Conversations With Yourself

“If...if you had all the money in the world, what would you do”

“I would help people.... my family, friends...”

“What about everyone else?”

“Everyone else?”

“You’ve got all the money. All of it. You can help everyone. Anyone.”

“But I can’t help everyone.”

“Why not? Don’t you want to?”

“Not everyone deserves help.”

“Don’t they? Who decides?”

“I would, I suppose. It’s my money.”

“So you have the power.”

“The power?”

“Of course. That’s what the money gives you.”

“But I’m still the same person. Money doesn’t change that.”

Laughter, loud and hearty. Naivety is always amusing.

“Exactly.”

CHAPTER ONE

HE was twenty-six and had been in the job eighteen months. Eighteen. Months. He had not worked his way up and gained experience over many years, working in various departments, taking on various roles, learning about every facet of the company.

No, Raymond Waites had joined the company on a management program and now he was sitting at his desk, feigning importance as he glanced at his mobile phone on his desk. Claude Hampton, a veteran of some twenty-five years at the company, approached the desk. Raymond looked up.

“Claude! Hello, take a seat.” Claude sat down. Raymond picked up his mobile, making a show of checking it for some seemingly important information. He put the phone down.

“Would you like a coffee?” Claude shook his head. Raymond got up.

“I’m a tea drinker myself. Tea?”

“No. Thank you.” Silence, broken only by the spoon clinking the mug as Raymond stirred his tea. He returned to his seat opposite Claude. Silence again. Raymond straightened some papers on the desk.

“How’s the family? Good?” Claude was taken aback by the question. “Um…they’re good…thank you.” Raymond nodded, smiled.

“I’m quite nervous, getting married next month! You’re married, aren’t you? How long have you been married?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“Wow. That’s a long time! I can’t even imagine!” Claude smiled ruefully. He was not sure he could have imagined it when he was Raymond's age either. Raymond frowned a little, a faux look of concern on his face. He was better than many of his peers, those in his age range.

He had some ability, more learned than natural, of dealing with people. It was obvious to Claude that amongst his peers, Raymond was probably well regarded. He was not a bad looking lad, dressed well - even if his clothing was a little too snug for Claude’s liking - and tried to engage in a warmish way with his, for lack of a better word, subordinates.

It did not make him a good manager, but Claude had encountered worse. He was ambitious in the modern way, the rush to be in charge, career short term-ism, never staying in any job for more than three years. Raymond was a young man going places, places Claude knew nothing about and would probably never go to.

“Um, the - there is going to be a bit of a restructuring happening…in the company…” Raymond began. Claude waited, instinct racing ahead of intelligence in anticipation of what was coming. Raymond, solemn, a facade of caring, kept on talking, bad news buried in waffling rhetoric.

Spaghetti in the head

Most people do not know what they’re thinking. They think they do, that they have focus, but generally, people operate on automatic; they wake up, go to the bathroom, have breakfast or not, go to work or take the children to school or some variation of that daily routine. All the while their operating system, their brain, fires off various thoughts.

Worries, wishes, hopes and dreams. There is no order. It is not like defusing a bomb. Worries and wishes are prominent. Worries about money, health, other people’s opinions, every human foible, every dark scenario.

Wishes fight to combat the worries. A windfall is the most common. A lottery win, an inheritance from a long lost, very rich, relative, a tax rebate, some monetary lump sum to ease the burden of something that needs paying for, something that is coveted, a rise in status. Security.

Men are luckier. Perhaps it’s something leftover from having only to focus on hunting and fighting in a time long past that is only a vague imagining now. Maybe. Perhaps it is the lesser emotional attachment they have to things. Men just tend to think less, their thoughts generally easier to decipher. But not always.

Table Manners

NOT even blindness could be this dark. He was sure that his eyes were open but the totality of the blackness, the unremitting darkness, had him believing he had, maybe, gone blind. No, he had seen this, or not, before.

His only experience of feeling as though he was in complete darkness, was as a young boy when his family had gone to see the Parson’s, relatives on his mother’s side, who lived in the countryside. He had been out playing hide ‘n seek with his cousin, Harry.

They had gone into the woods to play, in the late afternoon; hide and seek. He had stood by a tree counting; one, two, three….ninety-six, ninety-seven… He had opened his eyes and started to search for his cousin in the rapidly darkening woods. Within fifteen minutes he was engulfed in total darkness.

