The Question

By John Ezzy

Everyone loves Tangerine Clements, but Travis is the man she marries. Tangie could chop your head off with an ax, he often says, and you would finish up blaming the ax itself. When one of Tangies former lovers is found dead, apparently suicide, he leaves a journal that claims she is planning to kill him. His dead body is surrounded by exactly 323 tangerines. The police investigate but find no evidence of anything other than a mentally disturbed man killing himself. Two years pass. Then another dead body is discovered. Again there are 323 tangerines. The game has begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514453810

John Ezzy

John Ezzy is an Australian author.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

S huffle a deck of cards thoroughly. Take one, but do not turn it face up just yet. There are fifty-four cards, if you have included both jo kers.

This is not a game.

Which card are you holding?

Take a guess.

Good luck.

* * * *

When Edgar Lewis died my wife was a suspect, mainly because he claimed that she would kill him. Tangerine was cleared before long; he obviously committed suicide. They had slept together for about eighteen months, generally once or twice a week. My wife ended that particular affair more than four years ago, when Edgar was still a functional member of society, still working with us at Ovington Lethbridge. He resigned almost immediately after she gave him the brush-off, and they had not been in contact since. Over the intervening period his mental health deteriorated dramatically. He was unemployed, drank a lot, ate little, and rarely ventured outside. The bright, confident, engaging man he had once been gave way to obsession. That obsession was for my adored and deeply unfaithful wife – Tangerine Clements. Edgar used to write a daily journal on his computer, one that became increasingly bizarre and increasingly removed from all sense of reality. There were constant references to my wife; nearly every day he wrote about his love for her, and also about his hatred for her. It was intense and deeply, deeply disturbing. I do not intend to burden the reader with much of that awful stuff, but you need to get some idea. Here is the last journal that Edgar Lewis ever wrote: ‘Tangerine the decayed and rotten fruit trampled my heart and then my soul. Stiletto daggers. What have I done to deserve a monster that gnaws my bones in cold, merciless hate? I’m the one, like Mary Shelly’s misunderstood brute, disappearing into the frozen wastes. But she will always find me, even there, even after I’m gone. Wasn’t it enough for her to take my meaning? No one listening? Who would believe me anyway? Cleverness and wickedness. The same. Always for her. About her. Tangerine the decayed and rotten fruit. A smile that rips the breath from the deepest place inside you. She’ll win, as always, and no one will believe that she has done evil. No one will accept the truth, and if they did they would forgive her anyway. That is the greatest talent of Tangerine the decayed and rotten fruit. Everyone forgives her. Always. And I do too, in advance. What she has done is no longer enough. Tangerine plans to murder me.’

You get the picture?

Edgar had one thing right: everyone does forgive Tangie. For the most part she is pure charm and sunshine, but when angry my wife takes no prisoners, finishing every argument with a brutal lack of mercy. But two hours later she will be laughing about it with the person she has ripped to shreds; it is all smiles, hugs and absolute forgiveness. Not many have that kind of power. There are people who can give the smallest, most unintentional offence, yet you never really forgive them. Tangie could chop your head off with an axe and you would finish up blaming the axe itself. Everyone loves Tangie and wants to be around her, no matter what she has done or said to them. Men and women are equally smitten, just about anyone who ever crosses her path.

Should I describe Tangerine Clements physically? It explains little unless you actually meet her. Beautiful? Certainly, but not what you would call model-beautiful. In broad strokes? Relatively short, dark-haired, moderately slender, elegant and swaggering, unforgettable. I am sure that you have encountered a woman like her, someone who turns every head, while more traditional beauties walk by unnoticed. Let that person be the one you picture; it makes no difference. Tangie is many things, but never, ever unnoticed.

The police had to investigate fully, to make sure that Edgar’s ramblings were nothing more than delusional crap. Given the theatrical nature of his death, it turned into a massive media circus. There were exactly three-hundred-and-twenty-three tangerines – small, tempting and sweet – piled on or about Edgar’s bed, when he swallowed an enormous number of tablets and died. If three-hundred-and-twenty-three had any significance it was unclear, but someone went to the trouble of actually counting every piece of fruit and the press reported it faithfully.

