Amaritudo: Black birds are only seagulls in mourning

By Tony Brennan

Brian Mason was confused. Behind the luxurious facade of the exclusive, elegant Beaumont Retirement and Convalescent Home exterior, with its magnificent position on the cliffs and its thrilling views, lived a mainly grey-headed world of deceit, lies, seduction, criminal activities, even Murder – and Murder not once, but again and again! 

This was supposed to be his 'health cure'. Instead, he was being plunged into a world of vice; pretense; fabulous wealth; sordid, vicious crime and betrayal. He was a writer, not a detective; a weaver of words, recovering from illness; not a muscle-bound 'super-hero'.

Brian struggles to cope with all he discovers, and the people with whom he has to live; finally when he was beginning – as he thought – to have success in uncovering the master-minds behind the crimes, he is forced to engage in a life and death situation from which it was doubtful he could ever escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922565150

Tony Brennan

Tony Brennan, a clergyman and a tertiary lecturer, in both English literature and abnormal psychology, says of his writing, 'I have a penchant for zany and weird ideas which end up as stories. I never know what the end is going to be, so am constantly surprised, and a little worried - perhaps therapy might help?'

Book preview

Sc.1

1

Brian Mason stood, uneasily, before the desk of the Director; his words stumbling.

I’m… very grateful… sir …not long… few weeks … until …er… the death… dreadful shock …yes, yes, thank you …

He faltered to a stop.

His confused, exhausted, mind wandering, he half-heard the voice droning on, as he moved towards the window: ‘beautiful rooms…superior staff…glorious views…carefully selected clientele…’

In the world outside the window a storm raged; the elements echoing the turmoil of his feverish mind.

In the savagery of the blasts of light, Brian was illumined leaning his forehead against the glass; he was abandoned… marooned…lost. The world outside was dark… lonely… deadly!

He turned around quickly as he heard the Director’s prepared ‘welcoming’ monologue: ‘Peaceful tranquillity in comfort.’ This was submerged in a shattering crash of thunder… …What did he say? Was this man deaf?

Brian felt a mad desire to scream loudly: ‘Are you mad? There’s a fierce and frightening storm raging!’ The monotonous voice calmly went on … ‘…Gourmet food …medical privacy assured …safety…’

He turned back to the window; celestial chaos was superior to this meaningless lecture. He stared through the window his mind drawing the outline of the face of the woman he had loved. For a transitory moment he thought: ‘She’s back!’ … The image began slowly… to fade! He scrambled to hold her…’No, no, Louise, Louise…come back!’ He reached out to the glass to clasp the elusive outline, but his fingers fumbled, sliding over the cold surface. He closed his eyes briefly, then struck his fist fiercely on the windowsill.

‘Why, Louise? I can’t bear it …This lunatic place doesn’t matter – no place matters; you’re… not here! You’re… gone!’

‘Gone! What a dreadful, fearful, final word …Gone! …It’s a giant bell tolling! Gone! Oh, Louise!’ He rested his forehead once more against the cool glass…’No… I can’t… I won’t… bear it…Gone!’ …The Director’s sharp voice forced him to turn back to the desk. He must say something to this man…

What? Oh, yes, yes, yes… …whatever. He had no idea what the Director had said. Without conscious thought, he began to study the face of the man at the desk…the Director. From force of habit, his mind began its usual trick of registering the features into a visual image of the man he was observing.

Arresting face – sharply defined features, swarthy skin, good nose, large ears…thinning hair, good hands though… but those lips… cruel… too thin; could be vicious…could never trust him, but could use him… could be the villain, looming… waiting in the wings of the castle to destroy Muriel? …What?

He stopped in mid-thought! Damn, and blast, the bloody book! Who cares if it’s ever finished? It doesn’t matter now; she’s gone! She’ll never read it…

He squeezed his eyes shut again, forcing himself to say the fatal words: ‘My wife, my Louise, is dead! That dreadful… dreadful… final word…’

‘My wife is…DEAD!’ He shouted silently again as he turned to his own reflection in the window… the tolling suddenly stopped!

