Drink and driving wasn’t nearly as transparent as it is nowadays. DUI notices were nowhere near as prominent. Social drinking, and then taking the car home afterwards, was a common occurrence.
No one suggested Stock was drunk, but if any of the police that attended the crash scene had been brave enough to test him, he would have been outside any safe parameters.
Father and son had been at a fund raising event in the Hills. His vast personal fortune was still a future goal but Randolph Stock had been born into old money. His father, and his father before him, had built up a family dynasty based on construction; in the city and the outer limits. Stock had managed the businesses sensibly, but without the passion he later demonstrated through his gemstone and diamond business.
Frank was being groomed to take on a senior position alongside his father, and ultimately to take on the top position. Still in college, studies going well, this was a welcome evening off. Frank shone in the company of his father and the adulation was reciprocated. Ray had recognized the mutual worship long before, and had done his best to ignore it.
It was after midnight when the pair managed to make their excuses and leave. They had helped the organizers raise a decent sum for a home for under privileged children; few of the rich people eating and drinking to excess realized the irony of why they were gathered together.
The rain was insistent; the sky, already dark with night, was crowded with black clouds. Frank asked his father to let him call a cab, but driving home was something Stock had factored into his plans for the evening, and he wasn’t a man to change his plans for anyone.
Stock instructed the valet to bring his car around and stood waiting under the canopy of the porch, chomping on the cigar that had been given to him at dinner by the vice president of an oil company.
The Cadillac loomed out of the darkness, and the valet jumped out, running round to open the passenger door. He handed the keys to Stock and accepted the folded dollars that were pressed into his palm.
Frank got into the passenger seat and shook the raindrops from his hair. Randolph Stock opened the window so the cigar smoke had a release. He inserted the key, engaged gear and pulled away.
The wipers did an adequate job trying to keep the screen clear, but the rain gradually got worse, and Stock had to concentrate just to keep in a straight line. There was little traffic about, and once they left the highway they were the only vehicle.
The crash report commented on the road conditions, mentioned the circumstances of the driver’s evening. The skid marks where the large car had braked and the driver had lost control were measured and remarked upon in the report. Eventually the report was filed away. Money, old money in particular, has a lot of favors it can call in when it needs to.
Stock remembered exactly what happened. He remembered it every day and every night. He didn’t need a report, not even a doctored one.
He wasn’t driving too fast, not for normal road conditions. Except the conditions were far from normal. The road twisted and turned and there were no streetlights. The bend loomed in front and he turned the wheel a second too late. The tarmac bent to the right but the car carried on to the left.
The fence was designed merely to mark the edge of the road; to divide the driving part from the steep drop on the other side. The Cadillac ploughed through the flimsy metal fence as if it were made of straw. Stock struggled to keep control, believing if he kept the wheel straight he might be able to steer the car on all four tires. He never got the chance.
As soon as the car left the road it was as good as flying. Trees slowed it down but it didn’t come to a halt until it hit the rocks that framed the creek at the bottom of the narrow ravine.
Frank was pronounced dead at the scene.
Randolph Stock was flung clear some time during the descent. He ran to the car as soon as he heard the dreadful sound it made as it connected with the rocks. He hauled his son out, fearful of the car igniting. When the police and the ambulance arrived Stock was cradling his dead son in his arms. No one repeated what he was saying, and his words didn’t make the report.
Randolph Stock walked away from the crash without a scratch.
Carl Anders had taken a while to locate the bathroom where the people had been seen taking drugs. He’d assumed they would be men. Suited types, believing a little recreational coke was fashionable and cool.
Anders was surprised to the point of shock to find three young women, dressed in white robes.
He stood in the doorway, his mouth opening and closing as if he was a fish gasping for air, while his mind went through the slightly painful process of coming to a decision. Eventually he decided he needed to exert his authority. He had been given an assignment; throw the drug takers out of the house. Even though they were female, and even though he was never quite as comfortable with women as he was with men, he felt duty bound to see the project through.
“Sweep it up and flush it.”
None of the robed figures moved. None of them even turned their heads to glance at him.
Anders hesitated. He was used to giving orders and having them obeyed, just as he jumped when he was told to. He looked around the opulent bathroom, and had to admit he couldn’t see any evidence of drug taking. If anything the room was pristine, gleaming clean. Martin Devereaux had seemed certain, and his instructions were clear.
“Finish up, now. You’re going to have to leave.”
One of the women, a slim blonde haired girl with startlingly blue eyes, turned to look at him. She regarded him in a manner suggesting she had smelled a bad odor. She pulled her robe closely around her body and smiled.
“Are you part of the management?”
“Management?”
“Of the house. We’re here with the Church of the Divine Light and we need to make sure Mrs. Stock is settled for the night.”
Hesitation was now the overwhelming emotion for Anders.
Maybe Devereaux had seen three different people. Maybe it wasn’t these three, what were they anyway, nuns?
