m going to phone the police,” she repeated.
Henry shook his head. “No. I don’t want you to do that again. I want you to make the crockery rattle and the light-shade swing again, please. If you’d be so kind.”
Millie stood up, anger rising with her. “Are you here to make fun of me? I’m not in control of the London Underground train timetable, and if I was, I’d make the next train that passes beneath us rattle you right off that chair and out into the street.”
Henry removed his glasses and gave a gentle smile. “There are no train tunnels beneath this street, Millie. You made those things move. You’re beginning to discover who you are, and what you can do.”
Unease swelled in Millie’s stomach, and her mouth dried. She wanted him to go. “The only thing I’m beginning to discover is that you’re more than a little strange, Mister Pinkerton,” she snapped. “And I’d really like you to leave.”
Henry put the journal in his briefcase, snapping the metal latches closed. He stood up. “I don’t wish to make you feel uneasy, Millie,” he said. “That’s the last thing I want to do to you. I’ll leave, but would you just do one last thing for me, please?” He reached inside his jacket and retrieved something from an interior pocket. He offered the small square of card to Millie, being sure to remain at a respectable arm’s length. “Would you look at this photograph and tell me how it makes you feel?”
“Really?” said Millie.
“It would be very helpful,” said Henry, “and if you still want me to leave after you’ve looked, I promise you’ll never see me again.”
Millie sighed. She glanced at the photograph between Mister Pinkerton’s podgy thumb and finger. The woman was upside down, but Millie could still tell that the face portrayed was friendly. She gave Mister Pinkerton a stare which she hoped conveyed her impatience, and snatched the photo from his loose grasp.
As her skin made contact with the glossy coating, Millie’s legs buckled beneath her, and with her mind calming, she lowered herself back onto the bed. “Oh,” was all she could mutter. “Oh. Wow.”
Chapter 2
“How do you feel, Millie?” asked Henry, sitting down and opening his journal once more.
Millie attempted to answer, but no words came. She ran a finger over the face in the picture, tracing the wrinkles in the elderly lady’s face with her nail. The woman’s eyes matched the obvious sincerity of her smile, and Millie could have remained sitting on the edge of her lumpy mattress staring at the stranger’s face until she was forced to move.
Henry did the forcing. He leaned forward and plucked the photograph from Millie’s hand. “How do you feel, Millie?” he repeated, his voice soft.
Millie shook her head and put a hand over her chest. “I’m… I’m not sure,” she muttered. “I think I feel… fulfilled. I think I feel whole.”
Henry scratched some notes in his book. “Like you belong?”
Millie gave a slow nod of her head. “Yes. I feel like I belong.”
“Good,” said Henry. “And I’m assuming that the last few weeks have been the lowest point of your life so far. Since your mother died, of course.”
Whatever trance Millie had been under began to break, and she straightened her back. “How do you know about my mother?”
Henry gazed at the page before him. “She passed away after a long illness. You were ten, and your mother’s best friend took you on as her own. You had no other family, and Hannah didn’t want to see you ending up in the care of the state.”
Millie closed her eyes to prevent tears. “Yes,” she said.
“Open your eyes and look at me, Millie,” said Henry.
Millie did as he asked, her vision swimming with moisture.
“The last year has been hard on you, hasn’t it, Millie?” asked Henry. “Your boyfriend cheated on you with the girl you called your best friend, even though you both disliked each other. The village you lived in was small, though, and friends were hard to come by. You tolerated each other in order to feel normal, in order to pretend you each had a friend. You loved your boyfriend, though.” Henry studied the page. “It says here that it was real love. On your behalf anyway, not so much on his. He’d always had his eye on your friend. He used you to get nearer to her.”
“How could those things be written on that page?” said Millie. “I don’t understand.”
Henry ignored the question. “You stayed in Britain to be with him when your aunt and uncle moved abroad, and when he left you for your friend, you had to move away from the village. You couldn’t remain and be reminded about the betrayal every time you saw them together.”
Confrontation had abandoned Millie. The emotions she’d experienced when she’d held the photograph had been too comforting. She wanted answers, and would allow Henry to get to them in his own time — however much hurt he insisted on dredging up from her past. She gave a small nod. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Having moved into your boyfriend’s flat when your aunt moved overseas, you had nowhere to live when your boyfriend asked you to leave. You rented a room in a nearby bed and breakfast, and searched for jobs, but being under-skilled due to leaving school with no qualifications, jobs were hard to come by in such a small village.
