D-Day: Decision Day. He tried saying it out loud, but it came out more like ‘bidet’ and the thought prompted an involuntary chuckle. But then he couldn’t stop himself, leaning forward in his electric wheelchair, snatching gasps of air and mentally willing himself to slow his breathing and regain control. He didn’t want Helen to witness this. Hiding the incident from his wife was strong enough motivation, and less than a minute passed before his breathing returned to normal. Good. He tried saying that out loud too.
‘Gut.’
But that was okay, because it was a match in German, his mother’s language. He felt his body begin to relax in the sunshine streaming through the huge window on his left, and contented himself with the view over his adopted homeland.
Eric Vinke was in his office on the first floor of the new extension. His own design of seasoned oak, steel and glass, it was a sharp contrast to the red-brick Victorian villa to which it was attached. But that was the point. He relished the contrast of old materials against the new. The grey steel-framed window in front of him on the north-west side of the house was a means of inspiration: it had been deliberately positioned to highlight the magnificent cone-shaped hill of Parlick, standing guard over his beloved Ribble Valley. Vinke had grown up in the flat expanse of the Netherlands but lived and worked for many years in Manchester, where he met Helen. He had come to love this part of Lancashire. The rolling countryside with its sheltered aspect had affected him spiritually, and it had been no hardship to put city life behind him. Once he had an apartment block of students for neighbours, now it was a field of sheep. Much better. Gut.
He stared at Parlick for a long time, admiring her bleak smooth features, almost devoid of trees. Then he tweaked the joystick of his chair and faced his computer monitor. Old and new side by side. The screen told him updates were 72% complete. Next to it sat a telephone handset, a green LED light blinking on its base like a heartbeat monitor. Helen must still be talking. Who would finish first? His wife or Microsoft?
Vinke sighed with helpless frustration. As time passed, he was becoming increasingly reliant on others, while learning that his own body was almost a stranger to him. He was impatient to return to his writing, phrases in his head desperate to find substance elsewhere. Why was even his human brain so much more efficient than a man-made box? Another paradox?
73%.
A cushioned pad supported his neck and skull, and while he could still take the weight himself for fairly long periods, movement to right or left was growing more laboured, so he had become more adept in steering his chair and letting his eyes do the work. Now he looked upwards to the contents of a bookshelf. All of it was nonfiction, several volumes bearing his name, but one had more prominence: The Will of the Gods. It was not his first, but it was his best. Tens of millions of curious readers had proved that, even if many more had treated it with scepticism. What did they know? He had so many more hypotheses to share about man’s origins and his future, plus a few conspiracy theories. If Windows would only let him get on with it.
75%.
Vinke had once published his views on Apple’s business practices, making it politically undesirable for him to be seen using any of their devices. For that reason alone, unlike many of his peers, he had resorted to alternatives that earned his wrath on occasion (like today).
A need for nature’s soothing influence drew him back to the window. It was mid-afternoon and barely a cloud interrupted the azure sky as his gaze wandered westward towards the slight rise of pine-topped Beacon Fell.
Old and new. Blue. Words were playing chase me in his head. Did it help? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
It was the length of the phone conversation that intrigued him. A short call would have meant a clear-cut decision. Probably, “No, tell the old bugger it’s out of the question”, or something similar. He could deal with that. Reluctantly. But as time ticked on he knew Helen must be discussing all the pros and cons with his agent. A joint project at his time of life held a lot of appeal for him, especially with someone much younger, and with her own personal take on an enduring mystery. I’m not sunk yet!
Vinke squinted at the reflected sunlight glancing off the roof of a car on the Chipping road. Back to check his other Windows: 92%. That was more like it.
He braced himself as he heard his wife’s steady footsteps on the stairs behind him. What was the final decision?
‘Ah, there you are.’ Helen Vinke trotted out the customary platitude and perched on the edge of a seat positioned to appreciate both valley and sunset. At seventy-five she was a couple of years older than her husband, and her once vivid blue eyes appeared pale and moist above broad cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose. To him she was still a beauty, and the sight of her sitting close prompted a smile that came late in reaching his lips.
‘Dara?’
‘Yes, it was Tara. She sends her love.’ Helen paused. ‘She might be free to come up one day next week, but you know what to expect.’
He knew. His literary agent of thirteen years had an almost pathological dislike of the countryside and had yet to call on him at home. A promise to visit had never been fulfilled since his relocation, nor was it likelier to happen now. Because of his ‘condition’.
‘Emma’s doing well! Tara is delighted with initial sales of The Tragic Sister, and she’s lining up a series of talks over the next few weeks. That’s for Emma not Tara, of course. Do you need anything?’
His eyes rolled and his head tossed back an inch in a manner she felt was almost Eastern European, but she knew the gist: No, get on with it.
‘Sorry. Tara said she’s happy for you to work with Emma on the principles we already discussed. She says she likes the idea of you mentoring at the same time as actively contributing, and she feels your established name will count enormously at the marketing stage.’
‘But?’
‘But she does want to arrange a meeting between the three of you because she is still concerned about the legal implications. Political implications.’
‘Trap!’ He spat out the word and instantly regretted it.
‘What darling? Did you mean trap? Or...?’
‘Ker. Ker!’
‘Oh, you were being rude. Ladies present, darling.’ She admonished him. ‘And you will need to be on your best behaviour when you meet Emma again. I think Tara will arrange somewhere for us in central Manchester towards the end of August, so that’s good isn’t it?’
His eyes swivelled in the direction of his monitor, and she turned in her seat to check.
‘Oh, it’s working! Are you going to try it out? Here, let me hand it to you.’
She picked up a small black plastic object from her husband’s desk and placed it on the shelf attached to Vinke’s chair below his right hand. Steering with his left he positioned the chair so he could view the screen at a comfortable distance. A blank page from his word processor had already loaded and Helen watched as Vinke’s fingers tapped over an arrangement of nine buttons on the device. Immediately a crowd of letters danced onto the screen and provoked a snort of satisfaction from the occupant of the wheelchair.
‘What language is that?’ asked Helen. ‘It doesn’t look like Dutch or German, and it’s certainly not English!’
‘Gobblegook.’ Vinke paused his finger exercises, then prodded a couple of buttons until he had the cursor positioned where he wanted it.
‘Is it the same as the one you borrowed from Terence for practice? Will it do everything you need?’
‘For now.’ He frowned in concentration, found inspiration, then started to type more deliberately.
On the screen some words appeared: o-l-d and n-e-w. Then b-o-r-r-o-w-e-d and b-l-u-e. Helen smiled and nodded. And laughed as her husband typed two more words.
She kissed the top of his head. ‘Of course I’ll marry you! What took you so long?’