Brian began to tune in again… the Director was wafting on about the honour of having him as a guest – such a famous writer; wait until you see the details of this luxurious establishment for celebrities such as yourself – we have the best staff ‘… …recuperate in comfort, or retire in luxury’, is our motto…

The youngish man turned from the window and sat down suddenly on the chair in front of the desk. He rested his aching head on his hand, his eyes turned inwards. Emotionally drained, he just wanted to get this over, take his cases and go to his rooms.

He opened his eyes and straightened up. He’d had enough of this; he didn’t have to listen. Suddenly, without warning, he interrupted the speaker in mid-sentence, speaking abruptly:

Yes, yes, yes. What do I owe you? I’d like to pay for four weeks in advance; if I stay longer than that, and you have vacancies, I’ll pay the extra then.

The Director looked startled and incensed at such rudeness! He then named a figure which penetrated Brian’s brain and thrust him sharply into reality. His eyebrows rose. His mind sharpened. This place had better be good! The fees are enormous!

Shrugging mentally, he took out his phone, speaking abruptly:

Please just give me your details and I’ll transfer the amount immediately. The Director silently slid a card across the desk.

Having transferred the money, Brian spoke, abruptly. I take it, there’s no problem in me having George with me? Dr Skidmore smiled his knowing smile.

"Assuredly not, sir. We are very tolerant, inclusive and enlightened here, sir; we try to cater for every fancy, whim, romantic preferences and taste of our guests," the Director seemed to Brian to be actually smirking!

The smile and the voice assumed such an irritating, patronizing, oily quality, that Brian’s hand clenched: he wanted to hit him …Hard! …Now!

IGNORE IT! – He shouted to himself – ignore it! STOP it now! Just STOP it immediately! Remember what the doctors had warned! Think of his sister. Listen to what Sis had said…Remember what she had said! Listen to her!

His sister’s straight, no-nonsense, blunt, voice, cut sharply through the fog of his mind… and, the endless monologue – Sis had no time for mental ‘shilly-shallying’: ‘You need the material, Brian; Louise is gone, just face it. She’s GONE. You need to work… It’s the only thing that will help you now, so wise up …you know the alternative …. The doctors told you.’

Well, one thing she had said was certainly true …he had not written a word for weeks.

***

With the financial details settled, the doctor stood up; the audience was over.

Brian was handed over to a thin, harassed-looking, young man, who, apparently, was called Nigel. Like an automaton, he began to follow the staff member who led the way carrying his suitcases.

Could this young bloke be his own special attendant, Brian wondered? Considering the fees, he was paying, anything was possible. It is strange, he thought, vaguely, how his aunt, Lindsay Pottermore, could afford this place.

She had been the one who had suggested ‘The Beaumont’, to him.

Walking to his apartment, Brian following behind his jailer, noticed Nigel kept glancing nervously back over his shoulder? Was he scared of him? No, he couldn’t be. But he does look frightened all the same. Frightened? Why the hell was Nigel frightened? Frightened of what? He was the one who was frightened; scared stiff in fact – there could be a bunch of looneys here – rich, but crazy, as he was.

That’s what the place was for, wasn’t it? No, it couldn’t be, Lindsay was here; she wasn’t crazy, just old. He gave it up and just walked dumbly behind the younger man.

Staring at his leader, he noticed Nigel had keys hanging from his belt. For a brief moment, his depression lifted, and Brian smiled, naturally: ‘durance vile’ – the right place for authors! ‘Keep ‘em all locked up’; it’s the only safe place for them … for the world at large! ‘

‘They’re very, dangerous people! Lock ‘em all up! ‘

***

Doctor Elias Skidmore picked up his phone the moment Brian left the room. He spoke briefly:

He’s arrived! No problem. Exhausted, confused state, emotional, slightly delusional, generally scatty; not very strong physically. Half-mad, I think.

You’re utterly wrong, as usual; he’s a dangerous man the voice replied. You’re a fool to let him come in here. I’ll be watching him every minute. Alert the committee. This man’s highly intelligent, a famous writer, worth millions and has the sharp, inquisitive mind of an investigative journalist.

How do you know this?

