She cast aside his ambitions as ridiculous and unimaginative, but her resistance only strengthened his resolve and determination. After two years at college studying business management, to satisfy his mother’s incessant demands that he look for a more worthwhile profession, Callum was drawn to a booth at a local jobs fair and before he knew it he had applied to join the local constabulary’s training academy.
Within a few days, he received an email to say that his application had been successful, and was invited to the next assessment day to take the final step towards realising his dream.
The officers and independent assessors on that day were impressed by Callum’s courage, determination, attention to detail and ability to learn and demonstrate the new skills they sampled during the day. He also took command during the group task, designed to identify those candidates who possessed strong leadership qualities. Callum stood out from the crowd, without a doubt.
He went home quietly confident, but knowing his hopes would surely be dashed by his mother soon after stepping through the door. He made sure not to cross her path that night, deciding to eat his dinner in his room and watch TV until he fell asleep. The next morning, he got the call he was waiting for; his place had been secured.
Much like his father, Callum showed promise from day one and earned his stripes through carrying out the most menial tasks for the first few months without quarrel, until he was finally given a chance on a real case within a small team in the office. He took a minor role, but owned it, impressing his superiors.
Within two years, he had risen through the ranks and found himself headhunted by another group who claimed to strive for a “higher form of justice” and operated both “outside and above the common law”. His interest was more than piqued; he obsessed over the offer, losing sleep many nights in between impromptu visits from the mysterious man dressed in black. He never gave a name, and appeared at times that seemed to suit only him.
The mystery was intoxicating; Callum instantly felt like he was part of something special. Once he had an unconditional offer in front of him, Callum left his post with Cheltenham constabulary and went to inform his mother that he was leaving home. He couldn’t give a forwarding address, due to the level of security surrounding his new position, but promised to sort her out with money and would visit her every couple of weeks. He told her not to worry; they were paying him handsomely and looking after him.
Callum kissed his mother and left, with only a holdall in tow containing his best clothes and a few personal effects. He was becoming a man of few luxuries; he wasn’t brash and driven by flash cars and designer watches, like many his age already were. He had the promise of security, both in his home and profession, and a future that sounded to be limitless. He was going to be part of something so important - so covert - that he would virtually be anonymous from here on in.
And that was how he liked it.
Callum Laing had served the Society, as they were known, for almost five years now and remained one of their most valued assets. He carried out each task with aplomb and had cemented his place within the group for many years to come. If only he could break into the elite group at the top, the ‘dictatorship’ as a few of his colleagues referred to them, he would be set for life. And virtually untouchable.
His ambition had surpassed that of his father, and he was sure he was already more successful than he had been. Nowadays, he only had fleeting thoughts of his dad, mainly to imagine his reaction if he ever saw him again. Callum liked to think that he was unrecognisable now, that his father would have not only be proud of what he had become, but maybe even jealous.
The fuel pump handle clicked as the tank of the Mercedes reached its limit. Callum glanced at the numbers, not concerned by the amount that a tank of diesel now cost him – for money was not a concern for someone of his standing – but noticed that the figure stood at an odd-pence amount. He had no idea where his irk for needing to have a ‘round-pound’ came from when buying fuel, but knew his mind wouldn’t rest unless he could achieve that magic number. So he squeezed the trigger a few more times…then gritted his teeth and cursed to himself as it suddenly went one penny over into the next pound.
Callum slammed the pump handle back into place and walked towards the kiosk. He was about to enter when he noticed the buckets lined up outside, next to the newspaper stand. One of the vessels still held a small, but pretty, bunch of flowers that had just been reduced for clearance, as denoted by the yellow barcode label placed over the full price on the front of the cellophane wrapping.
Knowing the sentiment would be appreciated, he grabbed the bunch and walked briskly into the kiosk. He met the attendant with his usual level of communication – a simple ‘hello’, ‘pump number…’ and ‘goodbye’ – and completed the transaction, before returning to his car. He threw the flowers onto the passenger seat and drove off, taking time to check his watch and mobile phone as he sat waiting to re-join the growing queue of traffic.
One missed call. He recognised the number. The call could wait. Finally, an exasperated mother-of-two waved him across into an opening space in the queue, as she looked into her rear view mirror, clearly admonishing one of the children in the back seat for some misdemeanour.
Callum waved his thanks and pulled out. His phone rang again. He ignored it.
*****
It took Callum Laing almost an hour to get to his destination. He breathed a sizeable sigh of relief when he managed to get his wheels onto the slip road leading to the dual carriageway, finally able to make up some lost time. It was a great feeling, knowing he could gun the Mercedes to within an inch of its capabilities in the outside lane and avoid any action from the ‘bluebottles’ that patrolled this side of town. He used to be one of them, he agreed, but in no way did he miss the thrill of being a beat-bobby. If they pulled him over for speeding, he just had to take the ticket, file it along with his expenses and carry on with a clean record, not to mention a clear conscience.
He eventually took his exit from the carriageway, immediately feeling the soothing effects of a quiet road. A couple of roundabouts and a right turn later, he was travelling down the lane leading to the cottage.
