Silhouettes Chapter 14
Ah, such a lovely response! I'm glad I haven't lost you to my twists and musings.
Hope everyone is having a good summer holiday (if you're on summer holiday, like me).
-XXX-
My mother's house sits empty, looking a little forlorn next to its neighbors. No flowers sit in the window boxes, a silver letters do not shine with polish, and no one has swept the stoop in a long time.
That must change soon, though. Through her lawyers I have secured a sort of rental deal with a family who is coming to from Germany. A professor, on sabbatical, with his wife and son. A small family, perfect. Just what I was looking for. As I'll not be using the house – for now, anyways - it ought to have someone in it. I am too sentimental to sell. Renters will keep the bills paid for a while.
I'm leaving the upkeep in the care of the firm. Today I'm in to scour for personal goods that will either go with me or be put into storage.
There are no pictures to take, but I put a few trinkets – a silver clock on the bathroom counter, a few pieces of jewelry, the well-worn copy of Keats from the beside table, among other things – in the "to-come-with-me" box. Most everything else on the more personal side (clothing, shoes, books, etc) is destined to be put in storage until I can sort through it.
It's all sort of a rush, the process of setting up renters. But I would rather get it done before I leave. Business of this nature doesn't sound like it would be too fun to conduct over the phone or emails.
I leave with the box beneath my arm. I let my feet drag a little as I walk down the neat block, passing white house after white house. I don't look back; but I do breath deeply, resolving to carry on. Exciting things are around the corner for me.
-XXX-
When the time comes, Dad sees me to the train station. He insists on carrying my duffle bag all the way to the platform. It would be embarrassing, except it's not. I hug him goodbye for nearly a minute. He pulls back with unusually bright eyes. My heart aches to see him so emotional. I hope he doesn't cry here.
"I'll be back 'round the holidays," I promise. "And I'll write and video call all the time. You'll get positively sick of me."
He chuckles weakly at that. "I wouldn't."
"Think of it this way – with me gone, you can finally make the moves on that post woman."
He gives me a look that clearly says "Enough-out-of-you-young-lady-I-am-trying-to-have- a-moment." Then Dad reaches into his jacket pocket. A small, brown package is produced.
"I thought I might get you a little something," he says. "For the occasion. But don't open it here, wait till you're on the train. Don't want you to get all weepy until you're safely in your compartment."
I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes – if anyone is going to be getting "weepy" it's him, and he's already practically there.
"Thanks, Dad." I carefully tuck the small rectangular package into one of the pockets on my backpack. Somewhere ahead of us, a shrill whistling sound.
"I guess this is it," Dad says awkwardly. "I'll – I'll miss you, Vi."
I give him one last hug. "You too, Dad," I murmur into his chest, allowing the warm, strong arms of my father embrace me one last time before I step into adulthood. "And…thanks. Thanks a lot. I know this is hard on you."
"Go on," he says gruffly. I kiss him on the cheek, haul up my bag, and climb aboard.
-XXX-
The apartment is small, yes, but mine. Onmy first day I am left alone in the front room – a mixed affair meant to house a kitchen, dining area, and parlor room – surrounded by cardboard boxes and a fresh feeling of independence. I savored it for several minutes before beginning to unpack. I soon tire; but weariness typical after a day of travel. I at least have enough energy to find my bedding, throw my sheets on the mattress, shower, and make myself a bowl of soup.
It's odd, being on my own. I am alone, truly alone, for the first time…ever. No roomates. No family. Just me. Me, and my potted fern.
Dad had offered to let me take Hugo, but I declined. He's no urban dog, a country creature at heart who needs more freedom than my one-bedroom flat could ever offer. Besides, I didn't want to leave Dad completely alone.
I find I cannot sleep. After rummaging around, I find a book among my boxes – The Catcher in the Rye – and settle down to read the first chapter. I drift off soon after, clutching the yellowed novel to my chest. When I wake the next day, it has fallen to the floor. My neck aches from sleeping on a propped-up pillow. But I feel a little comfortable at last.
Slowly, I make myself at home. I unpack the living room first, and though it takes me an hour I'm left with a sparse setting of an armchair, futon, bookshelf, and a trunk sitting square in the middle, to used as a coffee table. Then I turn to the the kitchen, stacking my small collection of plastic dishes and thrift-store casserole dishes in the cabinets. There isn't much to do in the dining room, except perhaps throw a tablecloth over the scratched round four-person table. Next is the bedroom. My clothes take the most time – an hour and a half to unfold, hang, or refold. In the end I have a reasonably organized closet and set of drawers.
I end up with a sparsely furnished, simple home. It's very much the living space of a poor university student. Exactly what I need. The walls are a bit colorless, but I resolve to hang pictures and few framed posters soon.
Half the day has passed by the time I finish. I take the broken down boxes downstairs for the recycling bins outback. Though I'm just behind the building, I am still overwhelmed by the mere feeling of vastness the city projects upon me. After dumping the boxes, I take pause, allowing the awe to sink in. It's best to get used to it now.
