Drunk Desires Game
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When I first saw her, she was in my office. She looked different: a little younger and better dressed than the last time we’d seen each other, but she still had that air about her—that haughty, confident smile she got when she wanted me to do something for her.
And now it seemed she did want me to do something. Something that would make me suffer horribly, perhaps kill me outright. I wondered what this woman wanted of me?
What could be so important? Did I know her somehow or just by reputation? If not, who was she? Who had hired me without my knowledge? Was it some sort of elaborate trap? But why? I didn’t understand any of this at all. “Well?” said the woman.
“Are you going to take care of business today?” “Who are you?” I asked. “You’re an old client,” she replied. “It’s only fair I warn you now: there won’t be any money involved.” Her words struck me dumb. The money? Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
My mind raced as the possibilities flooded through me like floodwater down a storm drain. Money! It would give me the freedom I needed. All right, so let’s have it then. Let’s get it over with, whatever it is.
“How much?” I asked, looking straight into those beautiful eyes that looked back at me. She shrugged. “As much as you can afford,” she replied, still smiling at me. Well, if that’s how she wants it, fine. Let’s do it.
We sat on the couch together, the two of us alone in my study—the same place where I’d once tried to murder myself. There were no servants; the housekeeper had retired for the day, along with my secretary and the cook.
The dining room was empty—I don’t think anyone knew I’d been drinking since breakfast until I told them tonight. They wouldn’t dare come near me. Not now. I felt good, really good. I was drunk. And it had nothing to do with the wine or the whisky.
I’d spent most of the morning preparing for this meeting, trying desperately to keep the excitement out of my voice. But now I was here. In front of her. A little nervous? Yes, a bit, but not about her. Just as she was talking to me—she knew who I was, and she knew exactly what I did.
And she’d probably known that from the moment we met, and yet, despite it all, she kept coming back. No wonder I loved her. “Why?” I asked suddenly. “What has happened to you?” “That depends entirely upon your answer,” she replied.
“On what?” “Your question.” “My question?” I repeated. “Yes, my question,” she answered. “Why does everyone ask me that?” I demanded. “Because it’s obvious: you’ve never done anything wrong to them, or they wouldn’t have to ask.” “They don’t know what I do, how I work.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll tell me.” I laughed, but there wasn’t much amusement in it. “Let me put it another way,” she added. “Do you really want to know, or are you just saying that?”
She stared at me a long time without replying. Then she nodded toward the fireplace: “Take off your clothes.” I stood up quickly. “No!” she exclaimed. I stopped dead, shocked.
“Please don’t,” she pleaded, holding her hands out in front of herself as if to shield me.
The room seemed very cold suddenly. It was getting darker too as if we were moving somewhere far away. I couldn’t see properly. The fire flickered into life again, burning brightly against the wall. “There’s no need for you to be alarmed,” she whispered, putting both her hands on my shoulders and pushing me down gently onto the couch.
“Relax.” I felt like a child being forced to stay home from school because of rain. Or like the man in that poem—”He walked on the moon, he walked among the stars…” I remembered it well: “‘And when they asked him where he went, He answered, ‘To seek and find.'” That was what I was doing now, seeking and finding—seeking out that part of myself that had gone missing.
I closed my eyes for a moment and felt her fingers slide down over the back of my neck. I could feel her lips move. I heard her whisper: “Look inside yourself.” She moved away from me, standing beside the fireplace now and taking hold of something that was hanging behind a tapestry.
She reached forward and pulled the thing away, revealing a hidden panel. Inside, a single white candle burned, its flame dancing between the two small stones set on top of it.
“Now listen carefully,” she whispered. “You must close your eyes tightly.”
“But—”
“Listen, and look.”
Something touched me then, something soft and warm as it caressed my cheeks: her lips, pressed against mine. She kissed me deeply and tenderly, her mouth opening as if to let me into her soul. Her fingers were stroking my arms. Her touch was so strong.
I began to shiver. When I opened my eyes I saw only blackness around me. I didn’t feel any different, and I still couldn’t make out the shape of anything, but I knew it was night. And there was a faint mist drifting through the air, and the sound of rushing water—but it was so dark I couldn’t see where the water came from or how it got there.
The whole world was filled with light and shadow, but neither made sense; it was as if someone had taken the sun away and left a blank, black sky. My heart pounded hard and fast; my mind screamed. “No…” I said softly, trying to say it aloud.
“Shut up.” Her voice was right next to mine. And suddenly the darkness fell away from me. I heard a woman laughing.
