by Rob Campbell
This wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Maybe it was a bad idea after all. He looked back towards the bright lights of the street and licked his lips nervously before returning his gaze to the darkness of the alley.
Is this what it had come down to? Clandestine meetings in a dangerous part of town with no real idea what the ‘help’ that his friend had offered would amount to? On the verge of turning back, he caught sight of a sliver of light, and a man stepped out of a building to his right, lighting a cigarette and flicking the spent match into the gloom. The brief exposure of light from behind the man had revealed two things. One, the man was almost as wide as he was tall – and he must have been well over six feet – and two, he was standing at the top of a short flight of concrete steps.
Gooch approached the bottom step, the man eyeing him warily, taking a slow drag on his cigarette. As Gooch planted his left foot on the first step, the man’s reaction was instant.
“Any further and you’ll be picking your teeth out of the gutter.” The accent was mid-west with a generous helping of Italian.
“I’m here to see Daniel Turnbull,” Gooch stammered.
“What’s your name?”
“Gooch. Charles Gooch.”
The man took a final drag before crushing the cigarette into the step.
“You got the passcode?”
“Northumberland.”
“Wait here.” The man rapped on the door twice and was admitted seconds later, another pair of eyes scrutinising Gooch before the door shut once again.
Great. Left out in the cold. The situation was getting worse by the second. A strong breeze suddenly blew into the alley, causing leaves and discarded papers to whirl into a mini tornado. He stamped his feet, as much to dispel his nervous energy as to keep them warm. At least it wasn’t raining.
Gooch turned the events of the past few weeks over in his mind. He hadn’t seen Daniel Turnbull for more than seventeen years; not since the day that they’d parted ways on the docks in New York. Yet when he’d chanced across Turnbull in a bar uptown several weeks ago, the erstwhile doctor had wasted no time in offering his help. Gooch had been puzzled, explaining that his business was thriving and that whilst he appreciated the offer – not really sure what the help constituted or why it was being offered in the first place – he didn’t need it. Whilst he’d laughed them off at the time, it was Turnbull’s next words that had haunted Gooch recently. Not just the words themselves, but the cold certainty with which Turnbull had expressed them.
“Before too long, Charles, you’ll need my help. Very soon, everybody like you will be looking for help.”
“What do you mean, everybody like me?” Gooch had asked with no little amusement.
“Bankers. Businessmen. Insurance salesmen,” Turnbull had replied, not making the situation any clearer.
Gooch had left the bar that day surprised at the chance meeting with Daniel Turnbull. It was only the next day, when he’d taken his coat off after arriving at his office, that he had found the neatly folded piece of paper in his pocket. When you need my help, call me, the simple note had said. Daniel Turnbull’s name and number had appeared at the bottom of the page. Gooch had slipped the note into his top drawer and had almost forgotten about it.
How could he have possibly known? Gooch asked himself for what felt like the hundredth time today. It was almost like Turnbull had known that the Wall Street Crash was coming. And now, because of whatever Turnbull did or didn’t know, Gooch found himself trying to gain access to some sleazy speakeasy. He wasn’t a big drinker, so prohibition didn’t mean much to him one way or the other, but he felt a deep sense of foreboding at what was about to transpire. He blew into his hands, trying to ward off the effects of the chill night air.
He was on the verge of leaving when the door at the top of the steps opened once again. The large man beckoned him through, and Gooch stepped out of the cold and into the smoky atmosphere on the other side of the door. Once inside, he could see that the door was made from reinforced steel.
“A word of warning,” said the man, clamping a meaty hand on Gooch’s shoulder. “You tell anybody about this place, you’re dead. Capiche?”
“Seems clear enough.” His throat felt suddenly dry. “Do you have a glass of water?”
“You’ve come to a speakeasy for a glass of water?” the large man asked incredulously.
“A whiskey then?”
“Right this way, sir.”
He was led to a smoky room at the front of the building. At least he assumed it was the front of the building, but it was hard to tell given the fact that there were no windows. His only point of reference was that he’d walked in through the back door, and based on his route, logic told him that this must be the front.
A waitress pressed a shot glass into his hand, and he gulped down the contents without hesitation. It must have been strong stuff, because he experienced an instant sensation of wooziness, and the gaudy décor in the room – the red velvet sofas with large cushions, the oversized lampshades and a huge tapestry behind a makeshift bar – only heightened his disorientation.
“Sit down, Charles, before you fall down,” said a familiar voice.
“Daniel?” The muted lighting and fug of the smoke-filled air made it difficult for Gooch to see clearly.
“Welcome to my new place. What do you think?”
Gooch looked around, wide-eyed. “Can I have another drink?”
Turnbull snapped his fingers, and within seconds, Gooch was downing his second glass.
“Take it easy, Charles. That stuff isn’t cheap.”
When Gooch looked down at the glass nervously, his friend laughed.
“Don’t worry. That’s on the house, but I’m sure that we can come to some arrangement.”
Daniel Turnbull was seated on the opposite side of a small table, across the surface of which several playing cards, shot glasses and cigarette packets were scattered. Two other men were seated to either side of Gooch, and he noticed them eyeing him cautiously.
