by Rob Campbell
“Ah, yes. Good job you asked – that’s very important.” Turnbull stood from his seat, making his way around the table. “Just two simple rules for you to remember for now; the rest will come later.”
Gooch looked puzzled, glancing first at the briefcase in his hand and then up to Turnbull’s face.
“It feels good, yes?” Turnbull muttered. “Get a feel for it.”
“It feels like a briefcase,” Gooch said flatly.
“Okay, first rule: do not ever, ever let it out of your sight.”
“Why? What’s in it?” Gooch surprised himself with how long he’d taken to ask the obvious question.
“Never leave it anywhere,” Turnbull continued, ignoring the question. “Take it into your bedroom when you sleep, take it with you every time you leave the house. Am I clear?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. Now the second rule, which is just as important.” Turnbull faced Gooch, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. “Never look into the briefcase.”
“Never?”
“Not yet anyway. Your life depends on it,” Turnbull said sternly.
Gooch shook his head several times. “How can my life depend on it? This is… this is… I don’t know what it is!”
“I know. I know, Charles. It’s a lot to take in,” Turnbull soothed as if he was calming an irate toddler.
“What the hell is in here that’s so dangerous that it could kill me?”
“I can’t tell you yet. It’s too early. All in good time.”
“So, if I take it home, what’s to stop me looking into it?”
At this, Turnbull placed his hand over the top of the briefcase, looking Gooch directly in the eye. “I believe that a short demonstration is in order.” Though Gooch still held the weight of the briefcase, he felt Turnbull open the clasp before gently prising the sides apart. “You can look down now, Charles.”
Gooch found himself unable to break Turnbull’s stare. Moments ago, his friend had warned him never to look into the briefcase; now he was being asked to do the very same!
“It’s okay, just this once,” encouraged Turnbull.
Gooch looked down slowly. At first, he couldn’t see anything untoward – just the dark folds of the insides of the briefcase. But then he became aware of something pulsing within. Once again, he felt a flood of terror, much as he’d experienced not long ago in the cellar. His skin prickled with a sense of unease that was as unquantifiable as it was inexplicable.
Turnbull snapped the briefcase shut, instantly bringing Gooch out of his state of terror. “That’s enough for now. If I hadn’t been here to close it, well…” Although the explanation remained incomplete, Gooch’s mind somehow filled in the gaps.
* * *
The relief brought about by the cold night air was tempered by a myriad of unpleasant thoughts that jabbed at Gooch’s emotional defences. He was on the ropes – there was no getting away from that. But whatever solutions his old friend Daniel Turnbull offered, there seemed to be a grim certainty that he’d have to do something thoroughly unpleasant in return.
Old friend. Could somebody who he’d spent a few days with on a transatlantic voyage nearly two decades ago, and who he hadn’t seen again until a few weeks ago, be considered a friend? What kind of friend took you into a dark cellar and made you participate in some warped initiation ceremony? Surely that’s what that was all about – he’d heard talk of masonic rituals after which businessmen traded favours and greased the wheels of their respective industries. Turnbull certainly seemed to think that he’d agreed to some form of contract. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense, no matter how unusual this evening had been.
Whilst he wasn’t sure about the whole deal, on his way home, he’d managed to formulate some basic plan that would allow him to muddle through for a short while. He’d take the briefcase and keep it with him as Turnbull had suggested. After the demonstration that had been provided, he was quite content with the rule of not looking inside again. He certainly wasn’t in a hurry to experience that irrational terror again any time soon. Naturally, he’d take precautions. There was no way that he’d want anybody in the house to stumble across the briefcase by mistake, and so he’d hide it away at the back of his wardrobe whilst he was at home, taking it with him to the office during the day.
In short, he’d put one foot in front of the other and carry on as normally as he could. Turnbull had told him to relax and that the problems with his business would be resolved. Although Gooch couldn’t see any easy way out for a company with crippling debts, if Turnbull was as good as his word, then he’d have to accept that whatever he was expected to do in return would be fair recompense for saving his company.
