Forgotten
Authors: Neven Carr
Forgotten
by Neven Carr
All of the
characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names,
incidents, dialogue and opinions expressed
are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to
be constructed as real. The events in this book are entirely
fiction and by no means should anyone attempt to live out the
actions that are portrayed in the book.
Copyright ©
2015 Neven Carr
Smashwords Edition
No part of
this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed
or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the
author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. All rights
reserved.
Table of Contents
To
my two amazing mentors
Lindell
I thank that you have a crazy, insatiable
passion for editing - of which I don’t.
And for
c
hilled champagne - of which I
do.
a
nd
Suraya
You taught me many writing techniques and
devices.
But none better than to accept all criticism
constructively because once I did, it became my strongest and most
rewarding device.
1
Claudia
August 12, 2009
DEATH HAS
A
flavor of its own.
I know; I had smelt it before.
I smelt it now.
Coming from inside my apartment.
I hesitantly
teetered on the threshold clutching two large grocery bags, a
forest printed handbag and a wad of junk mail, wondering if my
sense of smell was mistaken. I leaned into the void next to the
partly opened door, felt the groceries lean in with me, felt my
ponytail brush my cheek. All appeared quiet except for my heart’s
rapid knock and the faint clatter of keys still swinging from the
front door.
I took
another whiff. Still there. I shot up straight and swore. What did
that mean exactly? That a dead body was in my home?
I almost
laughed; the thought was seriously ridiculous. What would a dead
body be doing in the modest home of a pair of hardworking
twenty-somethings on a late Tuesday afternoon? This time I did
laugh but I couldn’t ignore the edginess in it.
So why the
smell? Several explanations crossed my mind, unemptied garbage, a
blocked drain, a keeled over rodent. Add to it a small apartment
with poor ventilation and… bingo! Relief spread through me. I liked
those alternatives; they were probable, rational. I scolded myself
for imagining the worst.
Somewhere my
memory tuned in and I heard my Eighth grade English teacher, Sister
Iglesias, champion my thinking. “Claudia Cabriati,” she said, “you
have a febrile imagination that’ll either make you loads of money
or get you into loads of trouble.” I recalled taking her comment as
a compliment, until I looked up the word
febrile
. It meant delirious.
I didn’t think her analysis of me was very
godly
.
Back to the present.
The present
saw me sadly still hugging the doorjamb, still reluctant to take
that step forward. The ridiculous now bordered on the downright
insane.
Honestly, Claudia, Simon’s be
en away for just a week and you’re already freaking out
like some trapped butcherbird in your classroom. Do something
before there are witnesses to your craziness.
The
horrifying thought of an ogling, gaping audience spurred me
onward. I hooked my head around the door unsure
what I expected to see. The place was in near darkness. But to
switch on the light meant going inside. Again, that didn’t
particularly press my happy buttons. I blinked repeatedly, waited
for my pupils to adjust to the dark, felt my overstretched neck
crick under the pressure. When shapes began to take form, all I
could see was the shadowed foyer wall and the taunting light switch
centered several feet in.
I groaned,
and silently cursed the architect of these units. Still balancing
at the threshold, I bit my lip and counted the footsteps to the
light switch. Maybe five… six max.
Perhaps, I
should just go in. I mean what’s the worst that can happen? A dozen
pictures of
worst
drowned my sorry head and riveted me back to the
spot.
Perhaps if I just gave the door an extra
nudge, I could see more. But see what exactly? I ignored the
question and instead lifted my right foot, pressed the wedged heel
of my shoe against the peeling timber and shoved hard.
I swallowed.
The sluggish
creak of unoiled hinges wailed. An unexpected but very distinct
thud caused the door to recoil. I gasped and immediately stepped
off the doorsill. Worse still, the smell was back, stronger now.
And it didn’t resemble any garbage, blocked drains or dead
mice.
The first knots strangled my stomach, my
breathing slid to an almost standstill and I felt cold shivers burn
my skin.
And all I
could hear was silence, sharp crackling white noise. Overridden by
the subliminal echo of two words.