Then I understood why the darkness had lifted. It wasn’t the moon that was shining—it was her tears. The tears she was shedding for me were as bright and beautiful as the stars. “It’s not too late,” she said.
When I woke again the candles were blown out and the room was full of the smell of woodsmoke, but my body was covered by the heavy blankets on the couch. I stretched out and yawned; then, sitting up, I looked up at the ceiling and shook my head slowly. I’d been asleep all morning, and it took me a while before I worked out who was talking to me.
I turned over, reaching for my glasses on the table beside me. They were still there, but the chair where my wife usually sat was empty. There was a note pinned to the pillow next to me:
Dear John… Sorry, we were interrupted last night. It’s very important that you get some rest. You can talk to us tonight. We’re worried about you. We’ll see you soon.
***
“We’re worried about you.” The words seemed strangely familiar. But where did they come from? Where had they been all day? I’d spoken to them, hadn’t I? In a dream?
My thoughts ran wild now as I sat up and tried to think more clearly. I thought about the night before and the strange events that had happened to me, trying to work out what I’d seen and heard and learned, and to remember every detail.
I’d been in bed most of the night, sleeping fitfully, dreaming. And now it seemed that my wife wanted me to go home and forget it ever happened. I didn’t know if I could do that, but it would certainly make things easier. So, after I showered, I decided to take her advice.
When I got downstairs, my mother-in-law was already there. We talked for a while, and then she said: “Your wife sent us down with some fresh clothes.”
“Thanks.” I pulled a pair of jeans off the top of the pile and held them up to myself, frowning slightly at their loose cut.
“Did you sleep well?” Rose asked.
“Not much,” I said. Then, without thinking, I said: “But it’s good to be here.”
Rose smiled. “It’s great to have you back, son. Your wife is so pleased. And so are we.”
I nodded, then turned away and changed quickly. I put on my old shirt, which was still damp with sweat when I tugged it over my head.
“There’s a message from your friend, too,” my mother-in-law said. “He’s going to come to the house tomorrow to discuss things. He wants you to call him first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Is he really coming here?”
She nodded, then looked away briefly before saying: “And he’s worried about your family.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way he spoke to us this morning—he doesn’t want to upset anyone, and he feels very strongly that your father shouldn’t know about any of this. He just told us to tell you: ‘Tell your parents nothing.'”
My wife’s friends—what could I say to them? How could I explain everything? And what about my own family? What if my father knew? His reaction wouldn’t be like his daughter’s. It would probably be worse. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell them something—”
“No. Don’t worry about it yet,” Rose said. “They mustn’t find out for now, until you’ve met with David.” She paused. “You won’t mind waiting, will you? It will save time.”
“No,” I said softly. “I’ll wait.”
Rose gave a faint smile and left, closing the door behind her. My father stood at the kitchen counter and watched me eat breakfast. When I finally finished eating, he turned off the stove and came toward me slowly.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “We were just a little concerned. Now I understand why you felt you needed to stay away—”
“—but you didn’t need to follow me,” I said softly. “It scared me.”
“Sorry.” Dad nodded and rubbed his face gently with his hands. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, looking as though he wasn’t quite sure how he should feel or act.
After a few minutes silence, he said: “How long did you spend with them?”
“About two hours,” I said. “Long enough to find out a lot.”
“Did they ask you anything about the company?”
“They knew I worked there.”
“And did they ask where the company was?”
“Yes.”
“So you found out that it existed.”
“Sort of.”
“And what else?”
“They don’t know what our project is.”
“But they seem to know that the project is secret.”
“That’s right.” I shrugged. “Maybe there are some things we could show them to prove it—but not today. Today has been a pretty strange day, hasn’t it?”
He nodded slowly. “It’s been crazy.” He stared down at the floor for another moment and then lifted his head again. “You’re not angry, are you?” he asked quietly.
“Angry?” I shook my head. “Of course not.”
He sighed and said: “Then we’ve just wasted two days worrying over nothing.”
“If only it had been a waste…”
A look passed between us; a brief exchange of glances and thoughts that I couldn’t read, and my father seemed to be thinking about something. Then he walked past me and through the doorway into the hallway, leaving me alone.
***
David arrived around noon the next day. The car he drove was sleekly new, but its black finish made it stand out from the surrounding traffic like a shadow thrown by an oncoming truck. In the front seat sat a man whose bald head shone in the sunlight like metal under a bright light, and who wore a tailored gray suit and a white shirt.
“Hi, Steve,” he said softly. “How are you doing?”
Steve? I hadn’t seen the man for years. There had never been any doubt that it was David. I remembered the first time he’d come to our house and played the violin and how I’d thought it was magic, a miracle that no one else saw.