Because I made it my business to find out, which, the voice added coldly, you should have done; however, you are an idiot. I shouldn’t have expected anything else.

The phone connection was cut. The doctor, his hand shaking badly, carefully put the phone back down on his desk.

***

Adjusting his steps to those of Nigel, Brian looked out through an open window at the estate grounds as he climbed the circular staircase to his suite.

Through the windows, he rapidly surveyed the raging storm outside and, suddenly frightened, quickly turned his head away. The outlook from the window was similar to a set of a bad horror film…artificially alluring, but terrifying.

The Chalet was built on a narrow peninsula and the grounds seemed to stretch right out to the line of cliffs visible in the distance. It had to be a narrow strip of land, as Brian noticed the fierce waves could be seen crashing against the cliffs at both sides of the peninsula. The waves looked huge; grey and threatening as they charged the cliffs. Brian cringed; they seemed to be coming straight towards him, boiling in their fury. He held up his arms to protect himself.

With the storm raging, the heavy clouds seemed to be reaching down to meet the waves which turned the whole area into a deep fog, which, escaping quickly, from the ocean, moved at tremendous speed towards the chalet. Within minutes, the fog had covered the peninsula obliterating the tall building. Brian felt lost; he thought he was stranded in a white choking, blinding mist.

At one level of consciousness, he was aware he was undergoing a very familiar panic attack.

For a moment he thought the fog had grasped him round the throat. He imagined he was fighting something evil… a devil; he found himself choking… actually gasping for breath; he began to cough badly and began crossing himself hurriedly in fear.

He was vividly aware of evil; of oppression… of death! He wanted to turn back – to run away; he did not want to go any further into this place: this was an evil place – a hell hole; evil things happened here. Remember… that other time he felt that…No, don’t go there!

That way leads to madness!

Nigel became aware of the problem.

Excuse me, sir. Are you ill? he asked gently, his face troubled. Brian reached out his hand.

Would you do me a favour… er…um…Nigel? he whispered humbly, fumbling to remember the name.

Of course, sir. Anything you want, Brian felt comforted by the genuine kindness in the voice uttering these words. He struggled to speak, his face flushing.

Would you please put down the suitcases for a moment and lead me to my room. I want to…keep my eyes shut…I’m sorry, Nigel, but I’m strangely frightened.

Of course, I will, sir. The young man quickly put the cases down and took the arm of the new resident in a secure grip. He talked quietly as he led Brian to his rooms.

"Don’t be ashamed Mr Mason. This can be a frightening place, but it’s also a very beautiful place. Wait till you see it in the morning when the storm’s over.

"It’s your first day, don’t forget; you’ll get to love this place. I promise you, you will. After a good night’s sleep, you will be fine tomorrow, I’m sure of that.

"Don’t forget, sir, if you want anything at all, day or night, just press the bell and someone will come to you – usually me – as I’m attached to your section.

The young man smiled. I shall bring you a special meal in your room tonight to give you time to settle in. And, then you won’t have to meet a lot of new people in the dining room.

They had arrived at the door of Brian’s suite, Nigel still uttering soothing and understanding words.

Here we are sir. I’ll just open the door and give you the key, then I’ll run back and get the suitcases. The computer, the boxes and George are already in place in your study. Brian went inside and Nigel grabbed the door, just before it closed.

Just a minute, sir. I have to dash off and get the suitcases. That’s right. Please just stand there in the doorway for a moment: I’ll be as quick as I can. So, saying, Nigel ran off and within a minute was back with both cases. Brian was fumbling with money, but the young man touched his hand timidly.

"Please sir. Nothing, I beg of you. It’s really a pleasure to do anything for you…You are a gentleman …No. I absolutely refuse, sir. He moved away, then reminded the new arrival, over his shoulder: Don’t forget, if there’s anything you’d like changed, just ring the bell; I’ll be there in a flash; then just tell me. I’ll do it…I’ll bring your dinner about six o’clock, sir. I’ll see you then."

As soon as Brian entered the apartment, George rushed to him and buried his head in his chest. Take me home, Brian, take me home!

