Deeply

By Guy Fee

When Christopher Morrison jumps from Abingdale Bridge into the water below at midnight and drowns, he leaves behind a bag of items that hold the key to what happened that night. Christopher’s mother is a psychic who has passed on her gift to communicate between worlds to her son. His wife discovers that each item fished from the water, contained in the bag of belongings, offers a unique opportunity to talk to and see her dead amour. Each item removed from the bag brings her closer to the truth about why her husband jumped from the bridge. The only problem is she doesn’t want her visitations to end so she’s reluctant to let each object go as, every time she understands the significance of each breadcrumb, she’s one step closer to saying goodbye and losing her husband forever.

DEEPLY is a time-bending, life-affirming psychological thriller from Glasgow author Guy Fee (THE TRAVELLER, THE WRONG DETECTIVE).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Little Bushman Publishing
• Release date: May 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798393406981

Book preview

LITTLE BUSHMAN PUBLISHING

First published 2023.

First Edition.

Copyright © Guy Fee, 2023

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

www.guyfee.com

LITTLE BUSHMAN PUBLISHING

CHAPTERS

Chapter One: Abingdale Bridge

Chapter Two: Crumbs In A Maze

Chapter Three: Harmony Time

Chapter Four: Follow The River

Chapter Five: Banks, Buffets and Barney

Chapter Six: Helicopters And Halos

Chapter Seven: Sisterhood

Chapter Eight: If The Slipper Fits

Chapter Nine: Lucky Charm

Chapter Ten: Federico Valentino

Chapter Eleven: Dressing For The Occasion

Chapter Twelve: Christmas Lights And Extra Cake

Chapter Thirteen: Cloak And Dagger

Chapter Fourteen: Love And Marriage

Chapter Fifteen: Alarm Bells And Spaniards

Chapter Sixteen: Keyholders

Chapter Seventeen: Peeling The Onion

Chapter Eighteen: Desperados

Chapter Nineteen: The Necklace

Chapter Twenty: Souls, Bulls And Fools

Chapter Twenty One: In This Life And The Next

For those who run towards fires.

ONE: Abingdale Bridge

There are three types of love in this world. The kind that is childish and fleeting; the sort that convinces itself it is real but is soon unmasked, a misjudgement of the heart, a false prophet of physical attraction; and the third, the worthwhile kind, that Seuna Morrison enjoyed. A love that is deep and profound and lasting.

However, the word ‘lasting’ could be regarded as ambiguous at best and inaccurate at worst when glued to the properties of love. Does love last when it clings only in the memory of another? Where does love live when it is alive? The definition of a beginning and an end was never more considered than in relation to the death of Seuna’s husband, Christopher.

She found out at Christmas, a time traditionally associated with family and joy, notwithstanding the disproportionate suicide rates (equally associated with family and the joy of others) as, strategically, she positioned decorations around the impressive Norway spruce in the front room of her Buckinghamshire home, a one woman navy fleet, dropping glitterball mines in an ocean of needles.

It was a tree Christopher had erected the day before, effortlessly, deliberately, with great precision, without fuss and in silence, as he did everything. The ding-dong of the doorbell was, by sharp contrast, an irritation both to the ear and a disruption to the tinsel-engulfed work that remained, preparing the home for the busy festive season that lay ahead.

Seuna descended an unreliable step ladder and placed a fragile bauble back in its bubble wrap bed on top of a medium sized box containing another dozen blown glass brothers and ceramic sisters. Opening the large wooden front door at the entrance, she was greeting by two police officers who politely requested to come inside.

She perched on a chocolate brown leather sofa facing the scantily-clad tree and listened as they told her that her husband was dead. Drowned in a terrible accident, his body terminating its drift downstream against a few sizeable rocks, halting the journey begun by a fall from a bridge high enough to cause concern with the authorities for Christopher’s state of mind.

There would be an investigation, an examination of the body, to establish if any foul play had been involved but the general consensus was that Christopher had taken his own life and these actions were routine in matters of this sort. This sentence offered less comfort than hoped for by the attending officers.

