2014 Year of the Horse

by Liliane Parkinson



  2014

  The Year of the Horse

  By Liliane Parkinson

  Copyright 2012 Liliane Parkinson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-473-21004-5

  For Neil

  With grateful thanks and all my love

  CHAPTER 1

  His thoughts were tangled. His body felt heavy in the saggy bed, weighed down by a sense of impending doom. He prised his eyelids apart. Rough specks scraped his eyes. He raised his head and checked the room. It was unfamiliar. He could see the faint outline of a gap in the drapes. Daybreak was coming. Where was he? His tongue felt thick and furry, his mouth dry. His head throbbed. He lay still and tried to remember. Never in his nineteen years had he felt any separation between spirit and flesh. He’d been whole but at that moment he was split. Slowly images flickered, random at first and from above he observed his brain marshalling them. Then he felt himself drop, his body shuddered and he remembered the party.

  He staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, splashed cold water over his face, rinsed his mouth and glowered at himself in the mirror. The hung-over image glared back. It took a moment before he caught sight of the pink gown hanging on the back of the door. He turned in shock and stared at it. The girl at the party had worn it. She’d leaned on him, the lace of her bra distracting him then when he’d dragged his eyes away she’d smiled and he was lost. How had it got here? He battered his sluggish brain to attention. In trepidation he walked out of the bathroom and through the bedroom into the lounge.

  He stopped, rooted to the spot trying to take in the scene before him. It was a struggle to control his frenetic thoughts. She was slumped on the sofa like a rag doll. Although he’d never set eyes on them before he identified the items scattered around. Their purpose seemed obvious to him. The small pile of white powder on silver foil reinforced his guess. Fine particles dusted the surface of the coffee table. He dragged his eyes away and looked again at the girl. There was something seriously wrong with her.

  It took him all his willpower to get closer, to touch her shoulder. As if burned he snatched his hand back. She was so cold! Immediately he knew she was dead. He couldn’t grasp the full horror, he looked frantically around the room for some sign of normality, but nothing was familiar. He stumbled back to the bedroom. What could he do? His glance fell on the phone and Brady’s face swam into his mind. Without another coherent thought, he rang his roommate. After what seemed an age the ringing stopped and a sleepy voice answered.

  “Hi?”

  “It’s me, George.”

  “Ah the ladies man. You’re a sly one you are. Who was that glamour puss I saw clutching your arm as you-

  “Brady stop! Listen! It’s a nightmare. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Okay, okay. Slow down and start at the beginning.”

  “I just woke up. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. In the other room, the lounge she’s lying there. I think she’s dead.”

  “Whoa. Who’s dead?”

  “The girl I met at the party - I think she overdosed. She’s so cold and white.”

  “Where are you? At her house or-”

  “I’m in a bedroom. It looks like a hotel.”

  “Okay look for the services directory. There should be one in the lounge or maybe in the bedroom. That should give you a clue.”

  “Wait I’ll have a look.” George muttered to himself as he searched for the directory. “It’s the Princess on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Kingston Rd.”

  “Now listen carefully George. Stay where you are and don’t answer the door until you hear three knocks followed by another two. That’ll be me. I won’t be long.”

  George returned the handset to its cradle paralysed by fear. He saw his life, his future in tatters. The quarter of an hour seemed an eternity, broken at last by a soft rat-a-tat. George crept fearfully to the door. He was in too much shock to even glance at the girl.

  “Who’s there?” His vocal cords were tightly strung and his voice sounded tortured.

  “Brady.”

  George unlocked the door and Brady came in holding up a tattered “Do Not Disturb” sign.

  “Smart thinking buddy,” he grinned. George stared back blankly. He didn’t recall the sign. Brady stared at the body and the drugs. His grin vanished. “God, George you have got yourself into a mess!” Briskly he assumed command. “Come on buddy I’ll get you home.”

  The next George knew, was that it was morning again and he was in familiar surroundings. The minute he stirred, Brady woke, raised himself on one arm and scowled at George. He did not bother to hide his scorn.

  “Your secret’s safe with me. Forget last night ever happened,” he said in a flat voice then he rolled over ending the conversation. After stewing over his unasked questions and finding no answers George got up, careful not to disturb Brady. His stomach churned. It felt empty and unsettled as if he hadn’t eaten for ages.

  “APW Promotes In-house.

  Californian News March 2001.

  The appointment committee of APW (Alleviating Poverty Worldwide) recommended that the cords look within its ranks for a new CEO and the board has approved the appointments of Wesley Smithson as its CEO and Brady Ambler as Vice Chairman. A spokesperson described it as giving the organisation stability and direction without disruption.

  Mr Smithson has been with APW for many years and Brady Ambler joined the organisation more recently. In recent years the two men have been jointly responsible for fund raising and supporter relations. They are a highly successful team and the organisation credits its current high profile and growing supporter base directly to them. Under its new captains, APW will continue to grow and effect change in the world.