Brian attempted to soothe his friend putting him close to his neck so he could cuddle close. "Let’s wait at least one day before we decide, George; I’ve just made a fool of myself with Nigel, but we’ll see what tomorrow morning brings.

"I have to meet this crowd of people in the dining room for breakfast, but I’m staying here in this suite tonight, George – I can’t face them at the moment. We’ll see what I think of them after breakfast. If I think I can’t cope, I’m off, and that’s that!

Now, be a decent chap and stop your nonsense, George; I promise you I’ll come straight back from the breakfast table and tell you all about them. Now, I’m going to take a couple of tablets and lie down, so just shut up, there’s a good chap.

George responded by nibbling his ear with his beak and silently flew back to his cage. He was a well-trained, very talkative parrot, of indeterminate age.

2

To his surprise, in Brian’s first night in his new, temporary home, he slept soundly, his panic attack dissolved in his complete fatigue.

When he awoke, he found the storm had gone; there was a magnificent silence pervading the whole place, while, through his balcony glass door, he saw a golden sun beginning to rise, lighting up the world in its daily miracle of glorious, multi-coloured spectacular.

He went out onto his balcony taking George with him. They stood there sharing the beauty, for Brian was certain George loved the sight as much as he did. He noted, for the first time, the stunning gardens which seemed to stretch forever; then the cliffs in the distance with the ocean, glinting in the early light. It was no longer tumultuous and menacing, but calm and incredibly beautiful, indeed peaceful.

Brian, for the moment, felt reassured; he had done the right thing in coming here. There was peace here. He stretched and was suddenly aware, to his astonishment, he was hungry! He began to look forward to his breakfast.

This was the first time in weeks that he had even thought of food. He hurried through his ablutions and dressed carefully, then when he was ready, he looked closely at the map on his bedside table of the layout of the ‘Chalet,’ as the building was called, and made his way to the dining room.

As he entered the elegant room, he was aware of the luxury of the whole place with the exquisite furniture, its spotless white linen tablecloths, the silver cutlery, the crockery and the rich, beautifully arranged, floor length curtains.

A thin, attractive woman, wearing a special uniform which obviously indicated her senior position – was obviously on the lookout for him. She came forward to greet him and led him to a table in one corner of the room.

She inquired softly if the position suited him, or would he prefer a table with other people? Brian quickly assured the waitress/hostess that he would prefer to be alone. She bowed slightly and handed him a menu. She then stood back, totally still, then when he was ready, took his order and moved quickly, but silently, towards the kitchen where she spoke briefly to the Chef handing him the breakfast order.

While Brian was waiting for his breakfast, he looked around the splendid room counting, the number of residents and tables. There seemed to be about forty-five men and women – though he noted there were more women, than men. He tuned in to some of the comments being made by other guests, including those still entering the room. Due to the unusual acoustics of the room, individual conversations tended to become audible to most of the guests. Brian smiled as he studied, and listened, to his fellow breakfast companions.

***

Do I have to eat this? Sarah Carmody’s thin, querulous voice rose above the hum of forty people eating.

Rona, the dining room´s main waitress, answered, automatically, her mind on her errant husband, Frank. He had changed his religion, yet again, and was obsessed now with a cow, wearing long chains of beads and chanting mantras. Yes, dear, just eat it all up – that’s a good girl, she answered absently.

There was never any need to pay attention to Sarah - a young woman of exquisite beauty and great wealth, with a severe intellectual disability; she complained about every single thing, even her placebo medication, but was never ill; had an appetite like a horse and was able to eat everything.

Ugh …ugh …ugh …ugh. Gilbert Wade was making his slow approach to his table.

Does that horrible old man have to make that repulsive sound every time he comes in to eat, Edwin? Janice Wallace’s penetrating voice, with its perfect vowels, was heard by the entire room. Janice had the rare accomplishment of irritating every single person present in the dining room, not just her long- suffering spouse sitting opposite her.

Her appearance irritated the women as well; Janice, a beautiful woman, no longer young, was always perfectly dressed – even for breakfast – never had a hair out of place; had a complexion that cost a fortune to maintain; whose shoes alone set every woman’s teeth on edge with envy – they were so magnificent with a perfection which screamed aloud how expensive they were. Everyone was told repeatedly she had brought fifty-seven pairs with her.