Each home visit was different. Some resulted in wailing, some in silence, mostly in grief and shock. The officers got through the task by imagining part of their attendance at the houses of those left behind was not just to inform the next of kin but, in some small way, to help each individual process the news, according to character. To allow the relatives to make sense of the nonsensical.

And, for themselves, there was an additional purpose - to establish a timeline of events. Moreover, in this case, to discover if there had been an argument the night before between husband and wife in an attempt to explain an otherwise puzzling decision to end one’s life. Seuna assured them there had been no conflict.

It came as no surprise to those looking into the death. Christopher had a stable, steady income derived from his business. He was the creator of a number of highly successful escape rooms. He had a loving wife, and, as far as the police could ascertain thus far, a debt-free existence, devoid of any vice.

No children yet in the marriage, but Seuna and Christopher had talked about it. It was not a typical suicide then as there appeared to be no motive behind such a desperate leap from a structure that was not known for its jumpers.

The 19th century suspension bridge at Abingdale was high enough to cause death on impact, for sure, but a strange choice as it was a busy bridge. One would have to launch in the dead of night when all the bars were closed and the late night revellers tucked up for another evening.

The officers talked about the regrettable need to identify the body. The tide was moving fast as Seuna began to hear more clearly the words the officers were speaking to her. From the moment they arrived, she felt like her legs had been tied to a chain attached to a block of cement, dragging her into the murky, swilling waters of the river, choking her air supply, pulling her down deeper and deeper into a place from which she could not return.

Her head was spinning, her eyes bulging, throat on fire, as she struggled to return to the surface and breathe in once again. By the time she did, the officers were gone and she found herself alone. She had agreed to confirm the man she was married to, whom she loved beyond anything, the heart that beat in time with hers, was the corpse on a slab. Another toe tag to be filed and disposed of. Not the man Seuna knew. A changed form. An inconvenience, a stench, and, most distressing of all, the commencement of a fading memory.

Seuna returned to her baubles and the adorning of the tree. She found the right size and shape for every poking, crooked limb, each shaft of light spilling across the branches like a streetlight illuminating pavement cracks. Guiding the path to the next step, to what was around the corner.

That is the nature of love, the worthwhile kind. It takes a long time to sink in, soak up and, by God, wring out. Seuna wanted to stay in the water as long as she could because she knew when she climbed onto the river bank, Christopher would be gone forever. A person cannot breathe underwater indefinitely. They need oxygen, the kind Seuna would not get floundering in the unknown.

But would uncovering the truth be an end to love or a new beginning? If Seuna resided between news of Christopher’s demise and the explanation for his untimely departure, would it be enough to go on loving him, to preserve a heart as fragile as the last bauble she now placed near the top of the tree. Seuna stepped back from her work and admired it. It was perfect. They were perfect. In this moment, Seuna knew what to do.

-

The room was bleak and stark and dull. Seuna guessed that was to avoid distraction. To focus on the matter at hand. The most interesting part of it was the dead body in the middle that Seuna was staring at.

As she looked at Christopher, she realised what a magic trick the perception of reality was. We walk around normal and interact without anyone running and screaming, failing to understand that none of it is real.

It is only when we gaze upon a body that we appreciate how clandestine our movement and healthy demeanour is. In a second, we can become these ghouls of the night. Open mouthed and drained of colour. Skin pulled against bone like Munch’s Scream.

This was the man who proposed to Seuna, who charmed her with his wit. This man so athletic and dashing on a Paris balcony had been reduced, not to his benefit like truffle sauce, but more a crunching of a once sleek automobile into a square of junk. To be tossed, anonymously, among the other squares of junk somewhere in the back of a scrapyard.

It did not take long for Seuna to confirm his identity but a lifetime to forget, she imagined. Once seen, never unseen. When a person dies, people are too afraid to ask much beyond the superficial. Close relatives can establish how you feel but most beyond the circle of trust offer sympathy in a secondary way, by way of flowers and cards. They do not wish to intrude.

Christopher’s mother kept herself to herself, having been separated from his father a long time, so Seuna was spared the in-law outpourings. No one should have to bury a child. Seuna’s mother was in a home that cared primarily for those with dementia. It was being funded by the sale of the family house, something her mother, in her lucid moments, had ranted and railed against.

