The Three Rs (3 page)

“Mr Stephenson, I think you must be mistaken. I don’t know Mr Parrish. There’s no reason for him to leave me anything in his will. I think you must have got me mixed up with someone else.”

Mr Stephenson seems quite unmoved by that prospect. “We don’t usually get this sort of thing wrong, Miss Fischer, but I do have some checks I could make with you, if that would reassure you at all?”

“Oh, right. Yes please.”
This should settle the matter.

“Your full name is Abigail Louise Fischer?”

“Yes.”

“And you were born in February 1991, the tenth to be exact, at Bradford Royal Infirmary?”

“Yes.” My heart’s sinking now.

“Your mother’s name is—was—Rachel Fischer. I understand she passed away three years ago.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“My condolences for your loss, Miss Fischer. You previously lived on the Ravenscliffe estate in Bradford?”

“I, yes. We did.”

“Then I’m reasonably certain we have the right Abigail Fischer. My client is the executor of the late Mr Parrish’s estate, his nephew, Mr Cain Parrish. Mr Parrish—the executor, not the deceased—asked me to invite you to meet with him and myself, at your convenience. Would you be able to come to our offices in Leeds, Miss Fischer?”

Meeting? Executor? Deceased? Offices in Leeds?

Despite Mr Stephenson’s amiable tone, I am overwhelmed, seized by a blind panic. I hit the ‘end call’ button. I drop my phone onto the desk with a clatter and gaze up at Sally who is just putting the finishing touches to piecing the letter together again. She’s re-attached the halves of the pages with sticky tape. The result is a bit crumpled, but passable I suppose.

“So, what did he say? Are we in the building trade then?” Her smile is bright, expectant.

Is she entirely mad?

I glare at my grinning, deluded friend, my body bristling with hostility and barely repressed panic. Attack is the best form of defense, I’ve heard, so I opt for that as a strategy. “No we’re bloody not. He wants me to go to Leeds to meet him and some other bloke. The nephew of James Parrish.”

“Right. When are you going then?” She’s not letting up.

“I’m not.” Me neither.

“Why not? What do you have to lose apart from your bus fare? You could go and listen to what they have to say. It might all make more sense then.”

I stare at her for a few moments, my sudden rush of angry defensiveness evaporating in the face of the sheer idiotic impossibility of this madness. My elbows propped on the desk in front of me, I cover my face with my hands.

“None of this makes sense, and I can’t see how it ever will. I don’t know anything about building, or about running a business. And I definitely don’t know James Parrish. So no, it stops here.”

I glance up at her as Sally opens her mouth to argue again, no doubt to bombard me further with her brand of supreme good sense. I should listen, hear her out. I should take my time, think this through, try to work out why Mr Parrish wanted me to have a share of his business. There has to be an explanation. But if there is, I don’t want to hear it. The more cornered I feel, the more stubborn I usually become. It’s always been a failing of mine. That and a belief that if I refuse to acknowledge something, tell myself it’s not happening, it will eventually go away. It worked with my leukemia—it’ll work on Mr bloody Parrish.

I shove my phone back in my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Look, I’ve got to go. Would you mind telling Dave I didn’t feel well and had to go home early?”

I don’t wait for her answer, but I trust Sally to cover my back at work. I’m out of there, and I deliberately leave the wretched, much abused letter behind on the desk. I want none of it.

Chapter Two

The red light is flashing on my answering machine as I let myself into my flat. Sally most likely. She’s already tried to reach me twice on my mobile phone since I dashed out of Mrs Boothroyd’s office, but I switched it off. I’m in no mood for more talking, for more sound advice. I ignore the red light and head for my kettle. I need coffee. Good and strong. And sweet.

I drink my coffee while it’s still too hot, scalding my tongue in my rush for caffeine.

The phone in my flat rings again as I’m dropping my empty cup into the sink. I let it go to the answering service, expecting to hear Sally’s voice telling me to pick up.