Faithfully. Hm, now there is a word.

I had long suspected that Tangie was still having sex with other men, even after we were married, but if I refused to face the probability then it did not become real. Our relationship was fine and very satisfying, at least to me; never once had I seriously looked at another woman. Even before we started dating I knew about her reputation, and simply chose not to care. How shiveringly exciting it was, there in the restaurant, Tangie’s smile so knowing and citrus-sharp, as she calmly sipped her wine, then lifted her foot under the table, directly and provocatively, and pressed it right into my crotch. The message: ‘You want me so badly, and you’re going to have me.’ I think of this as perhaps the most perfect moment of my life. Tangerine Clements – the woman I wanted so absolutely – was about to become mine. We slept together on our first date.

But Tangie, really, has only ever belonged to herself. I knew that going in, and she swiftly confirmed the fact. We sat there in bed next morning, eating the omelettes and drinking the coffee that I had made in her kitchen. This is what she said: ‘You have to understand, Travis, that I’ll never be content with just one man. I like sex, a lot, and I also like variety. Now, I’ve enjoyed our night enormously, and I’m very happy to let you keep buying me expensive dinners and give me delightful orgasms, but don’t ever think that you own me, or that there won’t be other men.’ No one could accuse her of dishonesty, at least not in that respect.

When we first started to date I found it frustrating that Tangie would spend so much time away from me. Sure we worked together at Ovington Lethbridge, sometimes for fifteen hours a day if things were really busy, but I ached to be in her company all the time. Tangie was never going to allow that. She loved catching up with her friends, of which there were many. And, of course, there were her other lovers. Sometimes she would make me wait for as long as three weeks between dates. So I waited. I never asked who the other men were, though obviously I wanted to know. I just accepted. Our time together was miraculous. When I asked her to marry me, brave on drink and post-coital joy, I had no doubt that she would just laugh and decline. Tangie said, quite simply: ‘Okay, but don’t expect me to change my surname to Cooper. I’ll always be Tangerine Clements.’ Some days, all this time later, I still find it amazing that she actually said yes.

Well, I suppose I thought that being husband and wife might change things. Despite Tangie’s warning, a part of me actually did start to believe that she was mine. Silly boy. She moved in with me, but insisted on keeping her own apartment. It seemed like an extravagance, but I never complained. For some reason I assumed that Tangie would simply stop seeing other guys, and maybe I had even started to believe it. A man will create his own reality, despite all rational evidence. When Tangie needed time to herself, at that other apartment, sometimes for up to a week at a time, I liked to think that she was sleeping alone. Yes, you might call me an idiot, but at heart I guess I knew exactly what was happening. It was less painful if I lied to myself.

Edgar took that option away, with his grand final gesture of obsession. Not only were the police talking to me about Tangerine’s infidelity, but it was in the newspapers as well. Kind of difficult to ignore. I have to say that I was shattered, but I tried to stay strong. I told Tangie we would not discuss our future until after the ordeal ended; this met with no objection, as she understood that I would not be going anywhere. Work was in uproar, what with all the publicity. Everyone knew she was one hundred percent innocent – well, if we were talking about murder as opposed to adultery – but Henri worried that we might lose clients. Tangie was stood down on full pay until after the investigation ended. This she accepted with a smile. Tangie, in truth, seemed to be less concerned than anyone. When I told her that I had actually liked Edgar and felt sorry for him, this was her reply: ‘I liked the Edgar that I knew, too, but the man who killed himself was someone entirely different.’ True. True but harsh. The bastard slept with my wife, but in the end Edgar Lewis had loved her too much. He was not alone in that.

Soon it finished. There is no evidence of anything other than suicide. So sorry that you had to go through this, Ms Clements.

About fucking time, was her only reply.

That night came the discussion.

Tangie, have there been other men?

Other men when?

Since we were married. Other men apart from Edgar.

Yes.

Pain.

How many?

