It's funny when you are driving with a breeze spilling in the windows and you think to yourself if you could do that your entire life, hit a breeze head on, it reminds me of the sea, a cool refreshing breeze, laughing white gulls, a splash of waves on hot red skin. I was driving in my red rental Ford, the gears automatic. I drove up a little hill passed the green grocers, slowed down when I saw the triangle sign, “Children at play.” I then drove past a red brick school a basketball court, a yard on the side, no playing kid in sight, past a large rose garden and then turned off up a gravel driveway. Not a soul in sight, no camera men, news reporters, a policeman on his guard.
Everything was quiet, yellow stripped and black tape was spun around all entrance points, a crime scene was to be protected. I glanced around making sure no one was around and then slipped under the tape pulled out the set of keys from my jacket pocket and slowly opened the door. I did not want to create a stir.
The wooden floor creaked as I walked passed the empty foyer through, the sitting room and into the study where rows of books surround one, enclosing everything but a small dusky window that let in little streams of light. I could still smell my father’s smell, the musty odder of cigars, his Old Spice aftershave that clogged up the nose. I imagined my father a little heavy-set his grey hair thinning, a trace of light spraying dust particles on his brown cleats.
The detective was looking for a book, a book by that famous author, the only reason I could think of is that they knew my father was in ownership of the book and wanting it for himself and noticing the real value of such a volume of work sought to steal it for himself. It made sense, perfect sense, and I being the sole inheritor of such a work would make me a target, vulnerable to those looking for quick money. Though I thought about the possibility that he was only working for someone.
I scanned the dark teak wooden shelves, the complete collection of Egyptian Artefacts and Relics chronicles in forty volumes, an entire list of ancient books. A copy of the Canterbury Tales laid weighted down by a black leather bound copy of twenty thousand leagues under the sea written by Jules Verne both priceless in their own rights. More dusty books, lines and rows, columns and inches of space filled up under sitting chair under the round brown table that held up a rustic reading light that had a naked bronze lady as a stand holding the bulb in one hand and clutching her pubic area in the other. Perhaps she shaved. My eyes scanned all the shelves, no sign of the book that the detective was looking for, of course it could have been hiding, but knowing my dad it would have been in plain view for all his guests to see, the perfect host showing them his new baby. But I couldn’t work it out as much as I tried. The place looked at first glance to be un-touched but the more I looked the more I realised that certain books were only out of place, like the American Almanac that was amongst the entire works of Shakespeare. Little Woman was sitting page open on the embroidered brown cushion chair—a strange occurrence. It never dawned on me when I picked up the phone and my dad’s death was confirmed that he was killed over his books, perhaps it had been a break in, that was what some reporters had been speculating though the police report on his death had not been released as of yet.
I checked everywhere and after a while I got tired and threw myself on the carpeted floor trying to piece everything that had happened, a father dies, then being accused of his death, and being held at gun point. A strange occurrence doesn’t happen everyday, at least not with me. And so I wondered what the hell to do next, I assaulted a detective, if I wasn’t a suspect I was now, forget about a break-in. I continued to look, over volumes, through the study, inside the room, desecrating the crime scene, putting my evidence on landing, on bathroom tap, on the wooden banister, all over cabinet handles, a roam around the garden my footprints left in dirt.
After a while I assumed there was nothing more to be done and so I climbed in the noiseless car and turned out of the driveway and onto the long stretch of motorway. I would drive home, forget the flying. The roadside lights shuddered on after a time the luminous reflection of the lamps on the windshield left a glare as I continued to drive a little short drizzle developing. I kept on driving, driving, with strange things filtering through my mind, 'over-thinking' again. Why did I hit the detective, that was obvious but why had he threatened me in the first place? I couldn’t even attend the funeral, no mourning black for me. I decided I’d go home and try to work things out. I’m sure they’d understand when I told them the story, not some silly story that the detective probably already made up by now. When I got home in the dark and parked my car down some isolated spot I realised that it was probably the wrong place to park it after riding the lift slowly up high floor levels. It was late, I slid the key into my door and threw myself on the couch, and first making sure I had taken the gun out of my jacket pocket and laid it on the glass coffee table.
I sat down on the couch and strangely enough thought of this story that I think my father told me when I was young. In 1953 a sheep farmer by the name of John Marley, was hammering wooden posts deep into the ground when suddenly from the sky a white bright oval shaped light sped past him and scuttled into a nearby field, where sheep lay idly grazing. He ran to the spot and was never heard of again. I remember that story, don’t know why. I reached over to the remote for the TV me being lazy never turned it off standby. The phone started to ring, the irritating wail, the high pitched cry. I listened to it ring five times before slowly making my way to the phone that was on wall. I picked it up, just to make the ringing stop.
It was dead on the other end. A prank call.
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