“Miss Fischer. This is Cain Parrish. Again. Please return my call. Now. I left my number previously, but here it is again.” It’s not my friend. This is a male voice, deep, clipped, sounding distinctly irritated.

He reels off a string of numbers, but I’m not listening. No need, I won’t be returning his call. I delete the message, and the previous one without even listening to it. So much for Cain Parrish.

He’s persistent though. I get—and ignore—seven more calls during the course of the evening. Each time he leaves a message, and each time I delete it. After the second call, I turn my phone to silent, and my mobile stays switched off, just in case.

* * * *

The following morning I get up early as usual. I’m due at school by six-thirty to do my rounds disinfecting the toilets and hoovering the staff room before anyone else arrives and I like to have time for a shower in the morning before I leave. I use the ten minutes or so I spend under the steaming spray to contemplate what to do now, how to extricate myself from this nonsense. Talk about random! None of it makes any sort of sense—the letter, the quiet certainty of that lawyer, the belligerent persistence of Mr Parrish.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I clean my teeth then comb through my long, straight hair. These days, thankfully, the strident color has softened from the carroty redness of my childhood to a more muted blonde with a hint of ginger, which seems more fitting in adult life. Strawberry blonde, I think it’s called. My eyes, a nondescript blend of hazel and green stare back at me from the glass. I recognize that look, that expression of apprehension. I see it often enough in my mirror. Today I have good reason. Today I feel cornered, hunted. Tracked down and caught.

With a quick shake of my head, I try to throw off this crushing sense of foreboding. It will get me nowhere. And I really need to get to work, whilst I still have a job. The hours aren’t brilliant—six-thirty until nine in the morning, then three o’clock until six-thirty in the afternoon, five days a week, and seven till one on Saturdays. I do have all day free for other things in the week I suppose, so I shouldn’t complain. I daresay there must be a queue of people down at the JobCentre who’d happily take my job. They’re long days though, and I don’t get the school holidays off because that’s when most of the heavy maintenance work gets done.

Between nine and three I do my own stuff. I like to draw and paint. Despite the art teacher’s copious red pen, I am quite good at it. I spend great chunks of my time at the city art galleries, admiring the exhibitions there and getting inspiration for my own creations. I can draw anything. I only have to see an item or a picture once and I can recreate it from memory. I’d be a great forger, although I’d struggle with the signatures I expect. But I’m not out to fool or con anyone, I just love re-creating wonderful works of art, and I sell my versions at car boot sales over the summer. It helps to boost my income a little, and the customers seem to like my work. Most of what I make gets plowed back to buy canvases, paints and such like—that stuff doesn’t come cheap. But my hobby pays for itself with a little to spare so I’m content. Sally keeps suggesting I should be more organized, that I should think about setting myself up as a micro-business. She offered to help me and thinks it would give me a reason to sort out my literacy issues. Somehow I doubt that. Even if I could read and write, there’s nothing I’d like less than to do it for a living. I paint for fun, and I mop floors to pay my bills. That’s just me, the way I am.

And no mystery legacy from some unknown benefactor is getting in the way of that. My comfort zone might not be to everyone’s liking, and Sally clearly thinks I could do better, but if I wanted excitement and challenge, I’d take up bungee jumping. I pour strong coffee down my throat and I’m headed out of the door by just turned six, ready to apologize to Dave for my abrupt departure yesterday.

* * * *

Dave’s fine about it, tells me not to worry and hopes my stomach has settled down again now. Not a chance, but I don’t burden him with that. I promise to make up the time, and get stuck into the staff toilets.