Does it matter?

Yes.

Do you want me to include the ones I just fucked once or twice?

Forget the question. Are there any right at the moment?

Yes. Two.

I can’t say that I’m thrilled about it, Tangie.

You know what I’m like, Travis. Is it a problem now?

Well, I. . .

Seriously, Travis, are you saying that you didn’t know?

Well. . .

You did know, and accepted it. Look, I always thought that I had your blessing.

Why did you marry me, Tangie?

Is that a serious question? Because I love you.

Okay. . .You didn’t consider maybe putting a stop to all that sleeping around, when we tied the knot?

No. You never asked me to.

Would you have done, if I had asked?

Maybe, but I’m not sure. It would definitely have made me grumpy and a real bitch to be around.

Would you stop now, if I asked you to?

Are you going to ask me?

I loved Tangie so overwhelmingly.

No, not if you need that to be happy.

Good. Thank you.

But I will ask you to be honest about it in future, not go behind my back.

Seriously, Travis, is that what you really want?

Well. . .

"Taking the focus off what I do with my body, don’t we have the best marriage ever? I’ve heard no complaints from you. Aren’t we happy? Aren’t you happy?"

Very much so.

Me too. So why change anything?

It just seems that. . .honesty should be part of a marriage.

Who says?

Well. . .

But the dishonesty thrills me. My personal opinion? I think honesty, here, would have the potential to make us both unhappy.

Maybe and maybe not. But I was happy, despite everything, and did not want to risk losing her.

So keep right on fucking whomever you like, I said, dishonestly, and with my blessing.

Then I took her to bed, kissed her all over.

Love. Pure. Absolute. Unconditional.

Two years passed blissfully.

And that is where this story begins.

A second man was found dead, having swallowed an obscene number of pills, surrounded by exactly three-hundred-and-twenty-three tangerines. . .

CHAPTER TWO

A nd now, in time-honoured tradition, we close this meeting with butterscotch schnapps. Tangie clanked her glass against mine, winked at me, then turned to touch glasses with Morgan. All down the table we followed her example, our feigned solemnity pretty much undercut by drunken laughter. Tangie may not have suggested forming the Scoundrels Club – that was Zelda – but no one doubted her unofficial presidency. It had been a great meal, at a great restaurant, in the company of great friends and family. Just a typical meeting of the club, really. I call upon each and every one of you to pledge his or her undying allegi ance.

I so pledge. Leaning across the table I raised a glass to Vince, my son. Absolutely.

And I won’t be the one to refuse. He dangled his arm around Abby’s shoulders.

I definitely pledge. Abby was the youngest person at the table, eighteen months Vince’s junior, but the elder of the couple in both appearance and attitude. She pushed dark-framed, wholly studious glasses back onto her nose.

Now, let me consider if I’m actually prepared to make that pledge. It was never in doubt, of course, but Zelda liked the spotlight nearly as much as Tangie did; no wonder they had been friends since childhood. She wore an especially brief red dress, daring even by her standards. Ah, who am I kidding? Of course I’ll fucking pledge. I’ll pledge unto eternity and beyond, or maybe a bit longer.

That’s actually impossible, just as a point of order. Steve was as red-cheeked and amiable as ever. Yes, well, Morgan would kill me if I didn’t pledge.

I wouldn’t go that far, quite. Morgan dressed way more conservatively than Zelda, in black pants and a white top. She was just as attractive, but less flamboyantly so. Yes, naturally I’ll make the vow.

Count me in, said Sabrina, our dearest work chum. I wouldn’t want to be the only dissenting vote.

Nor me. This from dark-haired, athletic Ed. So I guess we’ve all made the pledge, yet again.

No one had ever declined, but traditions were traditions.

Then all I can say is cheers, fellow Scoundrels. Tangerine – unearthly beautiful in a dress that matched the colour of her name – brought the glass to her lips. And with the pouring of butterscotch schnapps down our guts, my friends, the formal proceedings of this Scoundrels Club meeting draw to a close.

So we drank, in the most perfect state of joy.