At first glance, the property known as Fable’s End resembled an idyllic country getaway, most probably making up a millionaire’s impressive portfolio, just one of their trinkets that represented their lofty status. The illusion was even capped off with huge black wrought-iron gates, with an intercom entry system for extra security. Any passers-by would marvel at the place, if they could get close enough, and after swallowing down the pangs of jealousy they would carry on their way. But only few knew of its true purpose there, tucked away at the foot of the Malvern Hills; Fable’s End housed individuals whom the authorities had deemed unable to integrate in society.
In short, an obscenely-priced loony bin.
Callum Laing pressed the buzzer, his call answered after a few moments. ‘Yes, can I help you?’ the woman asked.
‘Callum Laing, to see Cheryl Laing,’ came the impatient reply.
‘One moment please.’
Callum slipped the car into first gear and applied the throttle, urging his car forward as soon as the gates began to part, slowly.
He knew what people thought of him, sending his mother to this place. Many speculated how he could possibly afford it. But for the peace it gave him, it was worth every penny. It was only money, after all.
*****
Though the cottage looked compact from the outside, nobody could ever fault how the original owners had made use of the space inside. It was immense, with more than a few cute hidden areas in the passageways and corridors, which were now used as quiet reading corners for the residents. In each of these spaces, a comfortable lounge chair was situated in front of a bay window, two bookcases either side. The nurse who took the call from the entrance gate knew that Cheryl Laing would be sat in her favourite of these spaces, halfway down an oak-panelled corridor in the north-west corner of the ground
floor. Cheryl could be found there every day at around this time, as she loved to watch the sunset. The nurse found her now, head bowed, immersed in another crime thriller novel, the winter sun long since gone for the day.
Unsure if Cheryl was still awake, the nurse placed a light hand on her shoulder. Cheryl startled, her tired eyes looking up in shock, which quickly softened as she smiled, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ the nurse soothed. Cheryl dismissed her apology with a wave of her hand, taking the blame upon herself for her moment of weakness. Her mind had wondered too far into that faraway place that evening, that she barely even realised she was still awake.
‘Your son is here to see you,’ the nurse continued. Cheryl nodded and offered a weak smile, brushing a strand of greying blonde hair back behind her ear. ‘I’ll bring him through,’ the nurse said as she walked away.
Cheryl stared out of the window, suddenly feeling a searing headache setting in. She touched her temples and closed her eyes, willing it away. The evening suddenly felt a lot less relaxing.
*****
‘I thought you had forgotten about me,’ Cheryl said as she saw her son’s silhouette wander down the hallway. She followed the comment with a fake smile, but had no humour behind the remark.
‘As if I could,’ Callum replied as he bent down and kissed her proffered cheek. Despite my best efforts, he uttered silently to himself.
‘He came bearing gifts, Cheryl. Look!’ he heard the nurse declare behind him. They both turned to find the best – and last - bunch of ‘summer spray’ that the filling station had to offer. ‘I shall put them in a vase and leave them in your room,’ the portly woman said before leaving again.
‘Thank you,’ Cheryl said, standing to hug her son. ‘They’re beautiful.’ The embrace felt forced on both parts, but both managed to ignore the awkwardness for the sake of the other.
‘So how have you been?’ Callum asked, taking the seat opposite his mother. Cheryl shrugged her shoulders, trying to find the right words.
‘Fine, I guess. They’ve got me on new meds which is helping control the trembles,’ she replied, looking down at her lap as her fingers weaved between themselves. Parkinson’s had taken hold almost a year ago. She had been put in the nursing home, with Callum’s help, only a few short weeks after the initial diagnosis. ‘But I’m pretty sure they’re affecting my memory,’ she continued, following the comment with a weak laugh. ‘I find I can’t sleep at night but don’t recall much of my days. It’s almost like I black out and awaken, back in my room no matter where I remember myself being before that.’
Callum noticed her eyes start to glaze as she stared at the floor, falling silent. He looked away from her, evading the inevitable rise of his own emotions. Something that he could not afford her to see, and neither have time for.
‘I’m sure they’re helping in some way,’ he told her. ‘They know what they’re doing here.’ Cheryl shrugged again, clearly not believing that herself. ‘
*****
The silence remained for several minutes, each of them casting an awkward glance at the other, turning their gaze quickly to the world outside the window as soon as their eyes met. The visits had become just part of the routine; they both knew it. It was just too difficult for either to admit it.
‘There was a new lady moved in the other day,’ Cheryl said at last, her voice sounding alien as it sliced through the empty space between them. ‘Just a few rooms down from me. Fairly pleasant,’ she continued, talking now to her hands as they fidgeted on her lap, ‘though she has her TV on so loud at night.’
‘Uh-huh’, came the somewhat vacant response from her son. He didn’t mean to appear so rude, but her words had quickly begun to fade into the background as she spoke, Callum’s mind pulled elsewhere, distracted by the incessant vibrations against his leg. The display on his mobile phone had registered eight missed calls when he switched it to silent mode on the walk down the corridor. This was now the ninth.