“We’re not nuns.”
“What…”
The second women had spoken. A dark haired, dark skinned, woman in her late twenties. “You wondered if we were nuns. We’re not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” The third woman was speaking now. She was slightly older than the others, perhaps the senior one.
All three of them were facing him. They stood in a line, shoulder to shoulder. They were all smiling; benign, frightening smiles that seemed to devour him.
“We’re sisters,” the older one said. “We’re here to administer to Mrs. Stock, help her recovery.”
“That’s as maybe,” Anders had decided to restore his authority, as if he had ever had any here. “You’re going to have to leave. There have been complaints.”
“Complaints about us?” The younger woman sounded excited at the prospect.
“This is a respectable house, and we don’t want drug taking here. There are important people here tonight, politicians and the like. You’ll have to come with me.”
One of the women laughed, a brittle sound, like fingernails on glass.
“Drugs? You think we’ve been taking common or garden drugs?”
“Ridiculous,” one of them said. “We have no need for anything so man made.”
Anders moved forward and took hold of the arm of the woman nearest to him. He grabbed part of the sleeve of the white robe and part of her arm.
The woman hissed at him as if she was a snake, drawing a sharp intake of breath over her teeth. She glanced either side of her at the other two robed figures and then she looked down at her arm, where Anders’ hand lay motionless.
As she looked intently at her arm Anders felt a warmth fan out over his fingers. The place where he had hold of her arm was getting warmer. So warm it soon became hot. Very quickly it was too hot to hold and he had to let go. He drew his hand up against his chest, cradling it.
“You he
ld on a little too long,” the woman said. “That will need some attention.”
Anders looked down at his hand and saw each finger was red raw, as if it had been held against a source of heat, like an electric fire. His hand was throbbing, small blisters already starting to form.
“Do you think he still wants us to leave?”
The women laughed amongst themselves.
“I think we should shut the door.”
Anders stood between them and the open door behind him. None of the women moved, but he heard the door slam shut. He glanced round and watched as it rocked on its hinges, as if someone had slammed it really hard.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble. I have a job to do.”
None of the women were smiling now. They moved away from one another so that they seemed to fill the entire bathroom. Even though Anders was still stood in front of them, the impression he had was that they were surrounding him.
“Mrs. Stock will wonder where we are.”
“We had better not keep her waiting.”
“We have time for some fun though, don’t we?”
Anders didn’t like the sound of that. He edged back towards the door, and fumbled for the handle with his undamaged hand. He wrenched the handle down, but it wouldn’t budge.
“It’s locked,” the blonde one said.
“We don’t like to be disturbed when we enjoy ourselves.”
The dark skinned one began to stroke Anders chest. Immediately he felt his heart constrict, a tightening behind his ribs, a pain like a knife plunged in and twisted.
“It wasn’t drugs,” the older one said. “No cocaine, nothing so mundane.” She took a small glass vial from inside her robes and held it up to the light. It sparkled in the brilliant white light of the bathroom. Inside the vial, a grey dust seemed to be dancing, spinning off the glass as if in exultation.
Anders watched, fascinated, as she took out the glass stopper, tipped the vial against her lips, and swallowed the contents. After a few seconds she opened her mouth, stuck out her tongue and showed Anders the grey dust bubbling and writhing in her mouth.
“Souls are usually best taken with a good wine, but Brother Simon doesn’t like us to drink on duty.”
The blonde woman was behind him now, and Anders was barely aware of her pressing her hands into his back. The pain in his chest was almost unbearable, but as soon as the agony started in his back he cried out.
As soon as the scream began, the older woman pressed her lips hard against his mouth. He felt her lips squirming against his, like slugs on oil-slicked glass. Her tongue insinuated itself, and he felt a sensation like thousands of grains of sand rolling around inside his mouth. The dust she had swallowed was being regurgitated, and he was being forced to eat it.
The hands stroking his chest were more insistent now, stroking more firmly, the fingers dipping into the flesh, the nails probing beneath the skin, raking his ribs.
His back was racked with a pain so intense he was forced to his knees with the pressure of it. He was aware of hands moving around inside him, his spine being manipulated from behind, the vertebrae being twisted and broken.
The lips were pulled away from his but the woman closed his mouth with her hand, and the fingers of the hand clamped shut, so he had to swallow the dust in his mouth. He felt it scratch his throat, burning his oesophagus, entering his lungs.
Before he knew what was happening he was flopping on the floor, coughing up blood. He couldn’t feel his legs, or his arms. His heart was racing so fast it was out of control. His mouth and throat were constricted and the only way he could draw breath was through his nose.
“Who did you give him?”
The older woman shrugged. “Past its use by date.”
“We ought to attend to Mrs. Stock.”
The older woman sighed. “I suppose we have entertained our guest long enough.” She stared down at Anders, who was shaking feebly as his heart ground to a halt.
