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Left alone in my office after Cassandra left, I made a triple espresso and heaped sugar into the cup. I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows in my corner office overlooking the Mersey, stifling a yawn.
Last night, I slept like the opposite of a log. Like a tree, I guess.
I’d tossed and turned restlessly. Too hot one minute, too cold the next. Even my favourite pillow, the one I’d bought at a swanky department store when I decorated the room to make it my own, felt lumpy.
My actions troubled me. Endless questions streamed through my semi-conscious brain. Would I really have blown Adam’s kneecaps off? Had I morphed into the monster my brother was? I’d inherited our father’s love of drink, and my brother inherited his violent, abusive traits. Maybe more of my father’s aggression was in my blood than I thought.
Had I made the right decision to confide in Adam? We needed him to convince Charles Ward that we were running a legitimate business, not scamming the government for £75 million.
Was he up to the job?
These unanswered questions tortured me all morning. By 11:30 am, I called Adam to get some answers.
“Hi Adam, no hard feelings about last night, I hope. Did you get the money we transferred?”
“No hard feelings, mate. Yeah, I got the cash. It’s going to make a tremendous difference to the charity.”
“You’re welcome—it’s a noble cause. Anyway, how was your meeting with Charles this morning?”
“No dramas, Peter. I did what I promised. You know, I gave him the summary of the support we’re going to give your workforce and set his mind at rest.” He laughed a bit. “I just spun him a yarn about providing online cognitive behaviour therapy sessions and some individual therapeutic counselling.”
“Was he convinced?”
He chortled again as he spoke. “Yeah, we’ve nothing to worry about on that front, Peter. Trust me.” He sounded relaxed and in control. It was a big change from last night when he wet himself, whimpered like a greyhound, and begged for mercy.
I pulled out my fidget spinner and rotated it slowly to calm my churning stomach and tightening chest. “Are you sure you’re not underestimating Charles?”
“Don’t sweat it, Peter. I’ve got this under control. I’ll give him another update in two weeks and told him I wouldn’t speak to him before then. He’s sorted. You can rest easy.”
I heard the jangle of keys and a door opening. “Look, I need to head off and meet someone. I’ll call you next week. Bye.”
I stood up and walked round the office to ease my restless legs. The difference in his attitude overnight was unnerving, but maybe the half a million pounds we’d given him had relaxed him—hopefully not to the point of being a liability.
I grabbed my suit jacket and car keys, and headed for the door, desperate for some fresh air to blow away the worse-case scenarios which kept popping into my head. I took a deep breath and headed to the lift.
For the next hour, I drove an aimless, circuitous route over the River Mersey to the south of Liverpool and into the town of Wallasey, which sits right at the river mouth. Wallasey formed as nearby villages sprawled out during the Industrial Revolution, eventually creating one built up area. The pot-hole covered car park at the community centre was almost full with mothers attending the local toddler group. I took the last space and strolled down the main road past endless charity shops to Stollies Deli, my favourite lunch spot.
The sun glinted off the glass windows, and I pulled my Oakley sunglasses down over my eyes. Diners in t-shirts, tucking into Stollies’ famous Matador Burgers with honey, occupied the tables outside. I salivated as the smell of melted Monterey jack cheese and caramelised chorizo reached my nostrils, prompting my stomach to rumble.
Glancing at the empty tables inside, I stopped dead in my tracks. The hair lifted on the nape of my neck. A tight knot of fear replaced the rumble of hunger in my stomach.
Adam McFarlane and Charles Ward sat together at a small table to the left of the entrance. Charles’ white hair glistened in the bright sunshine and his small rimless glasses perched on his nose like a mole. Adam was laughing and rocking back and forward in his seat. His small podgy face radiated the colour of an early season strawberry.
A group of school kids shoved past me, snapping me out of the trance. I retraced my steps rapidly and stopped in front of the next shop. It was a charity shop raising money for blind badgers or something like that. A manikin in the shop window display loomed over me. It was dressed in a trench coat and Sherlock Holmes-style shooting hat.
Without hesitation I dashed inside, snatching both items off the manikin—leaving its modesty on show. From the bookshelf, I grabbed a well-worn copy of the 1989 Guinness World Records. Throwing two twenties on the counter, I shouted, “Keep the change,” and I left the shop.
The nude manikin continued staring as I donned her clothes, realising too late I’d picked up a women’s outfit and looked like a prat. I now wore a light-grey winter trench coat over my tailored pinstriped suit trousers and a shooting cap three sizes too small with floral designs. To complete my comedy disguise, Oakley sunglasses obscured my eyes, and I carried a 30-year-old coffee-stained book. This mismatch of styles and clashing colours transformed me from presentable professional to vagrant.
I sat down at the table behind Adam and Charles, with my back to them. In front of me was a mirror and, when I shifted my body slightly to the side, I could see Charles’ face. Adam sat opposite him, with his back only half a metre from mine.
Charles said: “So Adam, was Peter convinced by your story last night?”