No one could have convinced me, then, that the Scoundrels Club would only convene on two more occasions.

Like most significant changes in life it happened without warning, but as the result of things that had long been swimming below the surface, shark-like and ravenous.

* * * *

Do you think that you understand how the world operates?

I did.

Not now.

* * * *

The body of Tomas Holtzman had been found approximately three hours before Tangie and I turned up for that particular Scoundrels Club dinner. It was not something that I discovered until later in the evening, of course.

The Scoundrels Club was a little like Fight Club, in that members rarely spoke about it with non-members. I can assure you that the similarity stopped there; our gatherings were in no way violent or subversive. Not on the surface, at least. We tried to keep its existence quiet in order to prevent our other friends from clamouring to join; the admittance of anyone else would have been against our unwritten constitution. Zelda coined the name – more than four years ago, after our third consecutive dinner with the same roster – and it had just stuck. From that point forward Tangie took over, making all the arrangements and setting the rules, none of which had varied in even the slightest detail since. Everyone accepted her right to make the decisions, of course, even Zelda, who generally deferred to no one; she gracefully handed over control of her baby. It was a club in name only – there were no fees to be paid, no elected officials and no annual general meeting – but being a member was very significant to we favoured few. The first rule? All members must attend every dinner, with only genuine family emergencies or absence from the city acceptable as excuses. The second rule? Not one other person, no matter how loved or appropriate to future gatherings, could ever be invited to join the Scoundrels Club. It was to remain a closed shop, and so it did.

Only one member had ever dropped out, and that came as no real surprise. At the time Zelda was dating a much younger guy named Sulphur – presumably a stage name – who played guitar in a band called Elbow Emporium. Apparently they were very talented and on the verge of signing a deal. I found Sulphur to be an engaging enough kid, who was clearly smitten with Zelda, but I knew that it would never last long. Zelda went through boyfriends at voracious speed, and it was rare for one to last as long as six months. Within a week of mercilessly dumping someone she would have another handsome young man hanging off her arm; ‘Queen Cougar’ was Tangie’s pet name for Zelda. Poor Sulphur did not attend the second official meeting; Zelda came by herself. Faithful to the rules of the Scoundrels Club, she never dragged any future boyfriends along; it did not seem to worry her that she was the only member to show up without a date.

Tangie had known both Zelda and Morgan since all three of them boarded together at exclusive, but now defunct, Dyson Ladies College, out there on Echo Island. How they must have broken the youthful hearts of the boys at neighbouring Edwards College. They still broke adult hearts, of course.

Morgan was more reserved and calm than her friends, though sometimes given to unexpected moments of skittishness. Soft, warm and affectionate were words that came to mind when I thought of her, but she was also determined and resolute. Morgan ran her own catering business and it was expanding rapidly. Her husband Steve was a banker, but there was nothing especially stuffy about him and he could talk with authority on a broad range of topics. Steve was a collector – the surprising combination of comics and fine red wine. He and I hit it off very well and sometimes caught up for male bonding at a nearby pub, while Tangie and Morgan went shopping.

Sabrina was a brilliant, bubbly and sweet girl, who I had never seen angry or the least bit depressed; she was always a joy at Ovington Lethbridge. Sab worked closely with my wife, and pretty much idolised her. We had spent many a drunken night at the flat she shared with Ed, helping to indulge their passion for old films and cognac. They could have afforded a bigger place in a better neighbourhood, but seemed happy enough where they were. Ed was a successful photographer, though he rarely mentioned his work in conversation. He was a good, solid guy and the only time I found him irritating was when he raved on about sports. Ed still played soccer on weekends, and Sab was always amiably complaining about his war wounds.

Zelda did not work, and seemed to feel in no way guilty about it. Her parents had left her an enormous fortune, and she just drifted through life like an affably gorgeous butterfly, if such a butterfly were to take random overseas trips with guys she had just met, drink at least two bottles of wine a day, and snort an immoderate amount of cocaine. Despite all this it was hard not to love Zelda, and she thoughtfully never did drugs in our company.