  The board praised the retiring CEO … “

  CHAPTER 2

  For a moment his world shuddered. The announcement cut deep. Brady looked up to see that Wesley too was astonished. His eyes were wide and his expression would have made Brady laugh aloud if he hadn’t felt numb. It took only a moment before he rose to his feet, pumped Wesley’s hand energetically and slapped him on the back, hiding his reaction in a torrent of words.

  “Congratulations Wes. Well done. You deserve it. That’s one for the books eh? I suppose you knew all along?”

  “No no I can’t believe it. Are you sure this isn’t a mistake?”

  Brady’s sentiments exactly. He bent down to retrieve a couple of cold beers from the office fridge. By the time he turned he had regained control of himself.

  “Here Wes this is something we have to celebrate,” and he shoved a cold bottle into Wesley’s hand. “Cheers.” His bottle clashed against Wesley’s and he lifted it to his mouth and poured it down his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Wesley took a gulp.

  “I’m so glad you’re my SIC. We’re a good pair, you and I. Course our roles could have been reversed. At least you’ll keep me on my toes. I know that and I also know you’ll be supportive. I think we can make a difference to the way things are run, don’t you?”

  “Sure Wes. It’ll be exciting. Time the organisation was in younger hands. I’m sure you’ll want to ring your parents with the news. Go on, I’ll leave you to it. They’ll be so proud!”

  It was later alone in his condo that he’d brooded over the Board’s decision. He was convinced that he was far more talented and able. Why had he been overlooked? He stood at the window glaring out over the night city. Lights glittered in the blackness as they’d done every other night but tonight their magi
c failed to penetrate his bitter resentment.

  Hell, he hadn’t had the same opportunities as Wesley but at least he’d made something of himself. He resented Wesley’s small town origins and happy family life. He’d met Charles Smithson, a pushy insurance salesman and his wife Grace, a dowdy teacher and he couldn’t stand them. He knew their type; pious hypocrites like the church sluts who’d visited his mom when his pop had been killed. He seethed when he remembered how they’d looked down their sanctimonious noses at him and his sister Candy. When things got bad they’d just stopped coming, left them to flounder. He was careful not to let his disgust show because these same people were the ones who so generously supported the work of APW. He felt vindicated every time he coerced them to get out their cheque books and add an extra zero.

  Anyway, he argued to himself, Wesley wasn’t such a success despite those high and mighty ideals he claimed to follow. A divorcee whose marriage hadn’t lasted even three years, and now he was married to his job and rang his parents every week. What a fool! Brady was proud of his social skills. He waltzed into relationships and when things turned serious he skated out. He knew he couldn’t trust anyone and certainly not a broad. Not if he wanted to get ahead. The two women in his life had proved that.

  Take his mother, revulsion twisted his face just thinking of her, she had no backbone, no moral fibre and she’d fallen apart almost from the moment that unstable load had fallen onto his father and crushed him. Had she always been so weak? He couldn’t think back that far. He could hardly recall his father yet just thinking of him brought back the sickly sweet scent of the flowers and carried him back to those dreadful days they’d been cooped up inside, the curtains at half-mast. He and Candy had answered the door and the phone, made interminable cups of tea and coffee for countless black wraiths with their stilted, jilted conversations and long barren sigh-filled silences. Most of all he remembered endlessly washing dishes while his Mom sat listless and weepy in the lounge, incapable of action, almost buried in flowers. After the funeral they’d thrown the dying flowers into the trash can and quickly realised their Mom couldn’t cope. Some days she never got out of bed but they’d managed okay, he reminded himself, that was until his sister disappeared. He hated the way she’d left him like that, not that it was her fault but it damn well wasn’t his. Mom thought otherwise.

  Wesley never had to deal with crap like that, he thought bitterly. The echo of his mother’s taunts sounded in his ears and he saw again her dry scratchy eyelids, her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes glaring at him as she tipped up the bottle of vodka. Wet drops collected on her jaw line and fell onto her shirt. He’d watched in disgust as saliva dribble escaped from the corner of her mouth and then her eyes had skittered frantically away. She’d made such a weird sound when she suddenly collapsed. It was as if he’d got his secret wish and he promptly felt guilty. She was too heavy to lift and he loathed the spongy feel of her body, the acrid sweaty smell of her. School first aid lessons kicked in as he gingerly pulled and pushed her into the recovery position before dragging the blanket off the bed and covering her. The hostile intensity of his reaction had shocked him. He repeated to himself that he loved her and tried hard to ignore the truth that he didn’t, that he wished her dead. Hours later his mother came to, dragged herself back to bed and finished the vodka. A week later they found Candy’s body.

  This time he had to face the loss alone. Not many people came to her funeral, just a few of her friends and his buddy Chuck’s parents. It seemed to Brady that he was the only one who really cared, even the priest seemed indifferent. He’d rushed through the service and it was over before Brady felt he’d had time to grieve.

  The next day he’d done what he had to. He hadn’t thought twice. Wesley would never have had the guts and anyway, he rationalized, it was what Mom was really asking for, what she would have asked him to do if she’d been sober for long enough. Her life was shit and she was better dead. The official verdict was suicide. That suited him. No-one suspected the truth. He was convinced he’d made the right choice, done the right thing! Without her to hold him back things had started to look up.