Unlike the city, there were no streetlights to illuminate his surroundings. He had stumbled in the woods, calling out to Harry, hands outstretched in front of him, trying to feel his way. He had started shouting for his cousin, fear welling up inside of him as he felt increasingly out of control.

He had not wanted to visit his relatives. His cousin was a bully and always ensured that the visit was entirely memorable in the worse possible way. He had tried to get his parents to change their minds, faking sickness and when that had failed, having a tantrum. Unfortunately for him, eight-year olds’ histrionics did not hold much sway with his parents.

A while later he sat, crying quietly in the back seat of the car, his leg still warm from where his mother’s hand had convinced him that his actions were not appreciated. He had looked forlornly out of the window as they travelled to his relatives in the countryside.

So here he was, enveloped in darkness unable even to see his hand in front of his face, his small shaky voice calling out to his cousin. From the darkness he could hear Harry laughing, making ghost noises and running through the trees, probably to position himself better to scare his already petrified eight-year-old cousin. At that moment he hated Harry.

Harry was not here now and he was no longer an eight-year-old child, but presently, those feelings were coming back to him. He half expected to hear his cousin laughing. That would not be right. He could hear something though, a humming, a familiar humming. He tried to take stock.

How had he got here? He tried to retrace his steps, but for some reason, he was not able to think clearly. It was almost as though he had been drugged. He would start with something simple; his name. Claude Hampton. Age? Fifty-three. What day is it? Thursday? Friday? Panic was beginning to edge in.

What day is it? What day is it! Why is it so cold? WHERE THE HELL AM I! Claude felt exposed, quickly realising that his feeling was a reality as he had no clothing on. The situation in which he found himself was maddening, to say the least.

On some level, he hoped it was a dream, a nightmare. Somehow he knew it was not. There was a foreboding about his predicament, which had an almost paralysing effect on him.

The unknown was a fear that, at some point in most people’s lives, visited them. For Claude, it was not just the present fear of the unknown, but the fear of what he knew, which was very little. He had no idea how he had got there, why he was there, where there was.

What he relied on could not help him; blackness made everything seem the same. There seemed to be no atmosphere, no wind, and not even a tremor of a breeze. There was something. A smell. A stench. As Claude caught on to it he began to gag. It was no scent he had ever encountered before. It was vile and overpowering and seemed to intensify the more he tried to ignore it.

A face was visible in the darkness, as though lit from inside. It flashed at him suddenly, an expression of terror etched in its features. Claude stood, frozen, as the screaming person rushed headlong towards him. Claude braced himself for the expected impact. No impact. He went slack-jawed with alarm as the person ghosted right through him.

Dread engulfed him like water around a sinking ship. This was beyond his scope of experience. As he tried to gain a degree of perspective on his situation, more faces began to appear. They were all mirroring the first; terror-stricken, vacant staring, moving at speed, all heading towards him.

Every direction he looked in they were coming. Screaming, howling, and fleeing from nothing that he could see, towards some unknown, yet differing, destination. Claude seemed to be standing in the middle of a crossroads.

They were all around him now, passing through him and one another. Their screams deafening, constant. Even in the crowd every one of them seemed lonely, oblivious to the existence of all the others. Claude flailed about; his eyes and mind telling him that he was surrounded, but his body unable to feel anything.

He was struggling to ground himself, keep some vestige of sanity. Hope came in an unlikely form. His vision was suddenly blurry and the screaming was fading. He fought to stay awake, he did not want to fall unconscious in this place. This, however, was not a place where people got what they wanted.

A Good Church Girl

MIA Scott hated churches. She found them superficial, even the relatively spartan ones. She believed in heaven and hell, she would even allow for a little faith, but the singing and the praising were not a comfort for her.

It was as if people felt the need to bring God to their level. There was also the selfishness of worship. Not, she was prepared to concede, in all cases. She had found that when it came to religion there were two types of believers; the zealot and the fearful.

The zealots tended to be those who believed that, spiritually speaking, they lived in houses that were not only impervious to stones. They were nigh on impregnable. Though many would admit that they occasionally had succumbed – it was never a total act of free will – to the will, the evil temptations of Lucifer!