I retire early. Tomorrow begins my job hunt, and classes start in only a few days. Though I've done little, I am exhausted. It's the excitement. Hopefully it shall run it's course, leaving enough enthusiasm to motivate me through this first semester. I am scared, of course. But oh-so ready.
-XXX-
It takes me two weeks to find a job. Balancing classes, homework, and adjusting to a new city with a job hunt isn't easy, but I figure it's best to learn now, rather than later. I don't really need a job, either, not with the inheritance, however, I find that I want one. To keep my occupied. Too much silence isn't desirable. Besides, I've been working for Dad since I was practically able to walk – to go without some kind of occupation just seems weird to me.
I interview at four different places – a bookshop, a café, a law firm, and a bistro. They're all good interviews; short, to the point, honest. I am nervous, smoothing my charcoal pinstripe pencil skirt far more times than necessary. I have never had to interview for a job properly before – it isn't like Dad ever checking my resume, or my library gig at my old uni required much more than literacy and use of all limbs (for shelving purposes). As it turns out, I'm either under or over qualified for almost every position. I leave the first three interviews in low spirits, trekking to the sidewalk to hail a cab with heavy feet (though that could simply be the snakeskin pump's fault), wondering if I'll manage to find a break before Christmastime.
My final interview, however, goes quite nicely. I am a real hit with the manager, and quickly develop an understanding of what, exactly, they want in their employees: someone laid-back, fitting the atmosphere, somebody who can gracefully converse with any manner of person. Versatility is the name of the game.
The place is a classy little club-bistro, Pinstripes, known for their in-house band. I come on hoping to waitress, but let slip my musical ambitions (quite purposefully, of course) to the manager – Harry - who interviews me. With a sincere interest, he asks if I would be willing to audition – their principle pianist left only last week, and they need someone to cover guitar on Wednesdays. I'm not particularly knowledgeable in the former, however, I am willing to lie – and learn.
I'm offered a spot on the pianist bench for Tuesday through Saturday, along with Wednesday nights, and lunches hostessing the house on whichever week days I don't have class.
Before I know it a month has passed. Busy, all the time, I grow to love the rush my life has become. The city becomes familiar. The foreign sounds and accents and food sparkling with adventure. My job keeps me on my toes, my schoolwork lets rise to a greater passion for music, my quiet apartment becomes a place of meditation, a refuge after long days. A month has passed me by, and by the time I've settled into my classes and my work, I realize that for the first time since Ben disappeared an my mother died, I am okay.
-XXX-
It's a lovely Sunday morning when my usual jog is interrupted. Three times a week I run five kilometers, even when it's slightly chilly as it is on this September morning. In the not-so-fashionable gear of tight runner's capris, a v-neck lightweight green tee, my very worn, very comfortable running trainers. My Ipod is strapped onto my upper arm, headphones in, music blaring. As always, I'm allowing myself to be immersed into the music, the city moving around me, the world turning -
- I get rather profound on these jogs.
Therefore, it takes me a few minutes to notice the black saloon car creeping down the street after me.
I happen to be alone on this kind of side-street. I mean, it's early – most people are sleep, or at church. So there is no one around, save for me, the car, and the birds.
I continue jogging, but I slow, hoping they'll pass me. No such luck. Something like fear wells in my stomach, so I speed up. I just need to make the corner. Make the corner, get to a more populated area, loose these creeps (wealthy creeps, if the shininess of the car is any indication), go home and have a hot shower. My heart is pounding. "Just keep going…look ahead. The corner is right there…."
"Ms. Carters."
I yelp at the noise, nearly falling off-kilter when I notice that the car is right beside me.
The back window is down, and a very polished redheaded woman is looking at me expectantly. "Ms. Carters," she says again. This is followed by something else, but I cannot hear past the sound of the Black Eyed Peas's "My Humps."
I remove my headphones. "What?"
Irritation flashes over the woman's clear brow. She's probably only three or four years older than me. "Get in the car, Ms. Carters. Please."
Frowning, I step back. "Why?"
Her lips purse. "I've got someone who can take you to your Ben."
She doesn't need to repeat herself again. I slip into the vehicle.
She promptly turns her attention to her Blackberry. I shift uncomfortably against the black leather. The car pulls away from the curb. I watch as the blocks pass. We're soon out of my neighborhood. I do not attempt to ask any further questions.
This isn't the sort of thing to happen to me. I am not the type to be stalked by mysterious black cars, to be threatened to get in to find out information on my friend. I'm naturally terrified. But what choice do I have?
It's when we hit a block of white houses with black wrought iron fences that I start to recognize things. The columns. The grey stone stoops. And the black house numbers. We stop before number forty-four.
The woman is still preoccupied by her Blackberry. I look at her expectantly, coughing slightly. She doesn't look up. "He's inside. Waiting for you."