Of the Scoundrels Club members I was the only one who actually had a child. I will not go into detail about my first marriage; there are enough bad memories without dredging that one up. It was brief and bitter – a terrible mistake – but out of which came the very great joy of creating Vince.

I was extremely close to my son, and also his long-time girlfriend Abby. She wrote novels, and despite being unpublished I thought her quite talented. Abby’s measured, serious nature was good for Vince. I loved him unreservedly – even when he walked out on his studies, even when he went through drug issues that made Zelda’s seem mild – and along with Tangie he happened to be the greatest pleasure of my life. Vince had been such a bright kid, always top of his class. It would have been hard to imagine him, back then, working as a factory clerk out in the country. Nevertheless, Vince seemed really happy for the first time in his life. There had always been so much pressure placed upon him – it did not come from me, I hasten to add – and I was pleased to see him smile so often now. Having said that, something did not seem quite right with Vince at this particular dinner. The kids lived more than two hours drive away, and lacked a lot of money, but they religiously attended every Scoundrels Club event. Vince and Abby both thought the sun shone out of Tangie’s arse.

Not that they were in exclusive company there.

So, the Scoundrels Club. All nine of us.

Anyone may call him or herself a scoundrel. Living the meaning of that word is an entirely different thing.

So where will it be next time, Tangie? Sab was only playing around, because she knew my wife would never reveal that in advance. No one was ever told the venue until the day before, and it was always Tangie who did the choosing. Come on. How about a little hint for once?

As if. Tangie blew her a kiss, mysterious and beautiful. The perfume she wore tonight was new, compelling. Mystery is what the Scoundrels Club is all about, Sab, at least for you lot. For me it’s about being the boss and stroking my own ego.

She said this in such a way that it might, almost, have been a joke. We all knew better and none of us cared. She was, after all, Tangerine Clements.

Sab pretended to pout. You are amazingly cruel, Tangie.

And you’re only just realizing the fact? Seriously, dear, I never thought of you as a slow learner.

Just some info for those of you who don’t work at Ovington Lethbridge. I took Tangie’s hand in mine, our fingers lacing together. The pure erotic miracle of her touch never lost its power, never would. My modest little flower of a wife has a coffee mug at work. Any idea what it says?

There was amused shaking of heads, and knowing chuckles.

I own the world. Get used to it.

Tangie looked around the table, all good-natured smugness, as everyone laughed. Well? she said. We all know that’s true.

It must burn ever so, sweetness, to know that you’re not the actual top banana at work. I kissed her hand. I’m always expecting you to stage a coup one day.

Surely you understand that I’m the real power there? She raised dramatic eyebrows. I allow Max and Henri to believe they run the place, occasionally, when I’m feeling benevolent. But have you ever seen me do anything I didn’t want to, at or away from work?

It was an exaggeration, though not an outrageous one.

Zelda sauntered around the table and kissed Tangie on top of her head. Thanks for yet another wonderful meeting, Madam President. You are quite my favourite person in the world, at least of those I know who are named Tangerine.

Tangie leaned perilously backwards, so that she could smile up into Zelda’s face. Of those named anything, I would have thought.

It never seemed like a remarkable situation, to us, that Tangie was so much in charge. Personal magnetism? Well, yes, but what does that really mean? Some strange biological quirk that gives a person the ability to dominate without even trying, as naturally as filling her lungs with air? Why? How? The answer feels deeper than the questions, so thoroughly unknowable and yet so perfectly understood. It is one of the true mysteries of humanity. Why do intelligent people give their souls so willingly to another? And what kind of person arouses such loyalty? Someone truly inspired, or demonic, or frequently both at once. I cannot really explain why we were all so deeply in Tangie’s thrall, except to say that it felt right. None of us were complaining, I can tell you that.

So we blundered out into the street, glowing with high spirits and butterscotch schnapps. There was much hugging and laughter, more drunken swearing of allegiance to the Scoundrels Club. Cabs started to arrive. Soon only Tangie and I remained, along with Vince and Abby. They were the only couple who had to drive, living so far away. Abby never touched alcohol, making her unique amongst the rest of us booze hounds, so she always took the wheel. Just occasionally they stayed over with Tangie and me before leaving in the morning, but tonight and most times they would travel home in the dark.

