“Highly functioning alcoholics are masters at disguising their true drunken states,” says Victoria.
“Fuck you, dear,” says Coleman.
There is another pause, and once again, I wonder if they are done.
“Okay,” says Victoria eventually, her deep tone turning serious. “I’m going to put this out there, seeing as none of you has the balls to do so. Am I the only person in this room who believes that Gabriel had a hand in this?”
What the fuck?
“He was supposed to be travelling in the minibus that morning. Doesn’t the fact that he decided to change his plans at the last minute mean anything to any of you? How can we know he didn’t tamper with the vehicle?”
“For what reason—” begins Edward.
“You can’t be serious?” says Alice, the shock plain in her voice.
“Forgive my wife,” says Coleman. “She’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”
“Will you shut up, Coleman?” says Victoria. “I am simply echoing what we all feel. There is, and always has been, something distinctly unsavoury about Gabriel.”
“I’m sorry, but on this occasion, I have to disagree with you, Victoria,” says Edward. “If anyone had tampered with the vehicle, the police would have found out. And, yes, they did check. They found nothing suspicious. Moreover, all of us were asked about our whereabouts the morning of the accident, including Gabriel, who did not leave his bedroom until after Albert and his party had left, then only to use the pool.”
After the conversation trails off, I stand and stare off into space. I’ll make my final escape from this snake pit in the morning when I leave for the solicitor’s office. None of them needs to know. I’ll call Alice once I’m gone, but I am not wasting any more breath on the others. I can’t even muster the energy to be more upset by Victoria’s accusation, which only confirms that I need to distance myself from these toxic, entitled people.
In anticipation, I fire off a text message to ask if I can stay a few nights with an old friend, Josh, and his partner, Nishan. They already know the story of what happened. Thanks to social media, most of the country does. Hopefully, my old friend might let me bed down at theirs until I’ve found somewhere more permanent.
As I am texting, a message pops up on my phone, this one from my employer at the charity. Somewhat generously—probably because Albert was a patron—the board members have agreed to offer me another three weeks’ paid compassionate leave, which should give me ample time to find somewhere to live.
Albert may have pulled strings to help me get a job, open a bank account and obtain a passport to become visible in the eyes of the world.
But all I wish for right now is to have my old invisibility back.
Chapter Two
Solicitor
Ten-thirty Monday morning, in the foyer of the Empire Square Building in Pimlico, I join a crowd of darkly elegant suits—smart, poised and predatory. Only as the elevator doors open, revealing mirrored panels, and we glide forward as one, am I disturbed to see how much I stand out. Dressed in denim jeans and jacket over a simple white crewneck sweater, with my heavy camo-green rucksack slung over one shoulder, I am a stain on the corporate collage. So much for dressing inconspicuously.
Standing inches from the closing door of mirrored metal, I watch my breath frost the surface. As the lift ascends, I rest my forehead against the cold surface and scroll down on my phone to the comments section of a news report.
One of my foster parents used to tell the kids in her care that if they had nothing intelligent to say, they should keep theirmouths shut. At the time, I’d thought she was mean-spirited. Now, I find myself agreeing. I remember those harsh days with mixed feelings. Many newly entitled generations will never appreciate that simple social and mental discipline of thinking first before speaking.
A semi-illiterate troll called ‘anonamus’ has responded in the comments section to an online article about the distinguished British medical professionals involved in a crash on a trip to a medical conference. The report is concise and accurate, stating that they had been on their way to Brussels for the WHO-organised Global Healthcare Conference. The accident occurred in thick fog on the M20, killing three, including the driver, while seriously injuring another. My eye is drawn to the handful of comments beneath, most of them sympathetic, but the troll’s appallingly spelt rant is the one that captures mine, and probably other readers’ attention.
anonamus:does anyone else find this suspicious? Did someone finely get revenge on these evil Nazi scinetists who been getting rich exploiting the sick and holding us hostage with medecines what should be free to everyone
I agree with the first line, but this person clearly didn’t know Albert, didn’t stop to research how hard he worked, or learn about the countless nights he spent trying to find cures for diseases from which people like him could have died an excruciating death. I might have sympathised if the person had taken out their frustration on the pharmaceutical and biotechnology corporations.
When the lift doors open on the seventh floor—not my floor—I have to step out to make space for those exiting, and take a moment to lean my back against a cool marble wall. Thoughts of Albert Callico’s last moments haunt me still. The world shouldshare my mourning of this gentle man with a brilliant mind whose life was cut short at only forty-five. What we had might not have been sexual, but I loved him in my own way, and I know I would have killed anyone who tried to harm him.
From the familiar shoebox corridor on the thirty-seventh floor, the glass reception door to Clyde Cartwright and Partners opens into the austerity of brown leather and varnished rosewood. With the oversized floral arrangement on the reception counter, comprising mainly white lilies, I associate the place’s smell with death.
“Go straight through, Mr Callico. Mrs Hammond-Clyde is expecting you.”
I obey the pineapple-haired Barbie doll behind the desk, ignoring the misnomer. I gave up correcting people. We might have been partners, but we never married. I would have refused to take his family name even if we had. Once I am seated around the small coffee table in the back office, I flash Hammond-Clyde a closed-mouthed grin in response to her obligatory greeting and dismiss the offer of something to drink.
“Your receptionist called me Mr Callico again,” I offer by way of conversation.
“Don’t mind Brittany.” Hammond-Clyde smiles as she comes over and takes a seat across from me. “She used to assume you were Dr Callico’s bodyguard.”