Whatever you do, don’t put me in a home, she had said on numerous occasions, to drive the nail into the wall. Not uncommon. Often, people cannot see what others close by observe until it’s too late. A stove left on, the telltale pattern of accidental falls, or, in extreme cases, a birthday suit midnight walk on the side of a motorway.

Seuna wrestled with guilt during the transition. She wondered if she was the worst daughter in the world but it is in the toughest of times that a person’s character is most fully revealed and, on occasion, formed. Cruel to be kind. It was little consolation, made worse by the visits where her mother would, in quiet times of reflection, tell her she was lonely and miserable, underfed and bullied by her keepers.

Her mum viewed the home as a maximum security facility, where inmates were locked up most of the time and the other hours of her day spent alone and unloved. Of course, this was not the case. Seuna visited her all the time. As often as she could.

At the care home, there was a full diary of activities to stimulate and exercise both mind and body, a social calendar brimming with residential get-togethers to ensure no one was left out, but her mother was not interested. She preferred her own company and that of her daughter. She was not old like the others. She could go ten rounds with a hedgehog in a soup can, she was fond of saying. She wanted her house and her family back. But that ship had sailed.

Once outside the room where Christopher remained, she was approached by a large man with hands the size of dinner plates. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Kenneth Bramley. Like the apples, he said. Seuna could tell it was a line he used often to set interviewees at ease before he secured his confession. He would have to be watched.

Bramley ushered her into a much more appealing room than the one she’d just been in. It had a coffee machine, a desk with carved wooden handles and two solid chairs. Without asking permission, he made her a coffee with a heap of the brown stuff in it.

Milk and sugar?

As Bramley made the drinks, Seuna sat down in a chair facing a picture on the wall. She studied it like an art critic. Bramley watched her as he poured the water in, interested to find out as much as he could. This was the enjoyable part of his job. Building a picture of events.

You like it?

Seuna did not turn but continued to study it.

It’s called the Adoration of the Golden Calf. Bible says the golden calf was an idol made by the Israelites when Moses climbed Mount Sinai. Back then, they worshipped a lot of bull. Some say the God of Israel was the bull. It’s open to interpretation. Like most of what I do. A lot going on. I like it. It reminds me to cross my ‘t’s. Talking of which…

Bramley put the mug down in front of Seuna.

I suppose you’re wondering why I yanked you in here. Seuna’s eyes are red and slow to respond.

Bramley was used to it. Wailing or silence. Truth is, I don’t like mysteries. Seems odd, doesn’t it, for someone in my line of work. I’ve been doing this job close on 30 years and nothing surprises me. But your late husband, well...

He didn’t explain what ‘well’ meant but Seuna figured it wasn’t good. The coffee was performing its function as Bramley knew it would. It was warming Seuna’s insides, coating her throat enough to have the ability to speak and the caffeine was kickstarting her brain. He wasn’t surprised that she was ready to respond after a few sips.

I don’t understand.

Bramley smiled sympathetically.

I’ve seen a lot of troubled souls dive off the top of a high rise or over the railing of a ferry or…just like Christopher. He stopped short of filling in the blanks.

These decisions can be fuelled by many things. Intoxication, drugs, a mental issue, possibly paranoia, hopelessness, feeling worthless, or a dramatic change in their circumstances - a feud with the family; a death; a newborn baby; a cheating spouse, even. But your husband, well, he’s another kettle of fish. He had no reason to jump as far as I can tell. Unless you care to enlighten me.

Bramley’s voice was strong and assured. He spoke economically. He knew what he wanted to say and said it. Time was short in his profession. Best to make the most of it. And now Seuna knew what the ‘well’ was.

I don’t know what you want me to say. He was a happy person. Bramley listened, studying her body language like a Chess Grandmaster.

He has no family except you, is that correct?

Seuna nodded. He never knew his dad. His mum brought him up.

The fortune teller.

I think the term Christopher used was clairvoyant, replied Seuna.