At such times, they would say that their unwavering faith in the Lord had kept them from following the “wrong path”. Mia grudgingly admired this type of person. At least they believed wholeheartedly in their religion, unlike the other type of churchgoer: The bet hedger.

These people went to church with metronome regularity, to praise the Lord and to sing. They would be the ones, standing at the front of the congregation, singing with a passion and clarity that, for the cynic in Mia, smacked of brown-nosing. These lunging busting efforts were usually pitched as though the good lord, in his wizen old age, might be hard of hearing and miss their acclamations towards him.

Yet they would leave that same building of worship and return to their heathen lifestyles, happy in the knowledge that they had done enough that day to keep them in sight of their place in heaven. After all, God forgives all who repent.

She frowned, irritated that it bothered her so much that people were hypocrites. It was not as though she was as pure as the driven snow herself, but she never pretended to be. Why could she not just live and let live?

She smiled to herself at this thought. It was stupid to think she could ever live comfortably with the façade most people projected in their daily lives. All her life she had never been able to, why, thirty-six years down the line, would she start now?

The truth was, she knew she had more in common with the second type of churchgoer than she liked to admit.

Her problem was her emotions. Or more pertinently, her ability to tap into others emotions. It was more than an instinct with her. It was as though she could live in their heads, their hearts.

She could always tell what a person was feeling. If they were scared or angry. Or lying. It was an awareness that had a great impact on her life, one that had shaped her life thus far.

She had always wanted to help people, believing in the goodness of society. It was the reason she had joined the police force, feeling it was a way she could, in some way, help her fellow man.

As an eager young officer, she had impressed her colleagues and those who mattered with her tenacity and unerring nose for a criminal. Her success rate was becoming something of a legend in police circles. But then there was the resentment.

It was only a few, mainly long-serving police figures, who viewed Mia’s success with suspicion. How was she managing to lock up so many criminals in such a short space of time?

Not just petty crooks either, but major players within criminal networks they had been watching for years, in some cases decades. Yet here was this girl, making inroads and getting results in a matter of months! How was that possible?

Mia could not explain it. She could not say why she seemed to be able to anticipate and, more uncannily, catch them in an incriminating situation.

She could not explain it. She knew why she always seemed one step ahead of everybody else and she knew if she tried to explain it they would probably try to put her on medication.

Besides her gift for empathy, Mia sometimes just knew things, things that people were thinking, hiding. She did not like to think of it as mind-reading, reading being something one did consciously. It was more like an acute intuition.

She had no control over it and sometimes even dreaded it. It seemed to work as a tangent of her empathic abilities. The more emotional the person was, the stronger her impression of them would be.

Irrational people were the worse, their anger would batter at her psyche, screaming at her in garbled, rapid-fire sound bites.

For the most part, when she interviewed someone, their emotions would come at her like waves their words almost musical to her. As they spoke the rhythm of their voice would create a distinctive music to her, where every note would have a place and sound just right.

When they lied or omitted something relevant, the music would waver or stutter, hitting flat notes or suddenly screeching. Mia would put a hand up, or ask them to stop, maybe even laugh suddenly to break the flow of the person speaking, throwing up a random unrelated question, pressuring them into a heightened emotive state, even if their outward appearance did not show such a state.

It was usually at this point that their mind would betray something; a mental picture, a name, a threat. This was how she was able to catch so many criminals. She could never relate that to anybody. Especially as in the interview many of the suspects never betrayed any outward sign or reaction.

She was back in the church, in the present. She smiled as she watched a young boy, dressed in a three-piece suit, fiddling with an uncomfortable collar. Her thoughts were interrupted.

“Hello, Mia.” Mia turned around to see Graham, sliding into the pew behind her. Shuffling behind him was his wife, whose name had momentarily escaped Mia.

“Graham,” Mia replied, trying to smile but conscious of grimacing more than smiling.

“You remember my wife, Georgia.”

“Hi Georgia, how are you?” Georgia mouthed an “I’m fine” behind a barely-there smile which made no attempt to reach her eyes. BITCH! Georgia’s mind was speaking far clearer than she ever did.

Mia turned her attention to Graham, even as her consciousness reeled under the assault of Georgia’s mental barbs.

“I thought you would have been the maid of honour at your own sister’s wedding Mia!” Graham boomed cheerfully, just in case anyone in the church did not know she was related to the bride.