No-one at the Society called him this many times without good reason. As his mother continued to speak – largely to herself – Callum afforded another quick glance at his phone, drawing it from his pocket half-way to see the screen. No voicemails had been left; enough to tell him that whatever they wanted him for must have been urgent and clearly wouldn’t rest until they had spoken to him.
He would have to find a way to answer the next call, he decided.
‘Am I keeping you from something?’
Callum’s head snapped back upright, his mother’s voice suddenly pulling him back into the room. Guilt and shame quickly ran through him, resembling an uncomfortable cooling sensation in his chest, before he quickly quashed it again. He averted his gaze as he guiltily tucked the phone back into his pocket.
‘I’m sorry, I…’
‘It’s ok,’ she said with a wave of her hand, her face now appearing either pissed-off or exhausted; Callum couldn’t decide which. Then she muttered below her breath, ‘You’re so much like your father.’
The words hurt. All men should feel a swelling of pride when being told that, especially by the woman who had gone as far as to marry their progenitor. But not Callum; not when he knew how his mother felt about her estranged husband. Cheryl’s last memory of Thomas Laing was of a man who knew nothing but hurt, and caused nothing but disappointment and misery. He had failed her as a husband, lover…friend. But the main source of her disdain for him came from what it did to her son. Her son. After leaving Tom at the Wildermoor borders, her sight blinded by the torrent of tears that streamed her entire drive to the nearest motorway services, she decided that he was dead to her. And she would see to it that Callum would one day feel the same.
It took a few moments and great effort for Cheryl to lift her eyes to meet Callum’s. She felt the tension immediately. She suddenly felt uncomfortably hot beneath her clothes, despite the window next to her remaining half-open. She waited for him to speak.
He tried, but to begin with he found he couldn’t. He was seething, feeling his chest constrict and his inners start to boil. No matter when they met, how long it had been in between visits, their conversations always threatened to end in the same way. Through clenched teeth he finally uttered, ‘Don’t ever compare me to him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Cheryl replied, looking away. There was a quiver in her voice. She purposely stared out of the window, willing the tears not to come. But she couldn’t stop the familiar sting in her eyes. Callum rose quickly from his chair with a heavy sigh and shake of his head. He turned, ready to leave.
‘You know what,’ Cheryl said, her head snapping to face what was now his back. An errant tear flew from the corner on one eye, her bottom lip shook as the sudden burst of adrenaline and pent-up sorrow merged into one, consuming her. Callum stopped and slowly turned back towards her. ‘I’m not sorry!’ Her voice trembled as she struggled to hold her composure. But now had to be the time. The words that had repeated themselves over and over in her head, every time she thought of her son whilst she sat in her chair or lay on her bed, night after lonely night, day after empty day.
Callum’s face hardened. He hid any contempt he felt, like a true master of his own emotions. He waited patiently for the torrent that he knew was to come.
‘You’re just like him,’ she said again, this time unable to stop a tear streaming down her cheek. ‘You’re a liar, a cheat. A coward. A child!’ The last insult sounded with a new, guttural tone that Callum would never had expected from his mother. He was shocked, but still his stony façade remained unblemished. ‘You freely discard those close to you for a pursuit of what? Power? Money?’ She took a step closer to him, and then spoke in a chilling whisper. ‘Do you even know what – who – you are working for? Fighting for?’
Callum watched as his mother’s eyes darted back and forth frantically as she searched his face for a response, a flicker of anything that would give her hope that her beautiful little boy was still inside the man before her, somewhere deep
behind those cold blue eyes. For the briefest of moments, she thought she found it, but before she could even realise it the feeling was gone.
‘I am what you made me,’ came the cruel reply.
The phone in Callum’s hand vibrated again, breaking his mother’s gaze from him. She dropped her eyes, shook her head and smiled weakly. Defeat, perhaps? Visibly weakened, Cheryl Laing sank back in her chair. She let a deep sigh escape and lifted her heavy head, her smile now devoid of warmth. Callum straightened himself, puffed out his chest in a symbol of victory, the anger showing only through the clenching of his hand around the mobile phone.
‘I need to get this,’ he declared. Cheryl’s eyes widened and started to glaze, the tears stinging as she watched him disappear down the corridor.
*****
Callum was barely outside the cottage when he finally pressed the answer button, feeling his hands trembling with a mix of anger, adrenaline and anxiety. He brought the phone to his ear and barked his usual curt response, ‘Laing.’
‘Jesus, you’re a tough guy to get hold of!’ the hurried voice said at the other end. ‘You should know protocol by now, Tom; any more than two missed calls and we require your urgent and immediate attention.’
‘So sue me, Gary,’ Laing replied, unfazed. Callum was more than used to Gary Kramer’s timid attempts at displaying his power. It worked with many of the other agents, but not him. He knew that it was just a way for the Society’s new Defence Secretary to make himself feel more comfortable in his role. And Laing knew that he was the only one who could have some fun with the guy and get away with it. ‘You going to tell me what’s so damn important or shall I just let you get back to pushing pencils?’
Callum could sense the increased tension on the other line and smiled to himself as he paced back across the gravel car park. Kramer was an old academy alumni of his, before either of them even knew that the Society even existed.
Poison in the Well Page 10