It’s monotonous work, and I can’t help turning the recent series of bizarre events over in my head as I pour disinfectant down the U-bends. Whether I like the idea or not, it seems I actually do now own something. And it occurs to me that it might be a something I could sell. I definitely don’t see myself in the building trade, but maybe I could raise some funds to enable me to do what I really want with my life. Sally’s words have not been entirely wasted on me—I do sort of like the idea of turning my hobby into a business. Perhaps this windfall might offer the route to that. With some money behind me I could hire an admin assistant, get someone else to do the paperwork and place adverts and such like. If I could sell more stuff, maybe on the Internet or by hiring space in other people’s shops, I could build my bespoke portrait enterprise—go from being a hobby artist to a professional one. I could do what I love, and maybe make a living out of it. It would be good to try, surely, and now perhaps I have the means

At quarter past nine I’m headed out of the school gate again, my rucksack containing my sketchpad and painting gear slung over one shoulder. I’m still flirting with the tantalizing notion of self-employment and debating with myself where to spend the day. Should I check out the permanent Hockney exhibition at Saltaire? Or perhaps I could head for Cartwright Hall where, according to the promotional video they have running on a loop there, they have mostly British art from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. They usually have something a bit more contemporary too. Even though I’ve seen both galleries many, many times, I still love those places. The calm, quiet, contemplative atmosphere is just what I need today to help me think. I finally settle on Cartwright Hall as I head for the bus stop.

“Miss Fischer?”

The deep, male voice startles me.
Did I forget something?
I turn to see who called me, but the school forecourt is deserted. The driver’s door of a black van parked just outside the school opens. I’m standing right alongside and instinctively step back to let the emerging driver pass me on the pavement. I’m still looking around to see who called out.

“Miss Fischer, we meet at last. You’ve been avoiding me.”

I lurch around to face the driver of the black van, who is now leaning casually against his vehicle. He’s tall, his hair is dark blond and wavy, maybe a little too long. It brushes his collar, and he’s very much in need of a shave as well as a haircut. He’s dressed in what I suppose my mother would have described as smart casual, expensive-looking black jeans with a thick leather belt, and a gray shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His sleeves are rolled up, and his arms are deeply tanned. His biceps bunch and shift under the fabric of his sleeves as he folds his arms across his chest. He regards me silently, offering nothing further by way of introduction. He has no need to, I know who he is.

Cain Parrish.

I’m the one to move first.

“Excuse me.” I make to step around him, but his hand on my elbow stops me.

He’s not rough—I couldn’t honestly claim he manhandled me. He just touches my elbow with his fingers, but I jerk away as though he’s burnt me.

“I don’t know you. Leave me alone.” My own reaction scares me as much as anything he might be about to do. He’s obviously been stalking me, for Christ’s sake. Now I’m determined to get away. I turn on my heel and start marching off in the opposite direction to avoid trying to pass him again. I hear the van door slam shut, then he falls into step beside me. He slips his arms through the sleeves of a black leather jacket, which he must have grabbed from his van when he realized we were going walkabout.

“I want to talk to you, Miss Fischer. We can talk here, on the street, or I could drop you off somewhere and we can talk in the van.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t know you.”

“Fair enough. We’ll talk as we walk then. I’m Cain Parrish. You and I are business partners, Miss Fischer. Or can I call you Abigail?”

“We’re not anything. Please, just leave me alone.” I pick up the pace in some ridiculous attempt to leave him behind.

He just lengthens his stride. “Where are we going, Abigail?”

I stop, turn to face him. My heart is thumping in my chest, my breath catching in my throat. This man frightens me. He’s been nothing but polite, but he terrifies me nonetheless. His size frightens me, as does his obvious strength. He’s affluent as evidenced by his casual elegance, even down to the designer stubble on his chin, and that unsettles me. But most unnerving of all is the fact that no matter what I say or do, he’s pursued me relentlessly, first through his solicitor, and now in person. He wants something, and he’s determined to have it.

“Can I buy you a coffee?” He gestures with his head across the road to a small transport cafe. I’ve had bacon sandwiches from there occasionally, and they do a decent mug of Nescafe. Seeing no realistic alternative, and preferring the relative safety of a public place since I seem unable to shake him off, I nod. He reaches for my rucksack, still dangling awkwardly from my right shoulder.