The Bird of Paradise

By Elaine Benwell

This is a story about a bird and a secret, betrayal and forgiveness in Liverpool, England. The long-awaited sequel to Beyond the Blue Door by Elaine Benwell."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elaine Benwell
• Release date: Jun 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215755594

Elaine Benwell

Thank you for your interest. For those who are curious, my educational background is in history and religion. I have lived in California and in Liverpool and I love them both. My heart is divided with an ocean in between."Write what you know," they say. So that's what I have done, for although the characters in my book are fictional, they were inspired by real people. Many of the events (e.g. pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving) and conversations were based on personal experiences. Beyond the Blue Door was a labor of love and the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. I am under no illusions about my work. I never intended for it to be great literature. It is merely a fun diversion, something that I hope will make you smile. May you enjoy reading Beyond the Blue Door as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Book preview

Prologue

The wind roared into Liverpool like a hungry lion in pursuit of a four-legged dinner – fierce, bold, relentless. It blew without mercy, assaulted the buildings and shredded its prey with pitiless claws. A bundle of feathers rolled and tumbled through the night air, having long since surrendered to the fury of the gale. Even without the injured wing, the exhausted bird knew he was no match for the force of nature that spun him around like a ball on a roulette wheel, and so he bumped and bounced along, crashing into bricks, concrete, and steel, until he was finally blown onto a ledge up against a wall. He came to rest, battered and bruised, under a large clock in a tower that provided a modicum of shelter. With a wince and a grunt he dragged himself deeper into a stone crevice. It was cold and cramped but at least now he was out of the vicious wind. The clock struck the quarter hour as he closed his eyes against the pain and fell into unconsciousness.

Chapter One

Paul Banks was a regular bloke with a regular job and lived a regular life in his native Liverpool – until, that is, his wife ran off with an acrobat from Cirque de Soleil. Not so regular, after all. Paul began to take stock of the trappings that were so indispensable to the life he thought he wanted: the status, the income, the nice home, not to mention the beautiful wife. Now that the latter was gone, the rest seemed not so important, even irrelevant. What did he really want, anyway? He sat at his desk and mulled over his accomplishments, tapping his pencil softly on the table with mechanical rhythm. Too young for a mid-life crisis, he thought, and too old to wonder what I want to be when I grow up. But here he was, speculating about his future, contemplating his past, and wondering how he could have been so blindsided. Paul's thoughts wandered and he found himself drawing inevitable comparisons to the situation with his own parents when he was only ten – his mother, Maureen, had been totally oblivious to her husband's signals that their marriage was on the rocks until the affair was a done deal. But when Maureen discovered Ian's indiscretion, she had reacted with contrition, humility, and supplication. More than anything, she wanted her marriage to survive, she needed her husband to make her complete. Paul, on the other hand, searched in vain for a reason to want his wife back. Not that she wants to come back, he mused, dismissing unwelcome mental images of his wife and her lover in contorted sexual positions. But even if she did, it's too late. And luckily, we don't have children. It's so hard on the kids. Paul sighed heavily, reflecting on how he had been the apple of his mother's eye for the first ten years of his life, pampered, spoiled, and then suddenly, when she turned all her attention onto her husband to save her marriage, Paul was left out in the cold. Eventually he was shifted to a posh boarding school where he would be well-educated, but more importantly he would be out of sight and out of mind. The school might look good on a C.V. but the years spent there were hellish, leaving him with very private and very emotional scars.

People often remarked that Paul was the spit and image of his accountant father, and although he could see the obvious similarities – the sandy blond hair, the proclivity for pushing numbers around on paper – Paul resented the association with a man he hardly knew. Even his sister, Nicola, thought Paul was a young version of Ian. But Paul was a decade older than Nicola and they had never been close. On the plus side, there was no animosity between them, but there was also no attachment. Sometimes I wonder if she even remembers she has a brother.

So it was all the more surprising when, a few nights later, the phone rang and Nicola's voice said, Hiya.

Erm, hello, replied Paul, a little too hesitantly.

You do know who this is, don't you?

Yes, of course. He lied.

No, you don't! Go on, admit it.

Okay, you got me dead to rights. I don't know, he confessed. Who is this?

It's Nicola.

Erm, hello, Paul repeated. He didn't know what else to say.

So how are you?