Incredibly, he didn’t have to wait long to see a positive result.
* * *
First, a handful of companies that owed money to the Columbine Insurance Corporation made good on their payments. It might not amount to much in the grand scheme of things, but at least it allowed Gooch to pay his employees and keep things on an even keel for the next month. Whilst he was still counting his blessings, his number two, Drew Cole, informed him of an unexpected windfall.
“That contract we signed with the railroad company last month,” Drew said excitedly.
“I thought they’d reneged,” Gooch said warily, afraid to get his hopes up. He was still worried about the looming legal battle.
“Turns out they’ve agreed to see things our way. First payment’s due tomorrow, four more to follow at monthly intervals!”
“But that’s a quarter of a million—”
“Two hundred and fifty-seven thousand dollars,” Drew corrected.
“Did they say what’s changed?” Gooch asked, feeling his number two’s enthusiasm spreading.
“Not exactly. Something about a persuasive word from an advisor.”
* * *
“That would be Freddy Kalinsky,” laughed Turnbull when Gooch broached the subject with him. “He’s got one hell of a mouth on him – gets him into all sorts of scrapes – but he’s a useful smooth talker if you point him in the right direction.”
Gooch nodded soberly. His friend had indeed made good on his promises. The company might still be worth less than half its value at the beginning of the year, but in a financial landscape that had seen hundreds of companies go to the wall and left thousands of workers wondering where their next meal was coming from, it was fair to say that the Columbine Insurance Corporation was in rude health. In relative terms, at least.
“May I ask how business is in general?” Turnbull said offhandedly as if reading Gooch’s thoughts.
“All things considered, not too bad,” he admitted.
“Then I think it’s time you returned the favour.” His words caused Gooch’s stomach to flip before trying to make its way through the seat of his chair. Deep down, he had known that this was coming, but buoyed by his company’s recovery, he’d somehow managed to lock away all negative thoughts in a small corner of his mind.
“Don’t look so worried, Charles. It might not be as bad as you think.”
Gooch stared back impassively. “So, what’s the deal?” he asked in the voice of a man who was about to meet his fate, for better or worse.
“Big Sal will fill you in on the details. You’re in good hands. Just make sure that you take that with you, eh?”
Naturally, he was pointing at the briefcase.
* * *
Big Sal was none other than Salvatore Romano – the wide-shouldered guard who’d first led Gooch into the speakeasy. It seemed like months ago, but it was only ten days. How time flies when your business is recovering and you’re waiting to get in bed with the mob, Gooch thought.
Big Sal was hardly inconspicuous, dressed as he was in a pin-striped suit and fedora. Gooch couldn’t help but notice the large pistol that Sal had tucked into his waistband as they’d left the car. They’d climbed the stairs to the second floor of some tenement block and were currently standi
ng in the corridor outside apartment number 237. Yet still, Sal hadn’t filled him in on what he was supposed to do other than to make sure that he brought the briefcase.
The damn briefcase. What was the deal with that thing? Whilst he’d successfully pushed the worry to the back of his mind this past week, his natural curiosity had caused him to wrack his brain to determine what purpose it served.
Sal rapped on the door a second time, his clean-shaven face turning away from the door to look down on Gooch.
“What if he’s not in?” Gooch asked, hoping that he and Sal could slip off to a café and grab a coffee instead.
“Then we break the door down.”
“Ah.” Coffee would have to wait.
As Sal raised his fist a third time, the door opened to reveal an old woman with skin like wrinkled leather. She had a pink shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
“Bernie Farnsworth?” Sal asked.
“You’d better come in. I’ve been expecting you,” the old woman responded in a voice that was almost as deep as Sal’s.