“We’ll clean up.” The blonde woman nodded at the dark skinned one. “You get started with the old woman?”
Randolph Stock felt the veins in his temples pulsing as he absorbed the fat man’s words.
“These are your terms?” he asked quietly.
The obese Brother Simon sat, as serene as he had been throughout the meeting. His breathing was obtrusive, and was the only sound that could be heard in the study. He merely nodded, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. His breathing was affected by his weight. Every breath seemed to cause him pain, as if each one was ripped from his lungs under protest.
Stock pressed a button on his chair and it slid silently backwards. He moved to the small table that held some decanters and glasses. He poured himself another drink. He didn’t offer any to the others in the room.
When he was back behind his desk he took some time in sipping his drink, composing himself before he spoke. He had felt guilt about killing his son every waking moment of his life since that night. Most nights he woke in a cold sweat with a nightmare that was ever present; the Cadillac spinning out of his control, the steering wheel wrested from his clutching fingers, and the car sailing into space.
He had endured the guilt for barely six months before he did something about it. The bridge he jumped from was high enough, and the fall ought to have killed him. He took it as some punishment from on high that all he did was break his back. Confined to a wheelchair with no feeling below the waist for the rest of his life was a fitting reminder, second by painful second, that he had killed his favoured son.
“So, let me make sure I have understood you correctly. And I understand these are Dr. Romodon’s terms, not your own. You have prolonged my wife’s life in return for money, but you cannot stem the cancer and eventually she will die.”
“We have given her an extra year at most. I regret we share with science the failure, so far, to find a cure for cancer, but we are closer than the scientists I can assure you.”
Stock closed and opened his eyes. He hadn’t expected Marlene to live as long as she had and in truth he was grateful to Romodon for the additional weeks he had been given. When those weeks spread into months he began to hope it would be endless but he guessed it would not. If he had been considering his wife’s treatment as a business deal he would have described her treatment as a loss leader. The Church had treated Marlene, and accepted money, but not a huge amount, as a kind of promotional venture. Their real intent, the big prize for them, was Frank Stock.
“In return for the renewed life of my son, Frank, you wish to take my granddaughter, Paula?”
“A modest request.”
“For you, maybe. My daughter has been a disappointment to me, it’s true. And Paula treats me as no more than a nuisance on the occasions when we converse, but she is family.”
Brother Simon allowed an expression to mask his face that might have been taken as empathy, or understanding. Stock wasn’t fooled. He knew instinctively that the man was as cold as the desert night and just as barren of emotion.
Stock swallowed his whisky. He placed the cigar in the ashtray and steepled his fingers under his chin. “What would you do with my granddaughter?”
The fat man shook his head. Parts of the skin on his face and neck were mobile for seconds afterwards. “That would not be your concern. Dr Romodon has many uses for his sisters.”
“So, Paula would join your…whatever it is you call yourselves.”
“That is one possibility.”
Stock fixed him with a stare that was as fierce as a pin holding a butterfly to a board. “And the other possibilities?”
“You should not…”
“Don’t tell me what I should not…The other possibilities?”
Brother Simon sighed dramatically, although in truth he had expected Stock to be insistent. If he was told the full truth it was unlikely he would agree, however desperate his desire to see his dead son might be.
“When we return a soul to their loved ones we leave a void where it has been re
sting. We need to fill that void.”
Stock turned his head away. It was no more than he had anticipated. A life for a life. At one point, in the early days of his relationship with Romodon, he had imagined he would be bargaining his wife for his son. And when Marlene began to improve he thought that would be the deal. It was only now, when he had learned that his wife was dying come what may, that he knew the price would be higher.
“So, Paula will die.”
Simon stared back, but said nothing.
Stock felt excitement grow. He loved the cut and thrust of a business deal. No matter what the stakes were, no matter what the subject.
“Now,” he said. “I’ll tell you my terms.”
Ray opened the door to the pool house and immediately heard the sobbing.
The lights were dim but he thought he could see someone sitting at the edge of the swimming pool. The ceiling was white with black stars painted on. Reflections of the pool flickered onto it like random projections of blue clouds. The water itself was gently rippling with the movement of the filter.
Ray walked to the pool and stooped down. Paula was sitting with her feet in the water. Her shoulders were heaving with sobs that seemed to rack her body.
“Hey,” Ray said quietly, he didn’t want to scare her.
It seemed for a moment that she hadn’t heard him, or had chosen to ignore him. Then she turned her head to look over her shoulder. “Do I know you?”
Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of paper tissues. He offered them to her and she took them with the gratitude of a drowning man taking a glass of water.
“Have I changed that much?”
Paula wiped her eyes and nose with the tissues and set them down next to her. “You’ll have to give me a clue. I’m not so good with faces.”
“I’m Ray, your mother’s brother.”
“Christ, Uncle Ray. The black sheep.”
HIS OTHER SON Page 5