The Germans haven't moved in yet. So the house is empty. But this doesn't ease my concern – how the hell did this person, whoever they are, get into my mother's house? Clearly they're wealthy, but can money now buy locksmiths to break in? I shake my head as I exit the car. The driver is already out, and gives me his hand to help my from the vehicle. Once I am safely standing, he moves to open the front door. It yields easily.
I enter the marble-floored foyer hesitantly. In the fresh morning light, everything gleams. The house just looks so fresh.
But I don't get much time to observe my new house, because Mr. Driver takes the chance to inform me that my host – funny, I though I owned the house – is upstairs, in the parlor. I trail up the stairs until I reach the door to what I remember to be the upstairs sitting room.
Perched regally on the beige chair is –
A slightly-balding, tallish man with narrow features. He half-turns to me from his seat. Cutting blue eyes evaluate me. I blink back.
After an awkward silence, the man rises. "Ms. Carters. Please. Sit." He indicates the couch. I move slowly, but with as much grace as I can muster, to sit. It's tough to look put-together in your morning running gear. I've got no makeup on, and my hair is in a sloppy ponytail. I suspect this to be part of the strategy of my "host." It's all too easy to make a young lady feel insecure when she's in sweats.
For a moment, he examines me. I recognize a bright curiosity in his eyes. In return, I gaze back openly. At this point, I am too confused to be concerned.
"Ms. Carters," he begins in a clipped tone. "I apologize for scaring you, but it was imperative I speak to you."
"I'm not scared."
"Ah, my mistake," he says delicately.
I cross my legs. "Who are you?"
"I am part of a very influential sect of a well-known governmental department. When people refer to having 'friends in high places,' I am those high places."
This is all good and well, but what does that have to do with me? I remain silent, hoping this apparent Very Important Person will get to the point sometime soon.
He continues. "I though we might meet someplace familiar. Your mother's house is so lovely…she had quite the eye for design. Unless I am mistaken she did it entirely herself."
So, someone enjoys flaunting their power. No surprise why he picked this particular place to meet. The question is why. However, I blurt out, "You knew my mother?"
One brow rises. "In a manner of speaking."
I don't know what to say to this. So I resume staring.
"Would you care for some tea?" He gestures lazily to the coffee table, which is laden with delicate white china.
"I would like to know why I am here and how you got access to my mother's house?"
"Interesting, how you still refer to it as your mother's home. Very sentimental, for a woman you hardly knew. Ms. Carters," he chides gently. "Do relax. You'll be here for sometime. Allow me to pour you a cup. And I am sure you must be hungry after your jog. Not your usual five kilometers, but four is still a considerable amount."
Sinking against the cushions, I allow my captor (is that an appropriate description?) to pour me a cup. Upon receiving it, I sip reluctantly. It's a mild, sweet brew. He offers me a plate of pastries, which I decline
"That's better," he says after drinking from his own teacup. "On to business."
"Your assistant said something about Benjamin. That you could take me to him."
"I am afraid that isn't possible for the time being. Without going into much detail, your Benjamin will not be safe to see you for a long while."
I am beginning to feel cold. "Not safe?"
He regards me. "He's a very popular man, Ms. Carters. Popular in the way than many people wish to kill him."
Cold leaks down my spine. I swallow. "I – I didn't know that."
"He had no reason to tell you, at the time." The blue eyes focus on mine heavily. "That is not precisely why you are here, though, Ms. Carters. I wished to inform you that you are in danger. Grave, immediate danger, should you continue to seek an association with Mr. Holly."
"What do you mean?"
The man steeples his fingers carefully. "I mean that there are those who seek to hurt Mr. Holly who might very well use you as…leverage. I would advise that you cease your connection to him in order to protect yourself."
"But…." Dazed, I look down at my cup. "I haven't seen him in nearly a month."
"I am aware. But regardless, I would not seek him out."
Seek him out? I wouldn't know where to begin.
"It is imperative that you protect yourself, Ms. Carters. An association with this man could spell certain death, or at the very least, injury. He is dangerous, if not in his own right, then in his mere presence in your life. I urge you to exert caution."
"Why are you warning me?"
He appears to be mildly surprised. "Why, Ms. Carters. Out of the goodness of my heart. You should believe me when I say I wish no more lives to be affected by this man's foolishness. You have no reason to be tangled in these matters."
This is acceptable enough. I finish my tea, peering out the window. After a few moments' consideration, I ask, "Who are you? To Ben, I mean? What are you in his life?"
"Me, Ms. Carters? Why, I believe I would be his greatest living rival. An enemy, if you will."
"Living?"
"Oh, yes." The eyes are like ice. Professional, curious ice. "Most everyone who aligns themselves with him find themselves dead at some time or another."
-XXX-
Ah, sorry I didn't get this up this morning. There was something I realized this chapter was missing, so I had to scramble to write it in.
We finally got to meet Mycroft. But what's he doing? Warning Viola to stay away from a dangerous Sherlock she'd not even aware of? What?
Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I take 'em all! Type in that nifty box below.