I embraced them both and so did Tangie. Vince had finally overcome his aversion to public displays of affection; I credited Abby for that, and for much else besides.

So, everything going well out there in the wilderness? I held my son by the shoulders, so overjoyed as always to be in his company. Vince’s eyes edged away, just briefly, but it was very much a tell. Now I had to be subtle, for fear that he would guess I knew something was wrong, and clam up. That was Vince’s way; troubles could only be revealed in his own time. You’re not pining for the city yet? Well, I’m sure it’ll happen in time. We have better restaurants here, and less sheep.

Vince said nothing, just looked a bit awkward. He had drunk more than usual tonight.

Abby giggled sweetly. And what’s wrong with sheep, Travis?

Nothing, said Tangie, who never had a problem answering questions that were addressed to someone else. Not one thing, so long as you cook them right and have a vat of red wine on hand.

Abby winced and covered her face. I’m happy to eat meat so long as no one reminds me that it actually comes from animals. I guess you could say that I’m a non-practising vegetarian. Morally, I’d like to be practising.

Tangie put a hand on Abby’s arm, became unexpectedly serious. I have sympathy for the position that vegetarians take. It’s a thoroughly decent and honourable stand. But in the end man is the only carnivore who could ever choose not to follow his most basic and honest nature. We kill and eat not only for our own survival, but sometimes for the simple primal reason that we’re predators, and we take pleasure from it. The strong always demolish the weak. Just five minutes in a school playground is ample evidence for that. If you don’t learn to be strong then you become food, either metaphorically or in reality. Hey, I know which side I’d rather be on. If you’re not a predator then you pretty much exist to be consumed. So, whatever my moral standpoint might be, I could never become a vegetarian. It’s against the truth of my nature.

Tangie could always surprise. The slightest suggestion of philosophising was usually enough to make her yawn, and say things like: ‘Do we seriously want to talk about this when we could be having actual fun?’ Tangie had strong views on just about everything, but rarely felt a need to discuss them out loud. She reserved the right to be inconsistent, of course, and on occasions simply would not step down from the soapbox.

How could anyone doubt that I married a predator? I winked at Tangie. In some ways it was simply accurate, certainly when it came to fulfilling her own desires. So, when was the last time you killed something just to take pleasure from the experience?

"I was speaking metaphorically, about mankind in general, clearly. She gave me one of those looks of mild irritation, that also managed to be fond at the same time. Tangie’s face was so expressive it could easily convey two conflicting emotions at once, while still keeping her deepest feelings hidden inside. She was an enigma, no matter how close you might come to her, no matter how much she loved you. There remained a secretive, undeniable part of Tangie kept purely for herself; it would never be fully shared, not with anyone, not ever. Yet you trusted her with every one of your own secrets. I don’t have to personally suffer from the compulsion to know that humanity thrives on killing. Pick up the newspapers and tell me how many innocents are slaughtered every day, in mindless wars or random acts of stupidity. It’s just part of who we are as a species. And how many people go hunting for pleasure rather than food? That’s a basic drive, and can’t ever be educated or civilised away."

Hey, don’t lump the entire human race in with murderers, or hunters. I found Tangie’s opinions, on this, to be pretty extreme. I’ve never fired a gun in my life, and I’ll happily go to the grave with that record intact.

You’re also happy to eat anything tasty, so long as someone else has the bloody hands. Tangie held up one finger when I started to reply. I’ve fired a gun.

Really? Yet another surprise, but with Tangie you learnt not to be surprised by surprises. When and where?

I’m not telling. She waved it away with her victorious smile, the one that left me helpless. Tangie always did this – opening the door on fascinating snippets from her previous life – then closing it with deliberately frustrating authority. Right now I want that fucking cab to arrive, so we can get home into the warmth and have a large nightcap.