I'm fine. How are you? It was a rhetorical answer to what in Paul's mind was a vague question.

"I'm fine too. The difference is, I'm really fine. How are you, really?"

A protracted silence followed as Paul deliberated about how to respond. Um, well …

Nicola cut him short. I heard about your wife. Just wanted to let you know I'm sorry.

Paul swallowed a lump in his throat before he spoke. He was unaccustomed to sympathetic sentiments from his sister, or from anyone in his family, for that matter. It made him uncomfortable but in his present emotional state he couldn't help feeling touched. Thanks. It happens, you know?

Yeah, said Nicola, floundering.

After an uneasy pause, Paul said, I heard you went to California? University or something?

Yeah. I came for a visit one Christmas to see my friend Bronwyn and decided I wanted to stay for a while, so Diana helped me get a student visa that allowed me to finish my studies here. And I was accepted into a fantastic internship program, as well.

Diana?

She's Bronwyn's mum. She's from California but she was teaching in Liverpool for a few years and they rented the house next door when we lived in Croxteth Park. I don't think you ever met either of them. You were gone by then.

Oh. Paul nodded, trying to sound positive and hoping it would translate somehow through the phone line.

Another uncomfortable pause followed, longer this time. At length, Nicola took a deep breath and asked, So what are you going to do?

What do you mean?

Well, do you have any plans? A much-needed getaway? An extended holiday in the south of France? A new romance? Something to salve the wounds? That was Nicola, blunt to a fault.

No, not yet. The divorce was only final last month. I'm still trying to get my moorings. And I have work, you know. It's –

It's time for you to get out from behind that desk, Nicola interrupted.

Paul had no idea how to reply. His sister acting like…well, like a sister, was something entirely alien to him. All right, who are you and what have you done with my sister? he demanded with mock sternness.

Seriously, Paul. I've been thinking. We're almost strangers. Now that Mum and Dad have retired and shipped out, it occurred to me that we are really the only family the two of us have.

Paul paused to consider. Maureen and Ian had sold their house and moved to Spain. Yeah, he finally agreed. I don’t expect we will see much of our parents anymore. Not that having them around made a lot of a difference.

Nicola coaxed her brother, Exactly! So it's time you and I catch up. Wouldn't you agree?

This is very sudden, replied Paul, skeptically.

That doesn't make it any less sincere. One thing I've learned over the past couple of years is that we need to make the most of the time we have here on Earth because we never know what's around the corner.

That sounds rather fatalistic, doesn't it? Paul heard himself trying to contradict his sister, but the truth was that the events of his life of late had brought him to the exact same conclusion.

I don't think it's fatalistic at all. It's liberating. A short silence ensued before Nicola continued. I'll tell you what – you think about it and we'll speak later.

Fair enough, said Paul. But I can't promise anything. Please understand, Nicola…it's not that I don't want to make up for lost time, but I'm going through some pretty heavy duty crap in my life right now. I'm on an emotional roller coaster. I have lots to think about, lots to sort out, and you just breezing in from out of the blue only adds to the clutter in my head.

I'm offering an olive branch and you call it clutter.

I don't mean to be insulting, but…

But you can't help it, said Nicola matter-of-factly. Paul knew the statement was a reference to their father, whose supercilious reputation was well-known and equally well-deserved.

You're wrong. So very wrong. I'm not like him! declared Paul.

There was only silence on the other end of the phone for the space of several heartbeats. Finally, Nicola spoke. Nothing would please me more than to be wrong. Think about it, she said quietly and with more patience than she felt. Prove me wrong. I'll ring you in a couple of weeks. Tirrah, Paul.

Tirrah, Nic. Paul hung up the phone, feeling miserable and depressed. It would be wonderful to have family. But after all these years, why now?

* * * * *

Nicola hung up the phone with a mixture of sadness and hope.

Well, how was it? asked Bronwyn. Your first actual conversation with your brother in years?

Nicola looked at her friend and shook her head. I don't know, Bronwyn. A few words interspersed with lots of awkward silence.

Well, how did he sound? Did you get any feeling about how he might react to our business proposal?

Nicola shook her head. I honestly don’t know. I guess we'll just have to wait and see what comes of it.

