Thirteen Days of Midnight (2 page)

Mr. Berkley’s office is what I expected — sterile and businesslike. There’s a heavy black desk, dull gray filing cabinets, a wall calendar covered in annotations. His desk is barren of everything but a fountain pen and an antique gold clock with a bright wagging pendulum. There are no family photos.

Mr. Berkley has plenty of lines on his face, but he’s still pretty striking, one of those old people you can tell used to be good-looking, with ash-white hair that he slicks back like the leading man in a 1930s movie. He’s got a neat beard, and large, even teeth that look like they cost more than some people’s cars. He’s dressed in a light gray suit and a pink shirt, no tie, and he’s reading something from a little notebook, which he tucks into a desk drawer as I enter the room. He looks rich, more than rich — he looks like money came to life and sat down in front of me. He stands and nearly blinds me with his smile before reaching over his desk and firmly shaking my hand and guiding me down into the seat opposite him all at once. He smells of peppery aftershave. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

“Luke,” he says, grinning like we both just won the lottery. “Master Luke A. Manchett, I presume? Son and heir of the late Dr. Horatio Manchett?”

“Uh, hi,” I say. His eyes are so blue that the irises look artificial, like they’re made of plastic. He’s friendly, but I feel like he’s sizing me up for something. I shift in my seat.

“I do apologize for the wait,” he continues. “I’ve had a lot to deal with today. Unexpected petitions, old friends asking to renegotiate agreements. . . . I’ve been overwhelmed. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

“It’s all right, really.”

“Thank you, my boy. Forgiveness is a great virtue, wouldn’t you say? The unburdened soul floats easily in the cold river.”

“Is that, like, poetry?” I ask.

“No,” he says, “not really. It’s advice, I suppose. But I forget whom it is from. Anyway, I wanted to say, before we get down to the details, that I like to think I was rather close with your late father. Horatio was a great man. Your loss is all of our losses.”

I’m not sure that hosting a cheesy paranormal-themed TV show qualifies you as “great,” but it doesn’t seem like the right time to argue this point.

“I didn’t really know him that well,” I say.

“He regretted your estrangement. I can assure you of that.”

“I’d rather . . . I don’t know you. Sir. I’d rather not talk about it. Sorry.”

“Apologies, apologies. Well, Luke, as you know, we asked you to come in with some urgency regarding your inheritance. It was your father’s express wish that you be contacted as soon as possible. I appreciate the short notice may have been somewhat inconvenient. I hope your tutors were understanding.”

I shrug.

“Anyway. Let’s get down to business. Luke, I’ve brought you here today to inform you that you are the only named beneficiary of Horatio’s will. You stand to inherit his properties, both domestic and overseas, as well as future royalties from book and digital video sales. There is also the matter of a bank account intended for your personal use containing a sum in excess of six million dollars, which when converted into sterling is about four million pounds. . . .”

He keeps talking, but his voice has faded to a whisper compared with the thundering fireworks display that just lit up in my head. I feel like my chair just sent a thousand volts into my body. I assumed Dad did all right from his TV show, but I didn’t know it was
this
good. I’m a millionaire. Not just that, a multimillionaire. A series of magazine-exposé photographs is flashing through my head: VIP tables, bottle service, penthouse suites. I can’t believe just yesterday I was worried about my exams. Who cares? I won’t need to beg Mum for my own car either, which is great because she’s been completely deaf to my hints and hasn’t noticed the car magazines I’ve been leaving around the living room for the past six months. I picture myself at the wheel of a bright-orange Ferrari, with Holiday Simmon in the passenger seat, her hair glowing in the light of a tropical sunset as we —

“Luke?”

“Yeah,” I say, not having listened to a word Mr. Berkley was saying.

“So you understand what I’m telling you today?”

“Uh-huh. Dad’s estate. Six million dollars. Domestic and overseas. DVD sales.”

“That was the general outline, yes. Now, as sole beneficiary of the will, there are certain steps you’re required to take in order to inherit —”

“He didn’t leave any of it to anyone else?” I always thought there must at least be another woman: blond, thin, half his age.