We’d better head off ourselves. My son was a bit brusque, not his regular self at all. Things finished up later than usual, tonight.

Would you like me to come visit next weekend, Vince? His state of mind was concerning. I could do with a relaxed weekend out in the country, learning to appreciate the true wonder of sheep. What do you say?

That would be lovely, Travis. Abby’s immediate and warm enthusiasm always made me happy. Yes, come along. You too, Tangie.

I’d like to, she said, with a wryly wrinkled nose, but my allergies break out if I spend any time outside the city.

Abby smiled indulgently. Tangie had never accepted any of her repeated invitations, but she never took offence, and kept right on asking. What type of allergies would they be?

My wife returned her smile. Metaphorical ones.

So, it looks like just me breathing the rural air, I said. Perhaps I’ll buy a pair of rubber boots for tramping across the dung-covered fields.

I don’t want to throw cold water onto your rural fantasies, said Abby, but I’m sure you remember we live some distance away from anything that even resembles a farm.

It’s cruel to destroy someone’s fantasies, Abby. I had been out there often enough, but it amused us both to play this game.

Vince was so quiet, and I could not fail to notice the tiny wince when I suggested coming down for the weekend. We had always liked being around each other, so I knew that something was bothering him on a deep level. Abby, it seemed, was unaware of the fact. Curious. I pretended not to notice Vince’s reticence, thinking that once I was alone with him the secret might tumble out.

It would be brilliant to have you, dad. And I knew instantly that he was lying. But things are really busy at work right now, and they’ve asked me to work a lot of overtime and weekends over the next little while. I won’t be home much, so it’s probably best not to come right now. I hope that’s not a problem.

When did they ask you to work overtime? It was clearly news to Abby. I thought things were pretty quiet there at the moment.

Friday afternoon. Vince was so unconvincing, and I felt sure that even trusting Abby recognised it now. Sorry I never mentioned any of this earlier, but I didn’t want to put a damper on our Scoundrels Club dinner. I was going to tell you about it on the way home.

O. . .kay. Abby looked confused, and I knew they would soon be having a serious conversation. We’ll drag you out to the country as soon as possible, Travis. Hopefully Vince can get this overtime stuff sorted out pretty quickly, because you know that we love having you around and you’re very welcome. You too, Tangie, if those allergies ever clear up.

They won’t. Tangie was amiable but firm. She gave them both final hugs and kisses. You two are welcome here at any time, of course, but there’s more chance of flying to Venus on a hang-glider than getting me anywhere outside the city. Well, not unless that place happened to have pristine beaches, very blue oceans, palm trees and lots of alcohol.

I know, you have allergies. Abby kissed her cheek.

Look, I’m really sorry, dad. I could see that refusing me really hurt Vince, but there was something hurting him more. I wish it was possible, but. . .well. . .it soon will be.

That’s fine, Vince. I desperately wanted to say that I would come down anyway, that I was very happy to hang out with Abby while he worked overtime. But there was no overtime; he and Abby both knew it, and I strongly suspected that he knew I knew. Calling him a liar would not be helpful, however. Just don’t burn yourself out. Overtime is always something that you can refuse.

Pretty difficult, where I work. He tried hard to be more convincing, but it failed. And the extra money will be handy right now.

Vince, you know that I’m always happy to loan you money.

No, not this time. There were several occasions in the past, significant amounts a few times. Vince had paid most of it back, but not all yet. I can’t keep relying on you. There are things I need to sort out for myself.

That much I could tell.

And so they departed, Abby now looking more worried than Vince.

Well, said Tangie, that was fucking strange.

What’s the matter with Vince? I did not want to voice my real fear, but it came out anyway. You don’t think he might be taking drugs again?

No. Tangie’s certainty gave me some relief; I trusted her judgment, at least when it came to reading people. There’s something else.

Let’s hope so.

"Look, if Vince wants your help he’ll come to you. If he doesn’t then he’ll have to deal with the problem himself. You’re not capable of saving the world, Travis. I haven’t seen you wearing a cape or your underwear on