“You posted on internet forums further afield, and just as you were about to admit to your aunt that the boy she’d warned you about had let you down, and ask her if you could move to Australia to be with her, you were contacted by a woman offering you what seemed like an answer to all your prayers.”
“She said she’d seen my post on a forum and clicked on my Facebook page,” said Millie. “She said I had just the sort of face she was looking for.”
“People like her send messages to thousands of people — hoping to find somebody like you,” said Henry.
“Like me?”
“Vulnerable,” said Henry. “She took advantage of a vulnerable person. You didn’t want to admit to your aunt what a t
errible mistake you’d made by staying in Britain for a boy who betrayed you, so you jumped at the chance of moving to London to live a life of what you thought would be luxury. You were taken in by a con woman while you were down on your luck. You won’t be the last young person to do so.”
“I suppose so,” said Millie.
Henry wrote another note in the book, and peered at Millie. “So, I’ll ask you again. Having spent all your savings, and not knowing where next week’s rent is coming from, would you say that the last few weeks have been the lowest point of your life since the death of your mother?”
Millie slumped lower. “I’d say so.”
“Good,” said Henry.
“Good?” That seemed cruel.
Henry smiled. “It means you’re ready, Millie Thorn. It means you’re ready to fulfil your purpose in life. It means your powers are beginning to flourish. That’s why I’m here. The reaction you had to Esmeralda proves beyond doubt that after the challenges life has put in your way, you’re ready to belong again.”
“Esmeralda?”
“The wit—” Henry cleared his throat. “The lady in the photograph.”
Millie pressed the soles of her feet into the thin carpet, and took a long breath. When she considered herself grounded enough, she stared into Henry’s eyes. “What exactly is happening here?” she said. “What are you telling me? What are you trying to tell me?”
Henry closed his book, and slid it into his briefcase. “My job isn’t to explain anything to you, Millie. My job is to make you think, and when that’s been achieved, which I consider to be the case, my next job is to invite you to find out more — to find out why I have all this information about you. To find out why I think you can make light-shades swing and crockery rattle, and to find out why that photograph had such an effect on you. There’s a great deal for you to find out, Millie. The question is, are you intrigued enough to want to know more?”
“I need answers,” said Millie. “I have a lot of questions, but I don’t know which one to ask first.”
Henry tugged on the watch chain in his pocket, and retrieved a small silver timepiece. He opened it with one hand and glanced at it. With a concerned frown, he snapped it shut. “I’m afraid my time with you is over for the moment. I have to be in Scotland before the full moon rises, or one small island community is going to have a memorable night. A night that won’t be forgotten for a very long time indeed.”
“You don’t have the time,” said Millie. “You can’t get to Scotland before nightfall. Even by plane. And what is going to happen if you don’t get there before the moon rises?”
Henry laughed. “Oh, I’ll be there on time,” he said. “And it’s better that I don’t tell you why I must be there.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a plain brown envelope. He placed it on the seat as he stood up. “You’ll find the first piece of the puzzle in there,” he said. “Open it when I’ve gone.”
“What is it?” said Millie.
“An invitation of sorts.” He took a step towards the door. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Millie Thorn, and now I must go and meet another young person like you. Our paths will cross again soon, I hope, but for now, I bid you farewell.”
Millie watched as Henry opened the front door, his briefcase in hand and a smile on his face. “Good-bye,” she said, too confused to offer more.
She sat still for a few minutes after the door had closed, staring at the envelope on the seat. It seemed quite thick for a simple invitation, and Millie fought against the urge to rip it open. She knew in her soul that when she opened it there would be no going back.
There were already too many unanswered questions boring into her mind, another might send her over the edge. She’d leave the envelope until the morning, when her brain had had the time to process the strange events which had already occurred.
She got to her feet, her legs a little wobbly, as if she’d been spiked with drugs, and opened the door. She stamped her feet to scare away any rats, and climbed the moss-covered steps which led to the gate. The metal felt cold against her palm as she took a firm grasp of the gate and gave it a tug. It was as she’d expected. The gate remained firmly rusted shut. There was no way such a small man as Henry Pinkerton could have forced it open. She’d seen it with her own two eyes, though. The gate had been open when Henry had stood on the doorstep.
Overcome with sudden fatigue, Millie trudged back into the flat, and even though darkness was still an hour away, she lay on the bed, fully clothed, and quickly fell into a deep uninterrupted sleep.