“Charles is an old friend. He won’t give us any trouble.”
Gooch smiled back, the combined effect of his friend’s words and the alcohol easing his anxiety. “Thanks, Daniel.” On the way here, he’d thought a lot about how this meeting might go, but first, he wanted to know how the hell Turnbull could possibly have known that the financial markets were about to crash. He cleared his throat, preparing to voice his question, but Turnbull was in first.
“You’re probably wondering how it came to this, and I’m sure that you want to know how I knew. But let’s get one thing straight, Charles. In here, I call the shots.” It didn’t take a psychologist to spot the not-so-subtle change in tone, but if there was any doubt, the absence of humour in Turnbull’s expression banished any potential misunderstanding. Gooch did his best to smile but knew without the aid of a mirror that he’d probably come across looking sickly at best.
“You’re here because you need help. Not just a few hundred bucks, but serious money. Am I right so far?”
When Gooch didn’t answer, Turnbull continued. “I thought so, and depending on how you look at it, it’s your lucky day. I need a man like you.” As if the point needed emphasising, he pointed a finger at Gooch.
Sitting here in this smoky dive, Gooch felt many things: desperate, ashamed, confused, frightened, but certainly not lucky. “A man like me?” he replied meekly.
“A man like you.” Turnbull sat back in his chair, sporting a self-satisfied grin.
“He means a desperate man,” said the man to his left. He had a clean-shaven head, and there was a wide scar running from just below his left eye to the corner of his mouth. The man who’d escorted him in was standing against the wall on his right, and he gave a humourless laugh at this last remark.
Gooch didn’t like the way this was going. He’d played out the possibilities in his head all evening and decided that if things looked like they were heading in an illegal direction, he’d walk out. He was a family man
, for God’s sake, and getting involved with the Chicago mob was not on his list of preferred solutions.
“Daniel. I don’t think that this is the best solution for me. I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll pass.” He started to rise from the chair, but his motion was halted by the abrupt intervention of his burly escort, who pushed him firmly back into his seat.
“Don’t be so hasty,” Turnbull said as if he’d been offended. “You haven’t seen what’s on offer yet.”
* * *
They’d tied a handkerchief over his eyes and led him through a quick series of turns before he felt himself being shepherded down some stone steps. His heart rate increased with every footfall, and his breathing became more ragged. The toxic atmosphere of the card room they’d left behind took on a nostalgic appeal.
“Is this really necessary?” he called out, but there was no response.
Eventually, they reached the bottom of the steps, and he felt somebody slipping the handkerchief off his eyes. He was surprised to discover that he was still in the dark. They must have brought him down to some cellar, but for what purpose? His blood ran cold as he rapidly worked through a half-dozen unsavoury possibilities in the space of a few seconds.
“Where are we, Daniel?”
“Charles Gooch.” Turnbull’s voice. “You have been identified as a desperate man. Your business is about to fold. Your options are limited.” The staccato nature of the words reminded Gooch of a speech that a judge might deliver to a packed courtroom. “We offer a solution. We will save your business and provide for your family. Do you accept?”
“Wait,” he responded. “I need more time. What exactly—”
“Do you accept?” Turnbull repeated, this time more forcefully.
Gooch could feel the sweat running along his neck and down the back of his shirt. He was panting like a dog in the summer, and it suddenly felt very hot in the cellar or wherever the hell they’d brought him.
We offer a solution. We will save your business and provide for your family.
His family. Turnbull sure knew what to say to rope him in. Maybe there wasn’t any other way.
“One final time. Do you accept?”
“Yes!” he surprised himself with how quickly he’d responded to what seemed like an ultimatum. Before he’d had a chance to give the matter further thought, he felt something being pressed into his hands. Reflexively, his fingers gripped a handle, and he felt the weight of an unknown object pulling his hands down. The fact that it was still pitch-black disoriented him. “Is that it?”
There was no response. Pitch-black in a cellar in absolute silence. He felt his heart hammering faster and considered bolting up the stairs, which he was sure were just behind him. But then he was suddenly aware of a rushing sound, like wind moving in a current between an open door and window.
For no reason that he could explain, he experienced an absolute and sudden terror. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, his stomach felt like it had dropped out of his body, there was a high-pitched ringing in his left ear, and he found that he could no longer breathe. He wanted to scream but couldn’t find his voice. His mind demanded that he run from this place, but he was rooted to the spot as surely as if he was wearing concrete boots.
It was at the point when he realised that all sanity had departed that he heard the voice. A low, sonorous thing that moved through the space around him like a predator stalking its prey.
“Charles Gooch,” the voice boomed, causing his heart to beat even harder. Without thinking, he was breathing again, gulping much-needed air into his grateful lungs.
“Charles Gooch,” the voice repeated. He became aware of a pulsing; no, it was more of a vibration, and it was coming from whatever he was holding.
“Charles Gooch.” A third time. The vibration pounded through his fingers in synchronisation with his own thundering heart. Was he supposed to respond in some way? Although he was able to breathe again, the sheer terror of the situation in which he found himself had stolen any possibility of words.