The plump, very ordinary ex-policeman, looked at his wealthy wife with exasperation. That same question every single meal! He forced himself to speak calmly. It’s just his way, dear. He’s a nice old chap actually. He could not resist adding, although he knew it would infuriate her: He was a war hero, you know.

To his satisfaction, Janice was furious. Her voice rose higher – to the amusement of the listeners. What an absolutely ridiculous thing to say Edwin. You could justify a gorilla’s mangling of a human being by saying ‘he was once such a beautiful, cuddly baby’. If you cannot say something sensible, do not say anything at all.

Yes, dear. Edwin reached for another piece of toast, placidly smothering it in marmalade.

At an adjoining table, Lila Giles Unwin, a skeleton-thin woman with an upper lip shadow and such an abundance of frizzy hair – arranged in such an odd African style, she looked top-heavy – listened attentively to the domestic interchange of the Wallace couple – then became offended by another matter.

"George, you must speak to the management. We did not pay all that money to have to eat our meals in the company of people like that handicapped Lucy Williams – she’s just come in, late as usual, and so… look! – Good gracious! She’s wearing her longest false eyelashes, George, at breakfast! She looks ridiculous!

That’s Sarah Carmody’s doing, George; she trying to make Lucy behave like an adult – which she’ll never be, the poor thing. Lucy’s got that stupid Teddy Bear with her; her ‘Freddie the Teddy’. Why on earth is she in a place such as this? She belongs in a children’s Home for those with disabilities.

She lowered her voice a little, as they both watched to see what Lucy would do, then continued. They say she was a ‘call girl’. I do not believe that. But whatever she is, or was, why in the name of heaven, does she have to shriek whenever she wants to speak? That voice goes right through my head.

George sighed, adjusted his well-cut, expensive clothes over his ungainly shaped body, then ran his hand over his large untidy scalp. I don’t know dear. They say she’s always done that. She’s disabled mentally, poor thing, you know that – and, when excited, her voice just goes up and up – I don’t think she can help it – at least that’s what they told me. They also told me she was a cover-girl once – because of her beauty. Most people think she’s nearly as pretty as Sarah Carmody, anyhow.

George yawned loudly. But I personally think she’s no match for Sarah; Sarah is one of the most beautiful young women I’ve ever seen – should be in films.

Lila sniffed. She was not going to be led by George into talk comparing young women. She turned the talk back to Lucy. "They also say Lucy’s second cousin to an earl, once removed. I did not believe that either. I do not really care if she’s in line for the throne, I’ll not stand for that noise. It is outrageous. I shall speak to the management."

George laughed; his voice was loud, surprisingly uncouth. Well dear, I think the throne is safe, so don’t worry about that. His phone vibrated at that moment; he looked at the caller ID and was soon turned slightly away - speaking softly to Beijing, in mandarin.

At another table a quiet quarrel was taking place. Miranda Knox, a rather large, fine-looking woman of thirty-eight, expensively dressed in a casual manner, with eyes that missed nothing, was speaking seriously to her companion, the short, gentle, elderly Lindsay Pottermore.

"But you must try, Lindsay. It’ll drive you crazy if you don’t stop talking about the dead woman … remembering this, or that, about her … It is hard, I know, but it is over; there’s nothing you, or anyone else, can do about it. You will only make yourself ill going over and over the whole, wretched episode – yes, it was dreadful, but it is over."

Lindsay lifted up her small, timid face, looking sadly at her friend. You’re a good friend, Miranda; I know you’re absolutely right. She looked down at the remnants of cereal in her bowl. I think it’s easier for you, Miranda. You make friends easily. I don’t. Somehow or other, Josephine and I clicked; I found that I could speak openly to her; be utterly normal – as I can be with you. The truth is, I just miss her so very much.

Miranda aware that tears could soon be falling, patted the small hand on the table. Take care Lindsay¸ don’t let these insufferable sticky-beaks see you crying. She looked around