Bacchus and Sanderson (Deceased) (17 page)

“That was a beautiful meal, thank you. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much for a very long time. Let’s sit on the sofa and you can tell me what your problems are.”

              Sitting in a comfortable armchair opposite the sofa, William let Annabel pour the coffee and settle herself before he began.

“This, I’m afraid, could be quite a long story, but if you’re going to understand what I have to do and how I came to be here in Sherborne
,
I need to start from the beginning.”

              William detailed his heart attack, convalescence and the arrival of a mysterious letter from Thrasher and Thrasher. He covered in depth the explosive meeting in Thrasher offices and his subsequent conversation with Felicity in Salisbury. The revelation that Ernest Sanderson was his father he tried to laugh off as an everyday occurrence but found he couldn’t. Tears welled in his eyes as he recalled reading the letter for the first time. Annabel rose to comfort him. Motioning her to remain seated, he took a moment to bring his emotions under control and explained his tears.

“I have no recollection of my father. No image, no photographs, no memories. All I have is the scant information I had prised out of my mother before she died. This amounted to an assertion that he was a good man who was working hard to provide for us and as soon as he could, he would join us and we could be a family again. It became obvious that this was a fairy tale. Mother had been struggling to portray my father as a decent man; instead of the man he was. When I read the letter from Ernest it was shocking, but it also made sense. It explained my mother’s subterfuge.”

              William then described discovering he had a brother, his first meeting with Ben at the bookshop and his subsequent panic at his clumsy approach that had caused Ben to flare with understandable anger.

“He calmed down as he always does. You weren’t to know that Ben can be difficult to predict. By the time you met him the next day, he was calm and happy to show you around the shop.”

William nodded,

“True, but before we get to back to Ben and our embryonic relationship, I need to try and describe something else to you, a vital and troubling part of this story. Would you like a whisky?” When she shook her head, he added,

“I’ll pour you one anyway, I think you’re going to need it.”

“Where to begin?” Taking a large swallow of his own whisky, he stared at the ceiling for a moment, took a deep breath and began.

“Annabel do you believe in ghosts? Odd question I know, but do you?”

The atmosphere in the room changed imperceptibly. The expression on Annabel’s face hardened for a moment and was then replaced by a thoughtful smile.

Staring at him, she said,

“I’m assuming that you’re trying to make a serious point and that was a serious question?” William nodded.

“Then no. When I studied theology we were taught that the resurrection wasn’t something that we had to treat as a literal event. We could look at it as a metaphor rather than as a man, Jesus, coming back to life. That helped me to understand, relate to, the parts of the bible that I would otherwise have struggled with. Biblical literalism makes no sense, if I believe that the bible is a historical document with everything described, happening as it is described, then this would fly in the face of my earlier training. I am also a scientist and historian; my first degree was in Archaeology and Mediaeval History and I am hoping to complete my doctorate next year on the archaeology and history of Sherborne Abbey. Freddie has arranged permission for us to dig a number of small trenches around the Abbey to get a better understanding of techniques used to build the Abbey and how the Abbey as a working monastery was set out.”

“A woman of hidden talents”

Annabel grinned,

“Passions, I’m a passionate woman. But ghosts, no I would struggle to believe in ghosts."

William sat with his fingers steepled in front of him staring into space. Looking up, he stared at Annabel holding her attention with his eyes.

“I didn’t believe in ghosts either. Until last night. Last night I had my mind changed. I thought my tablets along with a few whiskies were playing tricks on me. Maybe I was dreaming. I tried to offer any explanation that would avoid admitting that what happened to me, had happened.” William paused and took another swallow of whiskey. He looked up to the ceiling, took a deep breath and continued.

“I had a conversation with my father; Ernest, and his guide Juanita. They need my help to complete Ernest and his brother Jonas’ unfinished business. Without my help, he will be trapped in limbo.”

Closing his eyes and breathing out, William reached for his whisky, took a sip and placed it back onto the table. Annabel was sitting on the edge of the sofa staring at him.

“I like you William, I like you a lot. More than I should after such a short acquaintance. We were getting to know each other, the more I discovered about you the more interested I became. Do I look stupid? I have long hair, breasts and a womb but that doesn’t mean I have lost the ability to think. It doesn’t mean that you can tell me anything you like and I will lap it up like a good little girl. If you don’t like me, don’t want to be a friend, then tell me. No more lies and fairy tales.”

She slumped back onto the sofa refusing to meet his gaze. An angry, hurt expression on her face.

They sat in silence neither sure what should happen next. William acknowledged that he needed to say something, anything, so he blurted out.

“Annabel, I think you are a wonderful person. In the few short days since we met I have felt that I have found a friend and perhaps, in time, more than that. I would not dream of doing anything to jeopardise that. You asked me if I was in trouble. I said I would tell you everything that has happened to me, which would answer that question. I know how difficult this is for you, it is still as difficult for me, but will you let me describe to you what happened? It might help it might not. Can we try?”

With only a small hesitation, Annabel replied,

“Yes, William, we can try, but William, this had better be bloody good.”