She was known to us.

Seuna took a bigger sip this time. Known?

She dabbled in the dark arts. Experimented with opening up channels to communicate with the dead. Fascinating stuff.

What’s this got to do with Christopher?

Bramley leaned back in his chair, his combination of muscle and excess fat making the wood creak for mercy. Nothing. Bramley reached behind the desk and placed a large bag on top of it. Seuna looked at it and then back at Bramley.

What’s that?

Christopher’s belongings. Everything he was wearing, had on his person, when they found him in the water. You’ll need to sign for it, of course.

Thank you. Seuna didn’t examine the contents. Bramley threw the last of his coffee down the back of his throat then stood up.

We can talk again, if you remember anything that might be relevant to the investigation or I’ll contact you if there’s a development.

There’s going to be an investigation? Seuna wasn’t sure about Bramley yet. What his motives were. Whose side he was on.

Standard procedure, I assure you. You don’t mind if we keep in touch?

No, that’s fine.

Good, because we all want what’s best for Christopher, don’t we? Bramley spoke like a headmaster telling a naughty pupil that her week long detention was to uphold the reputation of the school.

Seuna left with the bag of belongings none the wiser about what the future would hold. She wondered if she’d be in jail a year from now. Or perhaps Christopher had a killer who was still out there. Would he, or she, come for Seuna next?

As she walked to the car park outside, she contemplated the relationship with her husband.

If their unbreakable, unshakeable love was everything she had thought it to be or perhaps that too, like Christopher’s decision to jump, had been part of a grander plan she had not been privy to.

As she sat in her vehicle, she looked at the bag of belongings that witnessed her husband’s final moments. The contents, while not completely sodden, were a far cry from being dry, so she removed the bag from the passenger seat, placing it in the footwell.

Seuna looked at the leather of the seat where the bag had been. There was a wet patch. For a second, only a second, she could swear it shifted an inch on the seat.

TWO: Crumbs In A Maze

Seuna managed Christopher’s business. She made sure the rooms were clean and safe, ready for the adventurers, or the escapologists, as she called them, stepping inside. Escape rooms had become big business and, as one of the first entrants to the UK market, their business was well placed to reap the dividend of the trend.

It was more than a fad now. It had become part of the landscape. Everyone loves a challenge and if they could share the journey to a successful outcome with friends or family, all the better. It was a satisfying experience to meet obstacles, conundrums, puzzles of the mind and overcome them. She reminded herself of this as she began to box up Christopher’s clothes. Put away the unnecessary items, leaving only those that provided solace in a time of need.

Seuna had decided to give the assistant manager, Hazel Fallon, more responsibility for a few days while she regrouped. It would be good for her understudy moving forward within the business to shoulder more of the heavy lifting.

Hazel was gifted and she could run the business single-handedly in a few short years. Of course, Hazel understood. She was a class act. She told Seuna to come back only when she was ready. She would take care of things until that time. Seuna loved Hazel’s spirit. She was a can-do kind of person. The sort a business owner dreamed of employing. 

Seuna had placed Christopher’s belongings in the corner of the master bedroom and had not touched the bag for a day. She occupied herself with regular updates from Hazel about sales, making sure she was bringing in the much-needed money that allowed Seuna to stay in her home, buy food and manage her mother’s moods with flowers, chocolate and surprise gifts.

She found herself at the care home the day after identifying Christopher’s body. Seuna thought it was probably because she needed a bit of family, no matter how imperfect the relationship was. Family is family and the soil is richer for it.

She stood patiently for her mother to dress, like a musical star between numbers behind a modesty screen in her room, as it was still early when Seuna arrived. As she waited, Seuna looked out across a lawn filled with colourful flowers and thought about how cold Christopher must have been as he entered the water, assuming he was alive when he broke the surface.

In fact, her mind had not strayed from her husband and the events surrounding his death since she had been informed of it. Above all else, she had an overwhelming feeling, a sense that his death was incredibly unfair but her chief difficulty was trying to establish in her mind what, precisely, was unfair.