His eyes roamed over Mia’s body as though he was a hungry man looking at his first meal in days. Mia pretended not to notice and ignored his wife’s look of barely concealed anger mixed with sorrow.

She could not ignore the psychic thunderbolts of anger coming from her though. YOU FUCKING WHORE! YOU SCHEMING TRAMPY LITTLE, COCK SUCKING BITCH! Please don’t leave me Graham, please don’t leave me! WHY CAN’T YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Mia looked at Georgia briefly, she was staring ahead, her eyes unblinking, that familiar glint of holding-back-the-tears about her.

“I didn’t want to be. Raine understands.” Graham opened his mouth to comment, then quickly closed it. Mia could almost see the cogs turning in his murky little head. A smirk played across his face.

“How’s the police force these days, still offending ethnic minorities?” Graham laughed at his own joke. He glanced around to see if anyone else had appreciated his jest, seeing himself in a majority of one, he laughed louder.

“Oh no, I forgot you’re not in the police force anymore are you? You’re a private investigator now! Mia P.I.!” Graham was laughing again, his ability to amuse himself seemed to be one of those childlike things that had never left him.

Mia smiled politely. Graham was one of the few people she knew who could bring on an almost murderous rage in her.

A pale, ginger-haired man, who stood at an unimpressive five-foot-two and always looked as though he was wearing his father’s clothes. He was ugly in a way that was not quite describable, suffice to say that ‘ugly’ was the only word that could truly describe him.

Even though he was a small man, small of frame, he had a way of moving which made him seem heavy, a kind of stomping walk, as if to compensate for his stature.

“So why did you leave the force? Raine never told me.” Raine’s boss, for that was what Graham was, felt that he had to know everything about his staffs' lives. And their families.

“I needed a change.” Mia lied. Graham sat grinning at her. It was as if he knew - which he probably did - she found talking about her former job uncomfortable.

“A change is as good as a rest they say!” He boomed at her. He paused, the mischief back on his face.

“A private eye isn’t much of a change though is it? It’s like being a tube driver and deciding to become a bus driver!” Graham was laughing again, his inner comedian once again giving its favourite audience the pay-off.

Mia had heard enough. She knew if she did not move seat she would ruin her sister’s wedding day by trying to break her boss’ face.

“I should go and see how my sister’s doing…” She rose quickly. Graham’s eyes roved her body once more, eventually resting on her face.

“Tell her I’m rooting for her!” Graham shouted as Mia strode away. She did not have to look back to see if Georgia was looking at her. FUCK OFF, YOU HARLOT! WHY CAN’T YOU GO AND FIND YOUR OWN MAN! TRAMP!

She could hear her loud and clear.

********************************************************

Doctor Karl was a man of science. An atheist, he believed that everything had a scientific, logical, explanation. There were no mysteries, only things that had not been figured out yet.

With enough patience and critical thought, anything could be explained. Anything. With that rationale, the surgeon concluded that his present experience must be due to sleep. He had to be dreaming.

He was seeing faces and situations that were completely alien to him, unrelated to any life he knew. He was not sure where he was, but he could not move and was feeling increasingly drowsy.

Things were blurring. He could hear someone calling him, very close. He just could not see anyone. A recognisable face popped into his mind. What was she doing there? Was it her calling? No. No, it seemed like a memory.

She was talking, saying something to him, her expression earnest. What was she saying? She would see him after? After what? Alanna. It was Alanna! Why did he know that? This was indeed a strange dream. Someone was calling his name again, the voice low, but urgent. His vision blurred, everything faded away. The strange dream ended.

“Doctor? Doctor Karl? Are you alright?” Claude could see himself on the table. The operating table. Was he dreaming? Why was he so close to the table – literally standing over himself? He looked down at his hands and saw surgical implements.

He was holding surgical implements. He was dreaming about operating on himself. The nurse was shouting at him. She kept calling him “Doctor Karl”. The name rang a bell. Doctor Karl. Doctor Karl? He knew the name.

He could see the face of a jovial, fifty-something black man in his memory. The surgeon. The surgeon was named Karl. His surgeon. He remembered the tail end of a conversation. The doctor had spoken with happy confidence.