There was another rushing of wind, hitting him square in the chest and then seeming to pass through him, exiting up the steps behind him like a thief escaping a crime scene.
Then the lights came on. He was relieved to see that Daniel was there, and, incongruously, began a polite round of applause. The other men from the room, including the well-built escort, were there was well.
“Welcome to the group, Charles,” said Turnbull, taking Gooch by his free hand and shaking it warmly. He looked down to see the object that he’d taken hold of in the dark. It was a briefcase, and despite the years that had passed, he was sure that it was the tatty old thing that Daniel Turnbull had carried on to the Mauretania all those years ago.
“Isn’t this…?”
“One and the same, Charles,” confirmed Turnbull.
Chapter 11
When Monday morning arrived, my thoughts remained focused on one stranger.
Of all the people who’d turned up at the lecture, the one who intrigued me the most was the mysterious Dylan Fogg. Frank said that he’d worked for Lester before the two had had a falling out. Our visit to Lester’s data centre, where Frank had said that Dylan Fogg had worked, had shown me that Monkey and I were not the only ones helping Lester pursue his pieces of heaven. I couldn’t wait to quiz Lester on the subject tomorrow night.
For now, I was headed for a meeting with Victoria Halfpenny. Last Thursday, she’d asked me what I was considering for my local history project, and by telling her that I hadn’t come up with anything yet, I felt that I was letting her down. Of course, that was before I’d heard about Josiah Abram, and my teacher had set up a meeting for today, where she could coach me on selecting a suitable subject. Thanks to Henry Bannister-Reeves’ lecture, this was no longer a problem, but I’d decided to keep the appointment to make sure that Victoria approved of my choice of subject.
Plus, I couldn’t deny that I was excited to tell her the good news. Hopefully, her opinion of me would improve further when I revealed how I’d decided on Josiah Abram.
Victoria’s office was at the end of a long corridor in the old wing of the college building. I made my way up the concrete slabs of the staircase, running my hand along the brass bannister. It was perhaps fitting that the history department was located in a building that had seen better days. Whilst the rooms were tidy, there were chips of plaster crumbling from the walls, and the metal framework that held the windows was mostly rusted around the edges.
The corridor had a ghostly feel. Two of the three classrooms were empty, and in the third, I could see an older teacher whose name I didn’t know lecturing a group of students that numbered less than ten. It was when I rounded the corner by one of the empty classrooms that I heard a faint sobbing.
I adjusted my stride, feeling for some reason that I should approach the office cautiously. The door was slightly ajar, and I caught sight of Victoria Halfpenny raising a tissue to her face, wiping away a stream of tears. For a moment, I stood still, not knowing whether I should knock or simply pretend that I’d not seen her, walk away and return in a few minutes time.
Whilst I was still calculating the probability of slipping away without being seen, she looked at me through the gap between door and frame, her eyes betraying a moment of surprise which made me feel worse for being an interloper in some private moment.
“Lorna?”
“I’m sorry, Victoria. I’ll come back later if you…”
“No, really, it’s fine.”
I slipped through the door, closing it behind me and sank quietly into the chair opposite her desk. Victoria wiped a tear from her cheek, screwing the tissue into a ball and tossing it in a wastepaper basket at her feet.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“It will be,” she replied cryptically. She looked down at some notes on her desk, closed them up into a folder and pushed them aside.
I found the silence that followed awkward, and mentally, I willed her to
say something else.
Finally, she looked up, her face pulled into a tight smile. “Fourteen years, and still I blub like a baby.”
“Fourteen years?” I felt clumsy at not being able to think of better words with which to get the conversation moving.
“Since my mum passed away.”
In that moment, not only did her words explain the situation in which I’d found her, but they forged a connection between the two of us: two members of a club who had lost a parent at a young age. I experienced a sudden rush of grief as once again, I thought back to my own dad’s death. But surprisingly, this initial black wave washed away quickly, like a retreating tide, and into the space rushed an overwhelming feeling of compassion.
“Victoria, I’m so sorry.” I reached out, placing my hand on hers – a gesture of solidarity.
“No, I’m sorry, Lorna. You’d think that I’d get used to it after all these years.”
I shook my head. “I lost my dad less than two years ago. I know exactly what you’re going through. You don’t have to explain.”
“Oh, Lorna. I’m sorry, I had no idea!”
“It’s okay. How would you? We’ve only just met.”
She smiled back at me, reciprocating my gesture by squeezing my hand. I had no idea how old Victoria was – late twenties, maybe thirty – but either way, that meant that she’d suffered the same devastating loss as me at roughly the same age.
I don’t know how long we sat there. Was it a few seconds or a few minutes? But it seemed that however long the period of silence had been, it had granted Victoria the time that she needed to regain her composure.
“So, how are we getting on with choosing a suitable subject for your project?”
“Problem solved.” I went on to tell her about Saturday’s lecture, how compelling Henry Bannister-Reeves’ words had been, and I described a few of the paintings that he’d shown images of in his presentation.
“I heard about that. Pretty interesting by all accounts. Do you like art, Lorna?”