Was it his decision to leave her on her own, an injustice of sorts, or her own inability to identify a person struggling to keep their own head above the water until it was too late and they sank to the bottom. Was she to blame? Her mother, no doubt, would think so but Seuna didn’t want to burden her with it.

There was enough to contend with from her mother’s own struggles, including losing a husband of 40 years at the age of 88 and a half. They sat on the patio outside her room, eating lemon drizzle cake Seuna had bought an hour earlier, brewed tea in a pot by their side and spoke about Seuna’s dad.

He shouldn’t have left me like this.

He didn’t do it deliberately, mum.

You don’t know that. No one was there when he died. He could have been calling out my name.

There was a nurse at his bedside. He passed quietly, without saying a word.

Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they? They’re worried about being sued.

You had a lovely chat with him the night before. Do you remember, Pauline? Do you remember sitting with Brian? With dad?

No. Seuna’s mother was adamant but mistaken. And don’t call me Pauline. It’s mum. I’m forgetful, not brain dead.

Seuna cut herself a large slice of cake and shoved it in her mouth. God, it tasted good.

The morning spent with her mum stiffened her resolve to remember her husband always. It was to this end that, almost immediately upon returning to the house, she cleared away everything on top of the solid mahogany kitchen table until it was as bare as a baby’s tummy.

She went upstairs and returned with Christopher’s bag of belongings. She tipped the bag upside down, spewing the contents onto the wooden surface.

Seuna felt it was probably best to explore the contents forensically rather than allow her emotions to get in the way. Her task was simple. To find out what happened to her husband. Perhaps Christopher had left a note inside that the police had missed. This notion was soon dispelled when she thought back to the detective and his meticulous ways. He would have found it.

She consoled herself in the fact that, at worst, she would have his scent again, albeit briefly. A last supper for the nose. These were the clothes he wore, the items he had on him when they fished him out. This was the closest one could get to the dead. The earthly goods and garb he journeyed to the other side in. A connector between the living and the dead.

Previously, she had heard from Christopher’s mother, Harmony, that objects were to be respected as they presented gateways to other worlds. Seuna was no less sceptical today than she was then when the story was told but, now, hope was clinging to the side of any boat it could find.

Seuna figured it would be best, and last the longest, to examine the items from the bag one by one. She thought it most appropriate to start with the most significant element Seuna had been robbed of with her husband. Time. Christopher’s watch was a 2009 Tag Heuer Aquaracer Calibre 5. It was a perpetual motion watch and was still working on account of the fact it was water resistant to 300m.

Its perpetual motion, the fact the hand was continuing to sweep, made Seuna realise that she was holding something special. The positive energy of her husband lived inside it, the last of his movements powering the elegant timepiece. She immediately placed it on her wrist. She would not take it off. But she realised there was a problem. The watch was too big for her wrist so she removed it for a moment.

She went to a drawer and gathered up some items, including a hammer. She lightly tapped on the watch, removing two links from it. She felt bad about the adjustment, but he would not require it again. Her need was great than his now.

She had spent a summer working at a city jewellers as a teenager where she learned as part of an apprenticeship to cash up at the end of the day, polish silver, identify various precious stones, and, thankfully, adjust bracelets.

The owner of the place, James Bernard-Hume, was optimistic about her chances of rising the ranks speedily to become a trainee manager so he was devastated when she told him she was leaving. She never revealed the reason she left. James thought he had done something wrong, but it was his brother, Harold, the man behind the glass, the artist hailed by many a bride-to-be for his skilled eye, who was the motivating factor.

His married eye was not just skilled, it was roving and he would often corner Seuna to quiz her about love and boyfriends. Love. His loyalties had departed long ago, hiding behind curious looking goggles the shame of a thousand lustful thoughts. He was a masterful engraver but a terrible husband.

But the experience had not been a complete washout. As she secured the clasp once again to her wrist, this time fitting perfectly, she knew that everything happened for a reason and, as a result of it, there was now a physical link persisting between Seuna and her husband. 

His energy was also hers and it would help Seuna get through a woeful chapter of her life. The worst she could ever imagine was to face it alone without him. And now she wouldn’t have to. His energy would never die, mixed with