The Cycle of Life

By John Paxton

We first met Nicholas in 'Conception' and his wife Dominique in 'The Wedding'. This book contains both of those stories as well as the third and final story of their lives. The final story is called 'Thirty Years On'. The ending is surprising but, at the same time, entirely logical.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Paxton
• Release date: Nov 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370467167

Book preview

The Cycle of Life

A collection of short stories

John L Paxton

Smashworks Edition

Copyright 2017 John L Paxton

Contents

Conception

The Wedding

Thirty Years On

About John L Paxton

Other Books by John L Paxton

Conception

The car, black with deeply-tinted windows, draws to a halt outside: as always it is precisely on time. The driver, without looking around, walks to the front of the building and presses the buzzer to my top floor apartment. I do not reply - there is no need. He was expected and I had seen him arrive. I quickly take the lift to the foyer and exit to the street. The driver, dressed from head to toe in black, is waiting beside the car: he noiselessly nods and opens a door to the back seat of the car. I slide into the relative luxury of the car and fasten my seat belt. Sinking back into the soft seat, I inhale the old-world aromas of leather and wood as I sip from the provided bottle of water: I am allowed to drink nothing other than water to-day.

I follow this ritual once every month. Colleagues, friends and neighbours all know, but no-one ever discusses it: neither word nor implication pass between us. Nor do I exchange any words with the driver. There is a smoked glass panel between the front and rear seats: I don’t know if it can be retracted or if there is some kind of microphonic means of communication. During the many trips I have made over the years, I have never been tempted to try to talk to him. On reflection, this is surprising as it has always been the same driver, every time without fail.

The journey doesn’t take long, twenty minutes would be the maximum it has ever taken. The car pulls off the road onto a long, winding drive through well-maintained grounds to arrive at the entrance of a large, old, elegant house that always appears well-maintained and conveys an air of dignity. Or, is it more of haughtiness? The chauffeur, if that is what he really is, opens the door for me. I have never been able to determine how he does this so quickly: it seems impossible for me to exit the car without him opening the door. Again, he doesn’t speak. I am expected: the front door opens without any request or announcement from myself. A blonde woman, attractive, dressed only in white stands aside to let me pass. We have seen one another many times but we show no recognition apart from a brief nod, no smile, no words.

I have been here so many times I know the routine without prompting. I walk along the corridor, past several closed doors to a small area furnished with an assemblage of sofas, armchairs and coffee tables - more leather and wood. I settle into a comfortable armchair but experience suggests I will not have a long wait.

Without ceremony or announcement, a door opens: this is