‘Hello, Mr Hardacre?’
My hand left my laptop to answer the call, passing straight through my mug on its way. Hot black coffee slopped over my lunch. I cursed under my breath and threw my soggy sandwich in the bin, quickly followed by handfuls of brown tissues. I balanced the phone on my shoulder as I attempted to mop my desk.
‘Hello…?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I replied, moving the earpiece to my other ear as I headed to the kitchen to wash my hands. ‘Sorry, can I help you?’
‘Hello, Mr Hardacre?’
‘Yes…’ I replied hesitantly. No one called. I got emails, hundreds of them, but no one rang me. I should have put the phone down right then; my instinct should have told me nothing good would come of it.
‘Mr Oliver Hardacre?’
‘Yes,’ I said more firmly. That blasted name sent chills.
‘Ah, good. I am Mr Fisk of Beamish, Talbot & Fisk Solicitors. We are dealing with—’ He paused.
I waited for him to regain his momentum, trying to shrug off a sudden apprehension. ‘And what can I do for you.’
‘You are a hard man to track down, Mr Hardacre.’
‘Am I?’
‘In truth, we had all but given up when…’ The rustle of paper and tapping of a pen—tap tap tap, in time with my pulse. I pushed the heel of my hand to my temple. ‘Would you have a few minutes you could spare me, please? I have things I need to discuss with you?’
‘I’m free. Go on.’ My pulse began to quicken.
‘It has been a long time. Years. We almost gave up hope in finding you. Until the letter, anyway, and… your latest book. Such a coincidence, though are they ever really those?’ He gave a low, gruff chuckle that snorted down the phone. ‘Please forgive me, I’ve wandered from the matter at hand. Let me get to the point.’
I wished he would. I was still looking at what was left of my lunch at the bottom of the bin, feeling my stomach growl. I gulped down the last dregs of coffee. I needed another—I’d been awake since 4am. Two mugs of coffee wouldn’t cut it.
‘I am rather busy,’ I said. ‘If you could get to the point, I would be grateful.’
‘Of course. You are a busy man, I understand that. For many years—several decades, in fact—we at Beamish, Talbot & Fisk have been dealing with an estate. I joined the firm some years ago, by which time this matter lay dormant. Always eager to get my teeth into a challenge, I took up the gauntlet with new vigour to find a relative. To find you, Mr Hardacre.’ His hurried words quickly dried as he waited for me to join the conversation. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘we have something for you. Something that has been in our possession for many years.’
I perched on the edge of my desk, my empty coffee mug still in my grip. ‘Are you sure you have the right man?’
‘Oh yes, without a doubt. I am here looking at your website.’
‘Ah, I see.’ My cheeks coloured. I put my mug down and moved the phone to my other ear, running my finger along the inside of my shirt collar.
That sensation of unease that I knew so intimately was creeping its way beneath my skin, a feeling that had lingered as a child when I awoke from a nightmare. That one nightmare, the only one I have ever had, the one that never left—the one I’d had last night.
‘So, let me get back to the matter, Mr Hardacre. I will need you to come down to the office at your earliest convenience if you please. Also, bring some formal identification—just for the legality, of course.’ A cough followed an uneasy laugh. ‘Not that there’s a colleague in the office who doesn’t know who you are.’
‘Could you please tell me how you got my number?’
‘Oh dear, oh dear. Please forgive me. After the letter, I assumed. I thought, in the circumstances, it would be prudent to speak to you directly rather than reply to your letter.’
‘What letter? I haven’t written to you, nor have I received anything from your firm. To be honest, Mr Fisk, I am more than confused by this whole thing. Could I please ask you to explain what you have for me? I am adamant you have the wrong person.’
The solicitor said nothing for a few seconds.
‘Mr Hardacre… Oliver. Do you mind if I call you Oliver?’
‘You can call me whatever you wish if you get to the point.’
‘I and all at Beamish, Talbot & Fisk were sure you knew the matter after we received your letter last week, Oliver.’ He swallowed loudly. ‘I have the letter in my hand as we speak. I was about to pen a reply when I remembered a colleague is reading your latest book. We are all fans, you see, and after scrolling your website this morning, there was no doubt. So, here we are.’
Was this some weird way of getting a signed book or interview of some kind? My reclusive nature was common knowledge—well, it had been until recently. Trawling my website wouldn’t have brought much joy, especially with one photo taken about fifteen years ago. So, why this charade? My mind wandered, grasping at all these loose ends, and I found myself at the patio doors leading onto the terrace. Beyond that, the cliffs and sea. It was cold today. The sea thrashed the beach, and a low mist lay over the pier. This was my haven, my world. How dare this man, Fisk or whoever he was, invade it? I felt tainted. I could—should—hang up right now.
‘Oliver, are you still there?’
I didn’t answer, but a deep sigh gave me away.
‘When would you like to come down to Suffolk to sign the papers? Would this week be convenient? I think the sooner we can finalise this matter, the better, especially after so many years.’
‘As I have made it clear to you that I have not written to you on any matter,’ I declared, ‘you must have the wrong person. What’s more, you haven’t given me any clear information, so I’m taking this call as a hoax. Now, if you would excuse me, I’m a busy man.’ My finger was on the button to end the call.
‘Please, please, forgive me.’ There was more than an apology in his tone—it was apprehension. ‘Yes, I can see how this may seem a little out of the blue, but as I have said, I have your letter here. This matter has been in our hands at Beamish, Talbot & Fisk for forty years. We’ve been solicitors to the family for many decades. There are no other living relatives. We are positive after forty years of search. This belongs to you. I must urge you, Mr Hardacre.’
What was I meant to say? After last night—restless, filled with nightmares—I should have known somewhere in my core that today would bring something peculiar. I never imagined Suffolk would call me back in one way or another.
I placed my hand on the patio door; moisture formed beneath my palm on the cold glass. Wild winds whipped at the garden furniture and upturned the odd plant pot. My hand was on the handle before I knew it, and I walked outside. Winter was calling its greeting; no trace of autumn left.
‘Oliver? Are you still there?
Mr Fisk’s voice seemed a world away, a place I didn’t want to visit. My childhood belonged in the past. I’d put so much distance between then and now that I’d forgotten the intensity of pain. The keenness to do so had locked away all those memories in some box somewhere. Only, the night, the dark, and the thought of winter brought those memories out. Winter always unlocked the terror box.
‘Oliver?’
‘Yes, I’m still here,’ I shouted over the wind. I ran back inside and pushed my back against the closed doors, the rush of wind still in my ears. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘Oh, I assure you, the signing of a few documents is all I need.’
‘No, I mean, I can’t come down to Suffolk. I don’t wish to sign anything. Whatever it is you have there, I don’t want it,’ I declared swiftly, striding back to my desk.
‘I must urge you to rethink,’ he ushered, his tone an octave higher.
‘My life is here, I want no part in this matter.’
He sighed—a slight shuffle of papers. I pressed the phone a little firmer to my ear with my shoulder as my hand went to my empty coffee mug.
‘Very well, Oliver. I understand.’
‘Thank you.’ I exhaled my words as my shoulders eased. ‘Good day to you, Mr Fisk.’
‘Could I please, if you have one more moment, ask you a question? I understand how busy you must be, of course.’
‘Um, yes, okay. What is it?’
‘Reading down to the last paragraph…’ The rustle of shuffled papers flowed down the line. ‘You mention your brother?’
With that one word, my life spun like a cyclone.