difference.
“I’ve booked you a hotel room…” the man offered the words like some kind of a peace gesture.
“What time is it?” I cut across him.
He glanced furtively at his watch. “9.30,” he said.
I grunted and scraped the palm of my hand across the stubble of my jaw. The sound was like the crackle of electricity. “Cancel it,” I made the decision. “I’ll drive straight to the house.”
I saw the shock on the man’s face – it was there for just an instant and then hidden again like the sun disappearing behind a dark cloud. He nodded his head in acquiescence.
It was an hour’s drive to the house – an hour of winding roads up through the narrow canyons, but I was in no mood to put this off until the morning. I had flown halfway around the world in response to a phone call. I wanted this thing done as soon as possible. I wanted my life back. It couldn’t wait until morning to be resolved. It had to be done now.
I drove quickly — steering the sleek sports car along the narrow mountain roads with a kind of confidence that bordered on reckless abandon. As the miles flashed past and the car steadily climbed up from the basin of the city into the hilltops my mood deepened and darkened into that black melancholy I had recognized from my past. I was heading back into darkness, and even if it was for just one night – just one last meeting – I could still feel the pall of resentment and bleak memories drape their heavy cloak of despair over me.
I was coming home…
I drove through the wrought iron gates and the Ferrari’s big tires squealed as the blacktop became gravel driveway. A shower of pebbled dust burst against the car and fell like rain across the dark manicured lawns of the estate. I followed the narrow tree-lined path that meandered for almost a mile of dark shadows before I finally saw the lights of the house.
The building appeared from out of the night, lit up like a cruise ship on a vast black ocean. Lights seemed to burn from every window. I braked hard and then sat for a long moment of heavy silence as the engine ticked and pinged.
My fingers were like claws on the steering wheel, my body tensed. Below the tight clench of my jaw I could feel the trip of a nerve. The breath escaped me with a sound like a soft explosion.
I had come back to Hell.
“Good to see you, Mr Bobby,” the man said from the top of the staircase. He was impossibly old, his face creased, his hair a fuzz of wispy gray. He was wearing a dark coat and trousers, his tie knotted perfectly, his manners immaculate. He had his hands clasped together in front of him.
“Hello, Albert,” I grunted. For just a moment my dark mood lifted. In many ways this man had raised me since I was a child. There was a benevolent fondness in his eyes and on his lips that was almost paternal. I flicked him a smile and went up the stairs to greet him. We shook hands and the pleasure on his face was genuine. “Welcome back,” he said.
The snap of a retort leaped to my lips but I bit my tongue. I inclined my head just an inch. “It’s only for one meeting, Albert. I’ll be gone again in an hour.”
The old man said nothing. His face stayed bright, his eyes alive with a twinkle of fond memories. He bobbed his head and held the big double doors open for me. I stepped into the foyer, heard the sound of my own footsteps echo on the marble floor and resonate off the high walls and ornate ceiling.
“Where is he?”
There was no need to ask anything more. Albert pointed to the top of a broad staircase that led to the second floor. “Mr Jonathan is in the library,” the old doorman said. “Where he always is.”
I grunted again, the sound like I had taken a fist to the ribs, and then turned back to Albert. I gripped his arm. “You know why I’m here, don’t you, Albert?”
The old man nodded and his face became sombre. “Yes, Mr Bobby,” he admitted.
“You know about the phone call?”
“We all do,” Albert
“I’ve booked you a hotel room…” the man offered the words like some kind of a peace gesture.
“What time is it?” I cut across him.
He glanced furtively at his watch. “9.30,” he said.
I grunted and scraped the palm of my hand across the stubble of my jaw. The sound was like the crackle of electricity. “Cancel it,” I made the decision. “I’ll drive straight to the house.”
I saw the shock on the man’s face – it was there for just an instant and then hidden again like the sun disappearing behind a dark cloud. He nodded his head in acquiescence.
It was an hour’s drive to the house – an hour of winding roads up through the narrow canyons, but I was in no mood to put this off until the morning. I had flown halfway around the world in response to a phone call. I wanted this thing done as soon as possible. I wanted my life back. It couldn’t wait until morning to be resolved. It had to be done now.
I drove quickly — steering the sleek sports car along the narrow mountain roads with a kind of confidence that bordered on reckless abandon. As the miles flashed past and the car steadily climbed up from the basin of the city into the hilltops my mood deepened and darkened into that black melancholy I had recognized from my past. I was heading back into darkness, and even if it was for just one night – just one last meeting – I could still feel the pall of resentment and bleak memories drape their heavy cloak of despair over me.
I was coming home…
I drove through the wrought iron gates and the Ferrari’s big tires squealed as the blacktop became gravel driveway. A shower of pebbled dust burst against the car and fell like rain across the dark manicured lawns of the estate. I followed the narrow tree-lined path that meandered for almost a mile of dark shadows before I finally saw the lights of the house.
The building appeared from out of the night, lit up like a cruise ship on a vast black ocean. Lights seemed to burn from every window. I braked hard and then sat for a long moment of heavy silence as the engine ticked and pinged.
My fingers were like claws on the steering wheel, my body tensed. Below the tight clench of my jaw I could feel the trip of a nerve. The breath escaped me with a sound like a soft explosion.
I had come back to Hell.
“Good to see you, Mr Bobby,” the man said from the top of the staircase. He was impossibly old, his face creased, his hair a fuzz of wispy gray. He was wearing a dark coat and trousers, his tie knotted perfectly, his manners immaculate. He had his hands clasped together in front of him.
“Hello, Albert,” I grunted. For just a moment my dark mood lifted. In many ways this man had raised me since I was a child. There was a benevolent fondness in his eyes and on his lips that was almost paternal. I flicked him a smile and went up the stairs to greet him. We shook hands and the pleasure on his face was genuine. “Welcome back,” he said.
The snap of a retort leaped to my lips but I bit my tongue. I inclined my head just an inch. “It’s only for one meeting, Albert. I’ll be gone again in an hour.”
The old man said nothing. His face stayed bright, his eyes alive with a twinkle of fond memories. He bobbed his head and held the big double doors open for me. I stepped into the foyer, heard the sound of my own footsteps echo on the marble floor and resonate off the high walls and ornate ceiling.
“Where is he?”
There was no need to ask anything more. Albert pointed to the top of a broad staircase that led to the second floor. “Mr Jonathan is in the library,” the old doorman said. “Where he always is.”
I grunted again, the sound like I had taken a fist to the ribs, and then turned back to Albert. I gripped his arm. “You know why I’m here, don’t you, Albert?”
The old man nodded and his face became sombre. “Yes, Mr Bobby,” he admitted.
“You know about the phone call?”
“We all do,” Albert
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