“You never told me that he was a woman,” Gooch hissed, causing Sal to shoot him a puzzled look as they both followed the old woman down a short hallway and into a sitting area. The wallpaper looked like it had been up since the Civil War, and the modest wooden furniture didn’t look much newer. The smell of something savoury drifted in from the kitchen.
“Can we keep this brief? I’ve just made my soup,” the woman said as she made her way over to a sideboard stacked with well-thumbed books and assorted household items. She reached out and pulled something from an ornamental jug.
“Suits me,” Sal said as he reached below his suit, and at that moment, Gooch feared the worst. He almost closed his eyes, so sure was he that when he saw Sal’s hand again, it would be gripping the pistol. To his surprise, his partner pulled out a bulging wallet. “Fifty bucks, right?” he said, looking across the room.
“Seventy!” said Bernie Farnsworth indignantly, gripping whatever was in her hand a little more tightly.
“Just testing, Mrs Farnsworth,” Sal said, a broad smile creasing his face. He slipped some notes from the wallet and placed them on an adjacent table. Mrs Farnsworth eyed the money as a wolf would easy prey. Sal caught her glance and placed a meaty hand on top of the cash. “Come on,” he said, holding out his free hand.
Mrs Farnsworth looked down at the small object in her hand, opening her fingers such that Gooch could see what looked like a small porcelain bell. Nothing about this made sense. He was about to ask Sal what was going on when he noticed the big man pointing to a hole in the plaster wall, just behind one of the wooden chairs.
“Is this where it happened?”
“Yep. Bullet came in through there,” Mrs Farnsworth explained, pointing towards the window. Gooch was surprised that he hadn’t noticed earlier; there was a round hole in the centre of the window. “Just a second before, this had rolled off the sideboard,” continued Mrs Farnsworth, holding out the small bell, “and I bent down to catch it.”
“So, the bullet would have hit you had you not reacted to the bell falling?” Sal pressed.
“Straight through my head, more than likely.” She looked sadly at the ornament in her hands. “I owe my life to this little piece of heaven. It means a lot to me. Still, cash is cash, right?”
“Right,” Sal agreed. “What I need you to do is place it in the briefcase that Mr Gooch has.” Gooch wasn’t concentrating at this point, still trying to work out the dynamics of what was happening here. “Gooch?”
“Sorry, okay, yes.” Gooch held the briefcase out in front of him, gently prising it open but taking great care not to look towards its gaping maw.
“Now, Mrs Farnsworth. Just keep looking at me and put it in the bag,” coaxed Sal. As simple as that, his first task was complete. Gooch closed the briefcase quickly, and soon he and Sal were on their way.
“Not what you expected, eh?” Sal asked when they were back in the car.
Gooch had a million questions yet found himself lost for words. Sal caught his look and laughed. “If you need to know, best ask Mr Turnbull.”
Gooch sat wordlessly in the passenger seat as Sal pulled out into the late-night traffic. On his lap, he could swear that he felt a gentle hum from the briefcase.
* * *
Gooch did try to ask his friend what the hell was going on, but all his questions were met with the same answer from Turnbull: it’s too early – ask me sometime later. This odd pattern continued for several months through the winter of 1929, and into the new year. Gooch would accompany Sal to various locations, and each time they’d collect some random item that Sal paid a token amount for. Desperate though he was for answers, Gooch felt relieved that the nightmare visions he’d had of him and Sal gunning down innocent victims as part of some mob-related feud had not come to pass. Plus, his business continued to climb out of the doldrums, so who was he to complain?
It was on a cold February night that what Turnbull had referred to as his ‘easing in period’ came to an abrupt end. In the fifth-floor apartment of a man known as Jimmy Kuznetsov, things had gone smoothly up until the point when Sal had asked him to drop his gold watch into the bag.
“I won’t ask again, Jimmy. Two hundred bucks is a lot of cash,” Sal pointed out.
“Do you know how much money I’ve won because of this?” Jimmy shot back, the skin on his forehead glowing pink where it met his thinning greasy hair. His head only came up to the centre of Sal’s chest, and he was outranked in the clothes department too, standing as he was in a tatty old string vest.