Chapter Two

Friday had come at last. Paul wondered why he was glad it was Friday, considering he had no plans for the weekend except loneliness and boredom. With his customary punctuality, he arrived quite on time at his upscale office on one of Liverpool's most historic streets and climbed the steps, fully expecting it to be a day of business as usual. But there was nothing usual about business that day, for he no sooner arrived than he found himself standing once more on the steps, only this time he was on the way out and in his hand was his official notice. He was now out of a job. Just like that, thought Paul, cynically. He lingered, wondering what to do next. He scanned the traffic on the street, then gazed at the sky where the clouds were coalescing into a dark gray mass. His eyes strayed and he caught a glimpse of something up high near the clock in the tower. Just a bird, he thought absently, but as he focused on the crevice where the bird was perched, he could see it was no ordinary bird. Certainly not a pigeon or a seagull, both common sights in Liverpool. The bird fluttered and a reddish-brown feather floated softly to the ground. Paul picked it up and gazed back at the bird. Their eyes locked and for a brief moment Paul felt a twinge of apprehension. Looks like you've lost something, old chum. Well, you're in good company. I'm on a losing streak myself. He started down the steps again, not knowing exactly where he was going or what he was going to do. Paul meandered down the street, lost in thought, and oblivious to the watchful eye of the strange bird that sat atop the clock tower.

* * * * *

The weekend came and went without incident. Paul rattled around alone in his posh flat with all its 'mod cons' and spent his time listening to music or trying to read. By Monday Paul, driven by boredom, decided to leave his Mini Cooper at home and take the bus into town. Money was really not an issue, at least for the moment, but with the high price of petrol and the headache of parking, he couldn't justify taking the car on an aimless excursion. Besides, riding the bus would be an adventure, something he didn't do very often. Maybe it would make him feel more like part of the city, less of an outsider. He needed to try to connect with people and overcome the social ineptness that was partly inherited and partly the result of spending too much time sequestered in his office, keeping company with numbers.

He rode the bus standing by the door and disembarked at the Queen Square bus terminal. Strolling through Williamson Square, he bought a sausage roll at Sayer's, cut over to Whitechapel and continued walking until he got to Hanover Street where he stopped and took in his surroundings. Liverpool was his birthplace and Paul had lived here all his life, but as he walked along he realized he'd never really looked at the city. He just took it at face value, a bit like everything else. As a port city with an ancient past, Liverpool was a miscellany of old and new, a place where the historical and the modern collided with abandon. Now as he observed his home with new eyes, he could feel the pulse of the city. An unexpected sense of belonging washed over him enhanced ever-so-slightly by his self-congratulation on his new powers of perception.

Still, it occurred to Paul that a change might do him good. He recalled his conversation with Nicola and wondered if she was right. Maybe he needed a holiday. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken time off just for fun. In fact, there was a serious lack of fun throughout his life. Work was what mattered. Work gave him purpose and had been his salvation, providing routine and stability, if not enjoyment, after his wife left. Constants and variables were more satisfying on paper than in real life and Paul could shut out the world as he concentrated on the precision of his sums. But now everything in life that had supplied him with logic and consistency was gone. No wife, no job, no structure, no respite from the turmoil in his soul. Liverpool was bustling, full of commotion and noise. He needed space, a place where he could clear his head and find some semblance of peace, motivation and, with any luck maybe even a bit of fun. His wife, no doubt, was happy in her new life and having an abundance of fun. She had found her bliss, or at least that's what she had said to him with a hint of condescension as she packed her bags to go on that rain-soaked morning. She was leaving him and this predictable little life behind in favor of one filled with travel, excitement, and stimulating people, not to mention incredible sex with her acrobat paramour. Nothing personal, she said. No hard feelings. But life is short. And ever since Adam and Eve were thrust out of the garden, humans have sought a way back to Paradise. Paul had responded with a glib, I didn't know you were so religious. She ignored his quip and continued packing. And I found it, she said. My bliss. My own personal Paradise. I deserve to be happy. Happy? thought Paul, watching her throw her designer clothes in her designer suitcase. How could she be not happy? She continued unabated, "I need to be happy. We all do. It's human nature. Be happy, Paul. Pursue your own bliss. Follow your dreams, she told him brusquely, if you have any, that is, outside of your account books. As a final dig she added, On the other hand, if debits and credits do it for you then you're in Paradise already, aren't you?" She smiled as she kissed him lightly on the cheek, said goodbye, and wished him luck. The door closed behind her with a click. How could such a small sound be so earth-shattering? Stunned and in shock, Paul assumed all the blame. Maybe if he had been more attentive? Maybe if he hadn't been so wrapped up in his numbers? Maybe if he had been a more confident lover? Maybe…maybe…maybe…reverberated in his brain. In the end, Paul had come to accept that she was gone, in pursuit of this elusive thing she called bliss. Her life in paradise. He wasn't sure what that meant but he had no doubt her version of paradise was antithetical to his own. Travel and excitement were not things he aspired to. There was no alternative but to let her go. But where did that leave him? Was it too much to ask, Paul wondered, for a little bit of paradise for himself? He didn't think he'd find it in Liverpool, but the truth was he'd never had a desire to go anywhere else. What a boring git I am, Paul said to himself. It's no wonder she left me.