“The only, I reiterate, only occasion on which I lost a patient, was when some moron put the poor woman in the wrong operating room! Suffice to say, I tore a few strips off of him and went on to bring her through her ordeal none the wiser for the hospital’s incompetence.” Doctor Karl had smiled. This had been his unusual and slightly long-winded way of saying that he, Claude, was in good hands.

Claude looked down at his hands again. They were dark-skinned. Though through the latex gloves it was difficult to tell. He looked at his nose. Black. Dark brown to be specific, but definitely not Caucasian. He seemed to be in somebody else’s body.

“Doctor Karl! We’re losing him!” He was in Karl’s body. About to do a heart bypass on himself and he had no clue what he was doing. He needed to get back to his own body.

Being imprisoned in somebody else’s body and then going to prison for negligence was not Claude’s idea of living. How do I get back? He looked down at himself.

Suddenly his face was in close up, speeding towards him. Darkness and voices were filling his consciousness, this lasted a few seconds. Claude’s last thoughts, before oblivion engulfed him, was to hope Doctor Karl was as good as his word.

*****************************************************

It was as if she could feel her, which given Mia’s abilities and their relationship, should not have come as a surprise to her. Truth be told, she was not so much surprised as wounded by the reaction of her sibling when she entered the room. Raine visibly tensed without even turning around.

“Beautiful dress, sis.” Mia was not sure whether to approach. Raine was not alone. With her in the small room was their younger sister, Bobbi, an aunt, Gemma, and her uncle, Peter.

Bobbi’s face lit up on seeing Mia, quickly turning towards her and then checking herself, she looked to Raine for approval. Raine nodded almost imperceptibly. Bobbi rushed and hugged Mia.

“We thought you weren’t coming. When did you get here? Are you going to stay?” Bobbi fired questions at her in a torrent, not pausing for an answer. Gemma rested a hand on Bobbi’s shoulder.

“Give the girl time to breathe! How are you Mia?”

“I’m good….thanks. You? The family?” Gemma smiled. “You’re sounding like Bobbi now.” Mia smiled, relaxing.

“How are you, Peter? Got father of the bride duties?” Peter came over and greeted Mia with a kiss on each cheek.

“I felt it was my duty.” Raine turned her head, almost looking towards the small reunion. Peter backtracked words of pacification tripping from his lips.

“Of course I’m happy and…honoured to do it in the absence of…” Peter stopped talking. Raine turned and walked over.

“Mia. Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would. I'm sure everyone will be happy to see you.” Raine spoke as though they were acquaintances, brought together for a retirement dinner of a well-regarded colleague.

Bobbi stood between them, eyes flitting from one sister to the other, her despair at their estrangement obvious. Gemma made a great show of looking at her watch.

“Oh! Look at the time, we’d better get a move on.” Gemma squeezed Mia on the upper arm.

“See you later?” Mia smiled, nodding. She was still looking at Raine, who was holding her gaze without blinking. Gemma pulled Raine away. A deflated Bobbi turned to follow Raine and her mother. She turned back suddenly.

“You’re going to stay aren’t you?” Bobbi’s tone was almost pleading. Raine’s head was turned, as though she too was waiting for the answer.

“Yes, I’m staying, it’s my big sister’s wedding. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll see you afterwards.” A happy Bobbi skipped back to help her bride-to-be sister. Mia stood with her uncle. He looked to the three women.

“I’ll give you ladies ten minutes, I’m not much help with make-up anyhow.” Peter and Mia stepped out of the room. They stood outside in silence for a moment.

“You look well Mia. You been well?”

“Can’t complain. I’ve kept busy, kept myself out of trouble.” They fell silent again.

“How’s your brother?” Mia asked. Peter shifted weight from foot to foot, an expression of irritation settling on his face.

“Your father is fine. Maybe you should call him or at least send him a card at Christmas!” Peter was scowling. He hated being in the middle of this never-ending family feud.

“One day.”

“It’s been twelve years! You and your sister have been virtual strangers in that time. I’m surprised you even knew about the wedding!”

“I keep in touch with Bobbi and mum. As for your brother, if he wanted to get hold of me he could.” They stood staring at one another, Mia, cold, expressionless, Peter’s expression wavering between anger and sorrow. He could not maintain his anger, his expression dissolving into one of pathos.

“Why can’t you all just try to put this behind you? It’s in the past. People split up all the time, why is it so different for this family?” Mia maintained her silence.