***

              Felicity stared out of the window of her office, deep in thought. Why had Sanderson chosen William Bacchus to be his principal beneficiary? As far as Thrasher had been able to determine they had never met and weren’t related. Why this connection was proving so elusive she wasn’t sure, but connected they were. The question she returned to hour after hour was: did it matter? William Bacchus was Sanderson's principal beneficiary. What she couldn't know was whether he would continue with Ernest Sanderson's quest for truth and justice. She thought that his connection only had significance if he was a close relation, someone who would have the same investment in continuing as Ernest Sanderson had. Thrasher had to prove either way that Bacchus was a close relation anything else was irrelevant. The tangential approach, she would accelerate, was Jemima's befriending of the cripple. He was the only person who had a connection to Bacchus and Sanderson; he could very well have more to offer than Thrasher.

              So, Jemima was the key. Now that she was focusing on the cripple Ben, it would only be a matter of time before he let something slip. Keeping Jemima focused and pliable would require some creative gift giving but she was sure Harvey Nichols could be relied upon. Felicity walked across to the leather chesterfield sofa on the opposite wall and poured herself a cup of coffee. She opened her Gucci handbag and took out two ibuprofen, swallowed them with a sip of coffee and kicking off her shoes lay on the sofa with her head on the armrest. Her thoughts turned to her grandfather.

              She had known from an early age that he despised her father; labelling him, as it turned out correctly, as a weak man with no vision, no ability and no balls. His remaining choices for a successor were then limited. Alexander was in place as a Member of Parliament and working to climb the slippery Home Office pole. Freddie wasn’t interested in business and was pursuing a career in the church. That had left her father James, who was discounted because of his invertebrate tendencies. This had left his grandchildren. Of these, grandfather Charles had little or no time for any of them apart from her.

              He had started grooming her for the responsibility she would inherit from the age of twelve. He had seen in her a flash of his own spirit and had taken over her life from that point onwards. The lessons were hard, some with him and others with handpicked managers all over the globe. They were aware that they were training the next head of CHC Industries; they had to ensure she was as ruthless and cunning as her grandfather. Their futures depended on it.

              At school she had to be the best, anything less was unacceptable. She could still remember the way her grandfather had spoken to her. His voice filled with disgust, when she had complained after receiving a brutal tongue lashing for being second in her end of year rankings. She could see him sitting behind his desk, now her desk, as he bellowed at her.

“What do you want from life? To be a nobody, play house, have children, die? Is that all you think you are worth? You are a Cortez! Behave like a Cortez! In a few years, you will have the whole world before you, jumping at your command. You will control one of the largest corporations in the United Kingdom. You will also control our personal, family business. You will be wealthy beyond imagination. I give you all of this and what do I receive in return? Second place is what I get and whining that you want to see your friends and go shopping. Shopping for god’s sake.”

              When she had asked him about the ‘personal, family business’ she thought he was going to have a seizure.

“When you have shown that you have the maturity and intellect, then I will share that with you. When you have shown that you are worthy of the name Cortez.”

It had been her fourteenth birthday.

              “Felicity, this is your grandfather. Get up off that sofa, now. We need to talk.”

Felicity shot upright as if a jolt of electricity had flowed through her.  She looked around the room, frightened by the sound of her grandfather’s voice. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to calm down. Speaking aloud to herself, needing to hear her own voice, she said,

“Grandfather is dead and has been for months. He can’t help you. What you heard was your own mind projecting, caught up in your reminiscing.”

              Pulling a packet of Dunhill International cigarettes out of her bag she lit one with a heavy gold Dunhill lighter, drew on it and exhaled a plume of smoke.

“Felicity..
.
”

“What?” she snapped, then with an outward calm she didn’t feel,

“What on earth am I doing talking to myself?” Instead of continuing this conversation with herself aloud, Felicity thought rather than enunciated the words.

“I am not the same as my mother. She was weak, vulnerable, and mad. I will not follow in her footsteps. I have never been paranoid, well not since childhood and I can barely spell schizophrenic. I am not delusional. If the voices I heard are not a symptom and I’m not delusional then...”

Speaking aloud she said,

“Prove you’re who you say you are. Prove that I’m not mad. You’ve ten seconds. One, two, three, four...”

              Her grandfather’s voice entered her head again and described the moment that he had told her about the personal, family business. She had craved that knowledge and the trust that telling her bestowed. What she heard had left an indelible mark on her and the realisation of the consequences now that she knew everything there was to know about CHC Industries and the Cortez family. Her apprenticeship had started then.

              When the voice had finished describing to her in precise detail all that had taken place that day she was sure it was her grandfather talking.

“What do you want?”

Charles response was acidic, re-establishing his position of power over her.

“Young lady, you have no idea of the potential problems you have ahead of you or how much you need my help. I say potential, because we still have time to avert this disaster, but only if you sharpen up and start working to your capabilities. Helena and I can only do a small amount of what will be necessary; the largest and most difficult part you must do.” He added to clarify,

“Helena is my spirit guide. Focus Felicity. Sanderson might be dead, but he can still hurt you. I assume he’s appointed someone other than his cripple to continue harassing us?”

              Felicity didn’t answer, just stared out of the window. Charles had always been a tricky bastard but how in god’s name had he managed to come back from the dead. She had been the person who had identified him at the morgue; old age had killed him. So how was he chatting to her, here in her living room? Coming to a decision, she walked over to the large Victorian mirror above her fireplace and stared at her reflection.

“A voice isn’t good enough. Even if it’s a voice that purports to know some of my secrets. If you want me to believe that the voice I am hearing isn’t early dementia, you’re going to have to prove it. Until then, I have a business to run.”

              Turning, she walked towards the door collecting her handbag and jacket. Pausing with her hand on the handle she turned to look back into the room and said,