Now, with no notion of time, Paul stood at a juncture on the streets of Liverpool with his feet firmly planted, yet inwardly wavering. He had come to a crossroad, literally and figuratively. Lost in the city he knew so well. By his outward appearance no one would guess that the man who stood looking so polished and self-assured was in crisis. Not that anyone took any notice. People rushed by him in a hurry – businessmen and deliverymen, secretaries and mums pushing prams. Everyone, it seemed, had somewhere important to go. Paul watched the bustling life of the city and had an acute sensation of coming unhinged. The air around him began to swirl and a heaviness engulfed him, pulsating and squeezing like a ghostly python. Feeling the panic rising in his throat, Paul swallowed hard and cast an uncertain glance this way and that, searching desperately for a course to follow. How could there be so many choices? How was he supposed to know what to do? Paul inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, thinking maybe this day out had been a mistake, a colossal waste of time. He pursed his lips as he surveyed his options, wondering if he should turn back. No! Life must go forward, he told himself with as much resolve as he could muster, so just pick a direction and start walking! With a determined step Paul turned and headed in the direction of the Albert Dock. He didn't get far when something caught his eye – a sign that said 'Paradise'. It was obviously the name of the street but the sign had been vandalized, the word 'Street' was covered in spray paint and only the word Paradise was visible. A sign, thought Paul, of a different sort, perhaps. He pursed his lips and stared at the sign. I don't usually believe in signs, but maybe it's time I started. I've lost my wife, my job. What else have I got to lose? With a shrug Paul spun on his heel, thrust his hands in his pockets, and entered the street called Paradise. The first thing he noticed was a dilapidated red brick building on the corner with a 'To Let' sign hanging precariously at an angle near an upper-floor window. With a sudden burst of inspiration, Paul jotted down the phone number and hailed a cab. As he climbed in the taxi and gave instructions to the driver, he failed to notice the bird on the rooftop that watched him with dogged interest.

A few days later, Paul stood behind the desk in his new office. A satisfied smile crept slowly across his face and he rubbed his hands together as he gazed around the room. The estate agent had said that the historic but crumbling building had been vacant since the year before, when the last tenant moved out quite suddenly. Now there was a Liverpool regeneration project in the works and the building might be saved, or before long it could be condemned and torn down, but until then office space could be rented for a song. I can sing, Paul had told him, and play, as well. Cheap and cheerful, the agent had said, and any money he could get on the old building was better than none at all. Paul, being the financial wizard that he was, nodded his agreement and signed the lease. It was just what he needed to start his own business. He knew he was taking a chance but Paul excelled at risk management and had never shied away from speculating when the cost-benefit ratio was in his favor. Even if all he did was break even, having work to do would help him keep his sanity. But if he succeeded, he’d be quids in and he could add Entrepreneur to his long list of impressive achievements.

The building was old but someone at some point had made an attempt to refurbish parts of the interior. There were false walls to cover crumbling bricks and cheap carpeting that was clean but not new. Paul was no decorator – his wife had been the one who furnished their home with taste and no little expense – but he was pleased with what he perceived as his minimalist design. It was functional and efficient and suited his purpose. His main concessions to embellishment were the addition of a coat rack by the door, a couple of chairs, and two tables, one with a lamp, the other topped by a fake green plant. Looking slightly out of place was an electronic keyboard against the far wall. Paul's privileged upbringing had included piano lessons and he possessed a natural talent for music. It was his only outlet when the world was awry.