  He screwed his eyes tight to shut out the images and focussed on Wesley. What did they see in him, he wondered? Perhaps it was just that he’d been with APW longer. When Brady joined up in 1999, Wesley was already an established employee with responsibilities. Sure he was a natural at winning over supporters, especially those who were both influential and wealthy but it was Brady who extracted the money. Yes. That was it, a reward for serving time. Of course it was the wrong decision and he wouldn’t forget the insult. One day he would exact revenge. He determined to hide his bitter disappointment but his resentment smouldered and he began to concoct ways to get back at the Board for their oversight.

  The Board was pleased with its decisions. The unexpected promotion of Wesley and Brady seemed perfectly natural. Members were agreed that Wesley Smithson would make a charismatic CEO and that Brady Ambler’s ambitions would ensure that the organisation continued to grow and prosper in the new millennium. Harnessing such talents would undoubtedly mean that donations and gifts continued to be used at the cliff face and not frittered on expensive employment consultants. They looked forward with boundless confidence. Then 9/11 came and nothing was the same.

  Like everyone in America, Brady remembered that day, what he was doing and who he was with. Charles Smithson rang to tell his son to turn on the TV and Wesley’s urgent shouts had alerted him. Together they’d watched as the horrific moments of impact exploded right there in their office. The images of the collapsing WTC towers, the clouds of dust and smoke played and replayed on every channel while their disbelieving incomprehension, shock and outrage grew as the death toll rose. The whole country felt it personally, interpreting this attack on American soil as a declaration of war.

  “No-one deserves to die like this.”

  Wesley had muttered over and over, clearly sickened and horrified at the sheer number of innocent victims. Brady nodded silently.

  “How can we make things right? Is it our fault?”

  Brady didn’t know. He shrugged impotently. Wesley asked the same questions of anyone who would listen.

  “Are we responsible because we’ve failed to remedy poverty and oppression? Is this our punishment for being American and using too many resources? Is this God’s work or the devil’s?”

  People usually shook their heads. Wesley didn’t like the idea that the devil had real power any more than they did. Still the question had to be asked. Cause and effect seemed a more plausible theory even though he preferred to believe that things always happened for a purpose and according to God’s will. He continued to search for answers.

  “Do others see our culture as lazy and decadent? If so I agree with them. Too many of us are driven by greed and self-indulgence. We have to make changes.”

  Brady listened to the discussions, nodded as if in agreement but kept his thoughts to himself. He let others vent their opinions and prejudices. He didn’t want to reveal that he felt a grudging respect for the masterminds who had been audacious enough to conceive and accomplish the unthinkable, or give voice to the dark fascination it held for him.

  In the fallout months, donations faltered and many humanitarian organisations went under. APW survived. It was all thanks to him, thought Brady smugly, that they became ever more successful, established and reputable. Still, he mused, it was undeniable; that event, that day, changed people’s perceptions and world view. Someone falls and someone else rises. The weak stumble and are trampled, the strong survive stronger. That was how things worked so Brady had watched and schemed. He began to lay the framework for what was to become The Chosen Way.

  “We need a paradigm shift. It’s the only answer.” Wesley muttered incessantly. Then he mumbled, “Someone needs to take charge and change things.”

  This was the moment Brady had been waiting for. He had a gift with words. Ofttimes he used his gift to separate people from their money
now he used it to craft a fine and noble vision, golden words which inspired Wesley.

  “Wes you’re right. That someone should be you. You can do this, I know. You’ve a God-given gift to see issues clearly. Your life experience has given you insight and wisdom. I’m convinced that this is your time.”

  “My time? Don’t kid me Brady. What can I do? It takes more than one person to change the way the world thinks. Nobody can do this on their own.”

  “Sure but we need a leader. You can lead. You’re the obvious choice, the logical choice. You’re the head of ESAP. Everyone respects and trusts you. They’ll listen to you and I’m right behind you. I’ll help you start something new, something so new it will revolutionise everything.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We both know things need to change.”

  “Yes?”

  “You can visualise outcomes. You’ve talked about reforming the world, removing barriers, creating societies organised for the good of all; where all men are brothers working together in unity and tolerance. You should concentrate on developing a sound vision and I’ll see to the details. I believe that it’s your God given mission. You were born for this.”

  Brady watched his words resonate in Wesley’s mind and fan his growing belief in his calling. It was not hard, for Wesley longed for a better world. He could see the possibilities, envisage the reality and was secretly flattered by the idea of being its creator. Wesley was such a pushover Brady thought with contempt. He smiled and continued to spin his persuasive trap.

  “You stand at the end of a long line of great reformers and like them, you will surround yourself with talented and supportive friends. Together we’ll start a bloodless revolution and change the world. Just trust in your God. Listen to your inner voice,” Brady counselled. ”Don’t worry about how. The devil’s in the detail. Leave that to me,” he said with a laugh.