She woke to the loud rumble of traffic outside, and rubbed her head. Her phone told her it was half-past-nine in the morning. It also told her she had missed two calls.
Had she drank alcohol last night? She didn’t think so. She couldn’t really afford to. Wine was too expensive for somebody struggling to pay their rent. She sat up on the bed and scanned the room for empty bottles. No, she’d not been drunk. So why the hangover?
Her eye caught the envelope on the seat, and it all came rushing back. That hadn’t been real. Surely?
“It can’t be,” she muttered to the empty room.
Henry Pinkerton had been in her flat, though. If she took a deep sniff of the air she could still smell the aroma of old books and leather which had hung in the air around him. He must have drugged her. He must have used a sophisticated drug which was administered through skin contact, or through the air as an aerosol. That was the only logical reason for the strange events of the previous day and the relentless throbbing in her head.
Millie remained on her bed, studying the envelope with suspicion. Did the envelope contain traces of a drug, too? If she touched it would she experience another strange incident like the day before?
She considered phoning the police. Maybe they could give her a drug test. Henry Pinkerton was an easy man to describe, and he would have been picked up on one of the numerous CCTV cameras which lined the streets of London. It would be simple to track him down.
But she didn’t feel like any harm had come to her. She didn’t feel like Henry had committed a crime against her. Without being able to put a finger on why, Millie simply knew that Henry had meant her no malice.
Then she remembered how calm she’d felt when she’d studied the photograph of the elderly lady… Esmeralda. Even repeating the name in her head stirred Millie’s emotions gently, and the more she recalled the kind face of the smiling woman, the more confident she felt about the envelope. She had to open it.
She swung her legs off the bed, and crossed the room, approaching the envelope on the seat with caution, as if it might have a life of its own. It didn’t of course, and as Millie stared down at the plain brown package, the more curious she became about its contents.
Taking a deep breath, she picked it up. It had a little weight, and as she pressed the package between her fingers, she guessed what made up the familiar shape of the contents.
“Money?” she whispered.
She opened the envelope gingerly, peeking inside as she folded back the flap. The scent of wealth rose to her nostrils, and Millie stared in awe at the wad of banknotes. Twenty pound notes. Lots of them.
There was something else, too. The familiar colour of a train ticket, and a folded piece of paper, tucked alongside the money.
Millie withdrew the money and placed it on the sideboard. The wad was thick, and the notes were crisp and new. She placed the train ticket next to the money without checking the details, and unfolded the piece of paper. A note. Handwritten in neat curling letters, and written using real ink from a real pen, not a cheap ballpoint.
The note was short and precise.
Dear Miss Thorn,
I trust my visit was not too inconvenient to you, and I thank you for allowing me the time to speak with you.
The fact that you are reading this note means that our meeting went well, and you are ready to learn more about yourself and your rich heritage.
Please use the money for the
purposes of your choice. It is yours and comes to you unconditionally.
Should, as I hope you will, wish to learn more, please use the train ticket. It is valid for five days, and I can assure you that you will not regret taking the journey.
Should you take the trip, please rest assured that all your needs will be met.
Yours sincerely,
Henry Pinkerton.
Millie refolded the note and counted the money. A thousand pounds. Why on earth would anybody give her a thousand pounds with no strings attached? There was always a catch. If something seemed too good to be true… it usually was. She’d recently learned that the hard way.
Millie’s eyes widened as a worrying thought crossed her mind. No. It couldn’t be. Henry didn’t resemble the pimps she’d seen portrayed on the TV, and surely Esmeralda wasn’t a madam who ran the brothel in which Millie was to be forced to work in, under the influence of drugs.
No, it was her mind playing tricks on her. There had been something kind about Henry, he wasn’t that sort of man at all, and the mere memory of Esmeralda’s face told Millie she was way off the mark.
That didn’t mean she was about to accept the money and use a train ticket which would take her to heavens knows where — for a reason she didn’t even mildly understand — let alone fully understand.
No. She would put the money aside and not touch a penny of it. Henry might come back for it if he realised that Millie wasn’t about to jump on a train and leave whatever semblance of a life she had behind — because a strange little man had turned up unannounced and left her a wad of cash. No way!
She slid the money back into the envelope and tucked the unread train ticket alongside it. She reached for the note, and drew her hand protectively against her body. The paper had moved! No, not moved — slid, towards her. With intent.
She glanced at the window. It remained firmly shut, and she could feel no breeze. The paper had moved on its own. She was certain of it.