“What are you trying to tell me?” Inwardly I had already half guessed and dreaded what followed.
“Perhaps it would be better if you came and saw for yourself, sir.”
The two men lay sprawled under an oak tree, about two metres from the breech in the fence.
For reasons unknown their faces were unmarked but their distorted expressions were frightening enough.
As for their bodies— Dear God! They looked as if they had been run over several times by a heavy tractor or, perhaps dropped from a great height beyond the atmosphere.
Hands and arms protruding from their sleeves retained shape only, no bone structure was left, only a red jelly.
I admit, I fought down a desire to vomit, not from the bodies alone but because of my own sense of guilt.
This, in a way, was my responsibility. Be specific, the man had said and I had failed the warning miserably. I had merely asked for protection, never realizing that others might be killed horribly to provide it.
Inwardly I almost flew into a panic. I wish no more killing in my protection.
Almost it was a prayer and I hoped to God it worked.
I estimate that it was at least four hours later before I could sit and think rationally. I am not a religious person bat I literally prayed that the ‘no kill’ wish worked.
I found out next day and it brought me little consolation. Quite by accident I had struck up a friendship with a local cop. We discovered we shared an interest in foreign stamps and, for reasons unknown, strong bonds build up between philatelists.
As it happened, he caught me waiting outside the complex while my chauffeur was making desperate efforts to get the Mercedes across a line of traffic to pick me up.
“Good day, Mr. Ventris, glad I’ve seen you, you had a narrow escape only a few hours ago. I was too far away to help at the time, but I saw it all.”
I had gone a little cold inside and, candidly, I didn’t want to hear the rest. I knew, by his tone of voice, that whatever he told me was going to be unpleasant.
“Yes, Mr. Ventris, I saw the whole thing in detail. Later, one of our street cameras got the lot. Ira Mintz had you in his sights and if Mintz got to work on you he would have taken everything you possessed and you would never have known until you tripped. Only then would you discover that he had taken everything including your shoelaces, if you know what I mean, sir. Mintz is one of the best dips — pickpockets — on this continent. It is said that he once won thirty grand on his skill alone. Someone bet him that he couldn’t take the bras off three women without them knowing within an hour and he won. Thirty minutes, he took, so they say.”
The policeman paused and shook his head. “Won’t do that no more. As he got near you, something happened, I don’t know what. Some medical experts, back at base, think it was some kind of fit but I have never seen anything like it. My wife’s cousin is an epileptic, sir, and I’ve seen a few attacks, but nothing like this. He’ll never walk again—”
After that it took me at least four hours to think rationally.
A greater part of my thinking was self-examination, past and present. I was shocked when I forced myself to face facts. The damn thing was taking over my life and, by slow degrees, enslaving me. I was missing several of my favorite musical recitals, visits to the club, things like that. Yes, golf, also, to miss a weekend round before all this had once been unthinkable.
Again there was the dog; we were missing many of our usual walks. I knew that exercise with Palmer or one of the other servants was not quite the same thing to him.
I loved the dog, his loyalty and blind devotion — it was not being fair to him. Yet lately, I must confess, he added to my fears. All too often, lately, he would lift his head and stare at something beyond me. Then he’d growl, low and threateningly, deep in his throat.
I knew what he was growling at, something I was beginning to sense, all too frequently. I can only describe it as a dark and threatening shadow but daily it seemed to draw closer.
I thanked God my wife was away, taking care of a sick sister on another continent. I didn’t want her involved in this.
Here, too, I had to be honest with myself, this was not noble or protective. I had been married to Moira for fifteen years but, somewhere along the line, love had died, flaked away into nothing. Those endearing differences of speech and gesture have degenerated to irritating mannerisms. My wife is still a beautiful woman but her beauty does not touch me.
I wish her no harm, I do not dislike her and we lead our separate lives. To have her here, mixed up in all this business would make things many times worse. Together, she gets on my damn nerves, constantly.
Even as I sat, forcing myself to face facts, the pressure never stopped.
Make a wish.
Wish for something.
I found it difficult to keep a grip on myself. Mentally, I wanted to shout back, “Leave me alone! Get off my back, blast you!”
I admit I gave way. Something harmless, innocuous, something which would exert no pressure on anyone.
How is my sick sister-in-law, Geraldine, doing?
As is often the case, I was suddenly there, as if mentally transported, seeing it all.
And Geraldine was doing fine.
Geraldine was practising high dives in her home’s private swimming pool.
Where the hell was her loving sister. Moira? “Geraldine is not really well enough to talk but she sends her love.”
Needless to say I fell into the trap. I wished I knew what my wife was doing.
I sat in my favorite chair for a long time just staring at nothing but I must admit that I was inwardly grateful that I no longer loved her. Had I done so, the consequences would have been tragic, even so—.
Moira was kicking a lot of high spots, miles away, at a coastal resort with a boyfriend.
The cow! The two-faced bitch! All those messages on her sister’s health every evening.
I had not been hurt emotionally. I acknowledge that, but, hell, my pride had. I was being made to look an idiot. No doubt those who knew were secretly laughing. A top exec’ being taken down by his wife, not so damn smart, is he?
The worst aspect of the whole business, however, was the boyfriend himself.
It was Preston Goff, one of our junior executives. I had never liked the man, loud, pushy and overbearing. A man who was forced to address you as ‘sir’ but made it sound contemptuous.
When he smiled, it could be heard — the thick lips over big uneven teeth.
Goff could not help his physical characteristics, of course, but they were something that added to my anger.
Also I knew, damn well, who was paying for these jaunts to the coast — I was. Moira was funding their adultery through the credit card I had given her.
I sat for a long time fuming, planning revenge and public exposures.
I would stop the credit card, leave her virtually penniless in a top-flight hotel.
Gradually, very gradually, I calmed down. Face it, I was a hypocrite if I told myself that all this was about Moira. I felt no pangs of loss whatever; my real resentment was against Goff. I knew, already, he would be boasting, dropping dark hints that he was bedding a top executive’s wife.
Suddenly I was icy cold and a picture began to form in my mind. At the moment I had almost forgotten about the wishing stone. This was sharp and immediate, I had to cover my back. Therefore no showdowns, no public exposures for Goff or Moira. Such tactics, although inwardly rewarding, were also a public admission of failure. They would only tell the world that this loud mouthed lout had been having my wife behind my back — not good for my position or my business reputation at all.