He had come back twice more, each time bringing a different instrument. Once he’d even brought a harpsichord, and once a flute. But the violin was always David, as real and solid as anything in the world.
He glanced at me as we reached his vehicle. We stood beside it for a moment while my father took the opportunity to shake his hand and congratulate him on getting married. I didn’t want to be there watching; I wanted to be somewhere else.
The man I’d known all those years ago was dead, gone forever. That David person was the real one, and that was how we must deal with him if we hoped to do anything.
When Dad finally let go, David stepped forward and opened the passenger door. As soon as it swung open, I realized why he looked so much younger than when we’d last seen each other: the seat was empty! I almost shouted out loud in surprise; my heart hammered wildly. I turned to David suddenly, staring hard into his eyes. “Who was he?” I whispered. “The man you married?”
“He was a very good friend, Steve,” he answered softly. “Someone who was important to me. A very special person.”
“I remember.” My voice trembled. “What happened?”
For a moment, he smiled and then said: “His name was David,” and climbed into his car.
My father and I stood on the street, shaking hands, and I tried to ignore the silence between us, the way David was looking at me as though he understood everything that was going on inside me, and that he was somehow responsible.
I wanted to run, to flee the city before my father’s questions could start. But he caught up to me quickly and took my arm gently between both his hands. I looked up at him, waiting to see what would happen.
“Let me tell you something,” he said quietly. “Do you really think I’m stupid? Do you believe I didn’t know that the two of you have been talking together for the past two days?” He shook his head. “No, Steve. You’re too smart for that.
No wonder you got into trouble at school—” His words trailed off as he looked straight at me, and his expression softened. “You don’t know half of what we’ve been dealing with.” Then, without warning, his tone hardened again.
“Don’t get angry with your dad because you’ve been hiding things from us. Your father loves you too much to give up now. Now listen carefully: you’ll go home and spend the rest of the evening studying—don’t talk about this at all to anyone. Not your mother or Sarah, not even to your sister. And tomorrow morning, come straight to school. Understand?”
My father nodded solemnly, and I heard the tension go out of him. He smiled at David, and then we headed back toward the parking lot and our cars.
We talked in whispers as we drove away. I kept glancing over at my father, trying to gauge what his reaction was likely to be. I knew David had taken care of him, but I wasn’t sure about how far he’d go. Was he going to call the police? Maybe… maybe we should have told them, but I couldn’t imagine what they’d be able to do anyway.
As soon as we were behind our own gates, my father said: “Now, we need to sit down and work this out, son.”
I shrugged. “There’s nothing to work out. It’s all right now. Just take the car and drive to the university. I’ll walk along with you.”
“You stay here, son,” he insisted. “I need to talk to your brother.”
“All right,” I said. I waited until he was gone before calling out: “Sarah!”
She came out of her room and stared at me as if she had no idea who I was. “What are you doing up, Steve?” She yawned loudly. “Are you going to school today? Or did you just crawl out of bed to annoy me?”
“It’s okay,” I lied. “Dad wants me to spend the day working on my project. Why don’t you come out with me? We can go down to the mall for lunch.”
“Sure,” she said vaguely and headed back to her room. I followed after her. After she’d changed, we walked through the house and went out onto the deck. It felt like autumn already, though the air was still warm. When Sarah saw me sitting by myself, she sat down across from me.
“So, what did he say?” she asked casually.
“He knows about David,” I admitted. “I guess he found out yesterday when my grandfather passed out.”
“Is that what happened?” Her voice sounded worried, as though I might be sick. “Did your grandpa pass out?” She leaned over to put one elbow on the railing and turn so that she could look at me. “Steve, you’ve never mentioned your grandparents to me, and now suddenly they’re sick. How do you feel about them?”
I hesitated for a moment and then told her: “They died when I was little. My grandma had cancer; my grandpa killed himself.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh…” She turned away abruptly and leaned back on the bench and stared into the middle distance. A moment later she looked at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want to upset you,” I explained. “And because it doesn’t matter.”
A few minutes passed while I watched her face. Finally, she said, “If they’re dead, then what does it matter? What’s happening right now is important.”
The words hit me. The way she put them made me realize how true they were. For a long time—months, even years—we’d been living on borrowed time, each one of us know that there was some kind of reckoning coming, that someone or something powerful was going to force the issue.
But none of us had known when or how, and the thought that we might have been wrong… the thought of having lost out on so much time because we’d been mistaken… it frightened me more than anything I could remember.
The End