“Part of the reason why Mr Turnbull is offering you this deal. You’ve won enough at his casinos. This way you get to walk away with two good legs, if you catch my meaning.”
“Bah. Always the same with you people. You run a casino, rake in the cash and start crying when a bit of loose change makes its way out!” Jimmy waved his hand in the air, dismissing Sal’s deal, turning towards a chest of drawers in the corner. He was quick, Gooch had to give him that. In a swift movement that belied his years, Jimmy rounded on Sal and fired a shot from a concealed gun. But his accuracy didn’t match his speed, and the bullet zinged off the doorframe behind the large mobster. He didn’t get a second shot because Sal wasn’t too shabby on the draw either, and before Gooch registered the smoke from the end of Sal’s pistol, Jimmy was on his back, a pool of crimson spreading across his white vest.
“Grab the watch!” Sal shouted at Gooch.
Gooch leaned over Jimmy, slipping the gold watch from his limp wrist with his left hand, flipping open the clasp on the briefcase with his right hand. He planned to toss the watch in and then snap it shut, just like he’d done several times before. But in an effort to complete the task as quickly as possible, he stumbled whilst stepping back from Jimmy’s lifeless form and ended up thrusting his left hand into the briefcase.
This action was met with a seismic reaction from within the briefcase. In his mind, he imagined that he’d put his hand into a bear trap, and as the steel jaws of the trap shut around his wrist, somebody had wired the metal to a large power supply that sent an enormous current surging up his arm.
In an effort that felt like trying to prise his arm out of quicksand, with a gut-wrenching scream, Gooch managed to pull his throbbing limb from the briefcase and snapped it shut. He looked up at Sal, who was staring back at him, open-mouthed.
“Che macello!” the Italian said, a look of pure terror on his face. He pointed at Gooch’s hand.
Or more accurately, what was left of it.
Gooch stared in horror at what had been his left hand. The best you could say was that two of his fingers looked almost normal. His middle finger looked like it had melted, whilst the flesh had been almost completely stripped from his index finger and thumb, leaving the bones in plain view.
His maimed left hand was the last image that Gooch saw before he passed out.
Chapter 15
We’d talked the matter through
several times before the weekend, but in the end decided that we didn’t need anybody else there when we opened the letter that the vicar had passed on. If we’d opened it in the presence of Anja or Mick, what could they have told us about the words inside?
Of all the things that I’d seen during the unravelling of this mystery, a letter intended for a boy who wouldn’t open it for more than a century after the words were committed to paper was the most difficult thing to take on faith.
In short, I smelled a rat.
Whatever secrets the letter would reveal, it would be best if we had time to take stock, discuss the matter between the two of us, and try to work out what we should do next. Without the intervention of others, we’d be in a better position to make the right choice.
And so, on a misty Saturday afternoon, under the canopy of a tall birch tree in the heart of Eastbeck Woods, we prepared to set the last words of Josiah Abram free.
Monkey slouched on a fallen log. The thickness of the dead tree’s trunk was such that his legs barely brushed the grass on which it stood. I sat on a bench opposite.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked, pulling the letter from my pocket and holding it out to him. “We don’t have to do this – we could just burn it,” I added when he didn’t respond. I’d said these words to ease any pressure he was feeling, but as soon as they escaped my mouth, I had the horrible feeling that he was going to take me up on the offer. Whilst I was apprehensive about what the letter might contain, I still wanted to know – for better or worse.
“Let’s get it done,” he mumbled, taking the letter and removing it from the envelope in one fluid motion.
I breathed a sigh of relief and watched Monkey’s eyes scan the page. The woods were near silent, such that the sounds of his hands on the old paper seemed amplified, like the scratch of dried leaves across stone. After what seemed like an age, his right hand dropped to his side, and he snorted out a laugh.