“As I said, Luke. Sole beneficiary. He required that you alone be contacted about this matter, not your mother or anyone else. He was very clear about that. Now, the first thing you need to do is sign some documents, indicating that you understand what I’m telling you today and that you’re willing to accept full responsibility for your father’s estate.”

Bring it on, I want to scream at him. Whatever it takes. Show me the money. I came in expecting to inherit some cuff links or a watch. Berkley roots around in a desk drawer for a few moments. I watch the clock pendulum swing.

“Here we are,” he says, laying some sheets of paper on the desk. I leaf through them. The top few are normal legal documents, computer-typed, printed on legal paper. I sign them with Berkley’s fountain pen. The bottom sheet is different, and I pause. It’s a rough, yellowing sheet of parchment, and the text has been written by hand in weird brown ink. The script is tiny and ornate, a frantic mess of Gothic lettering. I squint, but I can’t read any of it.

“What is this? Is this in English?” I ask Berkley.

“Latin, my boy. Is there a problem?”

I run my fingers over the parchment. It feels rough, fibrous.

“Vellum,” says Mr. Berkley. “Made from goatskin. Difficult to source these days, as I’m sure you can imagine. We have a man in Cumbria.”

I rest the pen on the blank space at the bottom of the page. Berkley leans forward in his chair. I withdraw the pen nib. The gold clock ticks, a steady brittle sound.

“What am I signing?” I ask.

“As I explained, Luke, your father —”

“What am I signing right now? Why is this written in Latin on goatskin?”

Berkley runs a hand over his slick hair. He blows air out of his nose.

“Luke, I know this probably seems . . . unusual, but Horatio was assuredly not a paint-by-numbers man. There are a number of stipulations before you can receive any of his money or property. The first of these is that this particular document be signed by you, today. This is a very specific request, made in a legally binding last will and testament. Unless you sign this document, here, now, I am under instructions to dissolve the late Dr. Manchett’s estate and contribute the proceeds to various charitable organizations. You and your mother will not receive a single penny. All very noble, I think you’ll agree, but probably not the outcome you’d like, and frankly not the outcome I’m looking for today either. If you want to read your father’s instructions for me on this matter, I have the papers here.”

Berkley reaches into another drawer and pushes some ring-bound documents at me. There are more paragraphs and subclauses than I could read if I sat here all day, but it’s unmistakably Dad’s signature on each one. I recognize it from the birthday cards he’d send.

I look down at my sneakers. The whole thing is just off. Dad leaves everything, every last thing, to a son he hasn’t spoken to for a decade? Why not Mum? Did he not trust her with the money? Is that one of the reasons they broke up? He just decides to make me a multimillionaire? If I didn’t know better, I’d almost expect there to be a hidden camera watching what I do, like this is a setup for a prank show. And Mr. Berkley is starting to creep me out, smiling far too much, asking me to write my name on some
goatskin . . .

I decide there isn’t much choice. The image of me and Holiday driving through the Alps is too strong. I’m being given more than I ever thought I would earn in my life, and that’s just for starters. Freedom from exams, from having to get a job, freedom from Mum, even . . . who’d say no? I press Berkley’s pen into the vellum and create a passable version of my signature. The nib gets stuck in the fibers and I need to use more force than normal. As I lift the pen the clock seems to hold its tick in for a moment longer than it should, golden pendulum frozen in space, like the room decided to skip a beat.

Mr. Berkley relaxes, leaning back in his chair. He smiles, and the expression reaches his eyes for the first time.

“I think you made the right decision,” Berkley says. “I must note that there are some other conditions that must be met before the financial and property transfers can be made, which I’m not currently at liberty to disclose. But I’m confident that they will resolve themselves shortly. If not, I will contact you within the fortnight to furnish you with the full details. Oh, and there are some miscellaneous items you’ve inherited, which I’m under instruction to give you immediately.” He reaches into another drawer and brings out a bundle of papers tied together with ribbon, a dull metal case that looks like something you’d keep a pair of glasses in, and a small green book.

“What’s this?” I ask, picking up the book. It’s small and thick, only a bit larger than the Bibles they leave in the drawers of hotels. It smells old, almost ripe, and what I can see of the paper looks as yellow as a smoker’s teeth. It’s bound in pale-green leather, with no visible title or author. There’s an eight-pointed star embossed in gold on the front cover. The book is fastened shut with a pair of dull metal clasps. I try to open them, but they’re stuck somehow, and they dig painfully into my fingers.

