I thought I would throw up. Couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus. I didn’t know how to feel. What was normal? Is this what happens when life takes you by the throat and gives you a damn good shake?
Had Dad lied to me or had the passage of time made him so forgetful that one name among many failed to register? And what about Cecil Vernon? Who the hell was he? I took out my phone, snapped Vernon’s details, logged off and left everything as I found it.
Another glance out of the window to check the coast was clear, I shot out of the room and out of the house, feet scrabbling on the gravel. Nervously casting my eyes down the drive and, with nobody in sight, I chose a key from my key ring.
The up-and-over garage door cranked open with a horrible wrenching sound. Fortunately, Dad hadn’t locked the ladder. Dragging it over to the wall, I switched on the overhead light and clambered up.
The aperture gave me enough room to stand upright. Sandwiched in between the floor and rafters, heat hung dense and heavy, as thick as smog. It was difficult to breathe and within seconds, my hair was plastered to my face.
Like tramps in an all-night shelter, souvenirs, unwanted gifts and keepsakes stared back at me. My gaze fastened on a couple of old TV’s, defunct electrical equipment, lampshades, ornaments and household items. Most of the clutter near the front belonged to my mother and included two massive plastic boxes containing old school reports, including an end of yearbook belonging to Zach that told its own tale of a popular boy who messed around too much. Among the contents, Scarlet’s swimming commendations and family photographs, which I forced myself to look at. Another box marked ‘Scarlet’s Stuff’ revealed nothing of interest.
The back of the loft space told a different story. End of year accounts, going back seven years, cozied up to old paintings, prints and DVD’s that cracked and warped in the heat. A mini-shredder loitered next to an old suitcase filled with plugs, adaptors and extensions. Dad, by his own admission, was a hoarder so I wasn’t surprised. Red-faced and drenched in perspiration, I made to descend into cooler air when I spotted a bland cardboard box held together with gaffer tape, no markings to suggest what was inside. A methodical man, my dad labelled everything. I sat back on my haunches, wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
What are you waiting for? I muttered aloud. What could be worse: knowing or not knowing? I scoped the area, the blood in my veins clotting in the soaring temperature.
Half-crazed, I ripped open the lid to discover a pile of old car magazines. I fished out several glossy numbers, flicking through pictures of Aston Martin’s and Bentleys, before setting these aside. Below, another layer of magazines that encompassed homes interiors and gardens, more my mum’s reading matter. I thought I’d keel over if I didn’t get out. One last ferret around proved fruitless and, throwing everything back into the box, I decided to make a move. Straightening up, I reached out for one of the rafters to steady myself. That’s when my hand bumped up against something solid strapped to the wood. Puzzled, I pulled at the bindings and levered out a small notebook, my fingers leaving sweat marks on the moleskin cover.
Aside from the opening and closing pages, most were blank. Written in Biro and in a hand I didn’t recognise, a list of restaurants, clubs and businesses with London addresses. One stood out from the crowd: the name of the hotel that Scarlet had visited before her death. My breath turned rapid and I felt mildly ill and blurry around the edges.
Beside each entry, there was a gold, silver or bronze star. If it was some kind of rating system, whoever made the awards had eaten in an awful lot of establishments, but that didn’t gel with businesses that included bookies, pawnshops and jewellers. Information on the back page was more cryptic, with codes I didn’t understand.
Deep inside, I realised that the box was a marker and what I held in my hands dynamite. The notebook was deliberately hidden, never meant for nosy people like me.
Fearing my parents’ return, I hurried across the loft boards and slid back down the ladder with the speed of a fireman shooting down a pole. The garage locked, I took off with the notebook in my hand, leapt inside my car, fired the ignition and slammed the air con on full blast. Tyres spitting and hissing against the gravel, I drove away and hoped nobody would discover what I’d been up to, least of all my father.