Move away.
I obeyed,
quickly back stepping until one heel smacked into the skirting
board of the corridor wall. There I
leaned back, used the wall to regain some stability of my
own. All the while, I kept my eyes pinned to the door. It was still
swinging, slower now. Eventually it creaked to a full standstill.
All was quiet.
Was I merely
overreacting? It certainly wouldn’t have been the first
time.
It’s what fear did to me.
Muddied my
head, dulled my rationality and confused me so that I didn’t know
what to believe. And I hated that.
I
carefully bent to one side and dumped my load.
Plastic bags whooshed, cans clattered, folded paper splattered as
they all came to rest in one muddled, mounded heap.
The muscles
in my arms felt instant release, but as I straightened, I realized
the true burden of weight hadn’t left me. It dragged down my
shoulders, hunched my back and dropped my chin to my
chest.
I scanned my
surroundings. Large black and white carpet squares, some with
exposed threads, checkered the sparsely lit hallway. To my
immediate right, two neighboring doors faced each other. A quick
glance at my watch told me neither occupant would be home. To my
left, stood a bronze elevator door guarded by a plastic green palm
in a black ceramic pot.
All of a sudden, I felt as small and alone
as the palm.
What to do?
Perhaps
phone
someone. Like the police? And say
what? I think I smell dead people? I imagined their conversations
over coffee and donuts and winced.
Maybe a
trusted friend? And have them loyally travel through Sydney’s peak
hour to attend to my
febrile
imagination? I shook my
head.
Always trust your instincts, Carino
.
I
immediately
recognized my Papa’s voice,
echoing his favorite mantra thick with his rich, Italian accent.
Many times, I engaged in this mental banter with him. It often
provided me with much-needed comfort, the occasional practical
answers, even affirmations to some of my more zany
ideas.
I’m trying to, Papa,
but I don’t think my instincts are playing fair
today
.
I had an
idea. I dropped to one knee and started ferreting through the
grocery bags. Shoving aside several fresh ingredients for my
world-renowned lasagne, I finally found what I was looking for. A
packet of lollies, pink musk sticks to be exact. And they had to be
pink; any other color was an insult to their
authenticity.
I ripped, I
grabbed and I chewed quite furiously. Like the drug they were, well
for me anyway, every glorious mouthful reduced my rising anxieties,
loosened the tightened knots in my stomach and cleared my head, if
only slightly. I sucked in the bliss. And like any true addict,
wolfed down three more sticks before returning the rolled up packet
to one of the bags. Feeling a little calmer, I again concentrated
on what to do. And soon decided to wait for someone to
come.
Thankfully,
I didn’
t have to wait long. The rumbling
grind of the elevator slamming to a stop shattered the quiet. I
immediately fluffed up my fringe, hitched up the straps of my lime
green dress and my shoulders along with them. I smoothed out any
wrinkles but found them more stubborn.
The bronze
doors opened with a rickety swoosh. I prayed for someone friendly
to step through them. He did. Seamus from the apartment four doors
away, wearing clothes as loud and as busy as Central Railway
Station at rush hour. A vivid red and green paisley shirt, sloppy,
neon purple pants and a yellow speckled beret hooked over one bent
eyebrow made me semi-grin.
And I sensed the first sweet tang of
hope.
With his
thumbs fixed in alternate pockets, Shamus crossed the checkerboard.
“Hey, pretty lady, whatcha doing out here?”
His
melodic Irish accent instantly warmed
me.
“
Am I glad
to see you,” I said. “I need your
help.”
I nodded towards the unmoving door.
Shamus
studied it, studied me,
and then repeated
the process. “Think you’ve been broken into,” he said, adjusting
his beret further back. “Think someone’s in there?”
“
I don’t
know. Just doesn’t feel right.” I didn’t want to scare the poor man
with any crazy, dead body thoughts. Not yet, anyway. “And the light
switch is….”
“Too far inside, like my own place. I’ll go
check it out.”
I grabbed Shamus’ arm. “Don’t go in
though.”