“An antique, I’m given to understand,” Berkley is saying, “quite what it meant to your father I’m unclear, but he was insistent that you be given it immediately. It’s — do be careful — it’s rather valuable. I suggest you treat it gently.”

I put the book down and pick up the metal case. It rattles when I move it, sounding like there are a lot of small loose objects inside. It opens at one end. I tilt it and a shower of rings fall out onto the dark wood of the desk: golden rings, rings set with red stones, blue stones, black stones. A ring in the shape of a lion, and another with a grinning skull set into it. I count nine in all. I pick up a few of the rings at random, turn them over in my hands. They feel cool, heavy. I’ve never seen Dad without them; they were sort of his trademark. Someone must’ve pulled them off his fingers after he died.

I put the rings back down.

“He didn’t expect me to wear these, did he?” I ask.

“He intended for you to have them,” Berkley replies. “What’s done with them is entirely yours to decide.”

“What about these?” I ask, pointing at the papers.

“Items from your father’s desk, I believe. Correspondence and so forth. He wished for you to read them.”

I look at the tattered stack of papers.

“I’ve got exams, you know?” I say.

“And I’m sure your father would be thrilled to hear how devoted you are to your studies,” he says, smiling, without a detectable trace of sarcasm. “In their present state, they’re somewhat inconvenient to transport. . . . Here, let me get you a document wallet.” Mr. Berkley stands and moves over to a cabinet at the back of the room. He returns with a heavy brown file folder. “Don’t want to be caught without one of these in my line of work. Never know when you’ll need somewhere to keep a contract. . . . There. All safe.”

The lawyer stuffs Dad’s papers into the folder and then arranges the green book and ring case alongside it. He pushes them toward me.

“Is that everything?” I ask. My mind flashes again to the money, and then I wonder again if this is some kind of trick. I’m half hoping he’ll pull out a briefcase full of fifties.

“For now. As I said, you won’t receive the money right away. There are those lingering conditions that need to be met, tax to be negotiated, that sort of thing. Details, details. I’ll be in touch once everything’s settled.”

“OK,” I say, scooping Dad’s ring collection back into the case. I stand up and put the book and rings into my coat pocket. The documents are tucked under my arm. Mr. Berkley springs to his feet, thrusts his arm at me. I shake his hand.

“May I say once more how sorry I am for your loss, Luke. Horatio was very dear to me. It’s been extremely interesting to finally meet his heir. I hope very much that if there is ever anything you need, anything I can help you with, you won’t hesitate to contact me.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” I say, prising my hand from his grip. I immediately decide that, once I get Dad’s money, I will never speak to this man again, for any reason. I’ve never been more sure of anything. I want to get as far away as possible from his clicking golden clock and his creepy stare. I step backward, away from him, waving good-bye with my free arm.

“A pleasure,” Mr. Berkley says, “a pleasure, Luke. I feel certain we shall meet again.”

I take some more time to wander around Brackford afterward so it looks like I’ve been to practice after school, and I get the bus back into Dunbarrow at six o’clock. As I sit on the top deck, watching the darkening sky unroll endlessly above the highway, bits of my day ricochet around my head like pinballs. Golden dreams of wealth, of shoes, new jeans, cars, houses, mixed with darker thoughts: the letter, Mum standing at the sink, saying today was
a
blue day.
Berkley sizing me up, peering without any warmth through his vivid blue eyes. The parchment I put my name on, the green book that I’ve got tucked in the pocket of my raincoat. I feel like I got offered something I couldn’t refuse, and in return I agreed to something I don’t understand. Why did Dad name only me in his will? What about Mum? How did he die, and why does nobody but me and Berkley seem to know anything about it? What happened to Dad, exactly?

The last time I saw him — other than the day he left us, other than glimpses of his face on the cover of discount paperbacks — I was fifteen, home from school with the flu, slumped in front of our TV. My forehead was crying sweat, and my body felt inflated and sore, like someone had stuck me with a bicycle pump. I was channel surfing, and Dad’s face came up on the screen.