No Bad Deed

Harold Parker rounded the corner of Constantine Street and pressed on into the biting February chill. He was an old forty five with a receding hairline that continued to retreat, much to his oddly vain annoyance with each passing season. It was odd in the sense that he imagined himself to have given up such ideas at least a decade before. He felt off-kilter these past few weeks however. The regular jaunt from the insurance office where he made a drably honest living to the sheltering confines of the Augusta club wasn't usually such a troubling one. Thoughts of his daughter Susan's recent escapades with the law had been difficult to shake off lately. Again that vague, misplaced sense of vanity lingered. Why the hell should his kid be mixing with that crowd? We raised her well god damnit, he bristled inwardly. Susan's wayward forays had stirred up old issues with his wife Karen too. The marriage felt relatively solid to Parker in his more upbeat moments, that was if he chose not to analyse too deeply however. On those long, dark nights of the soul as some smart ass writer or other had probably waxed lyrical about once upon a time, he knew things were anything but solid. Gorgeous Karen, so many dreams they had both had back in their hopeful twenties. When he really thought about it during those sleepless nights, Harold Parker knew that he had given up on their dreams too soon and worse still, he had just taken her for granted.

As Parker turned onto Waverley Street, his disquiet seemed to recede a little as the Augusta came into sight. Always a welcome from the chill of the weather and the latest batch of bullshit life felt like throwing his way, which just now seemed to be more than he could remember for some time. What was the Dylan song? he thought, "Shelter From The Storm", he smiled gently feeling a little composure again. "Good evening Mr. Parker, didn't expect to see you on such a raw night," said Stanley with a genuine smile. "Thanks Stan, just one of those days. Needed a pick me up", replied Parker with a more feigned clutch at good humour which nearly produced a smile. Parker realised that Stan had sensed his less than epic good humour just then and moved inside the cosily lit hallway with a resigned thank you to the doorman. Stanley was a fixture at the Club since he had joined and he was part and parcel of the old timey kind of charm about the place that Parker enjoyed so much. Karen had ragged him about it when he had joined, "God you're such an old fogey Harry" she would say, but always in good humour and with a twinkle in her eye. She didn't mention the place much anymore, maybe understanding that it was the one thing he had for just somewhere else to go or maybe it was that she resented that he had somewhere else or maybe it was because he had strayed from her before and she might never be able to forget that. It had been nearly three years and an enormous mistake that he imagined would follow him for the rest of his days. Maybe it was just a sign of the growing distance between them. A fissure that he hoped would never appear and in his stupidity and complacency had allowed.

Parker couldn't help but smile to himself as he entered the main room through the hallway. The plush maroon carpets, the crackling fire at the far end and the dim but comforting lighting of the surroundings. "Jesus, I am an old fogey", he muttered nostalgically and not without the trace of a smirk. He scanned the expanse of the room as he hung his coat by the hall door. Only old man Roberts reading one of his bone dry medical journals in the far corner and one other figure. An unfamiliar man rested at his usual spot by the fireplace, his face was partially obscured by shadow and the glow of the dancing firelight. Harold Parker was never the most outgoing of men but he figured it was quiet, what's the harm in seeing who the stranger was. He wandered over in the man's direction and as his countenance became clearer, Parker could see that the stranger was smiling broadly at him. "Hello Harold, winter's still holding forth outside eh? I do struggle terribly with the cold", his smile seemed so wide to Parker now it resembled a pained grimace than anything like good nature. Parker seemed only to notice the unsettling feeling he had about the man in a distant, offhand kind of way. He was drawn and yet repelled in the same instant. He could feel himself pulling away and yet. "Please Harold, sit and take the warmth of the flames, yes?" Parker sat down heavily in the brown leather armchair, still the feeling of repellence and attraction. In the strangeness of the encounter, it still hadn't dawned on Harold Parker that this man had somehow known his name.

Parker sat staring at the man in confused disbelief before realising the awkwardness of his silence. An attempt at words shambled from his dry mouth, the noise resembling something an incoherent drunk might have uttered. "Where are my manners Harold?" interjected the still smiling man. "Barkeep", he exhorted, "a libation for this weary soul if you wouldn't mind. He looks like a scotch man to me, a connoisseur even. Perhaps a healthy dram of that 20 year old Glenmorangie I see there behind you". The break in silence allowed Harold to come to himself somewhat and he observed the details of the man more acutely now. He was immaculately attired, coal-black, sharply cut suit with a perfect triangle of crimson handkerchief showing from his breast pocket. Harold observed all this as his new companion busied himself with the task of ordering him a drink. Harold's gaze switched to the man's astonishingly angular face, it was incredibly thin and yet it was not gaunt, the man turned around and returned Harold's gaze with a pair of deeply set, piercing eyes. Harold believed he had never seen such an unnerving looking person in his near half century of existence. The smile stroke grimace on his face had eased somewhat and again he spoke. "You'll have to forgive my poor manner Harold, I haven't even introduced myself. My name is Louis Thellier. I realise that we have never met but I must relay to you that we do have business with one another". He spoke so assuredly that Harold began to feel more at ease. He must have tracked me down through the office, Harold thought. Maybe he wants me to deal with some issue personally. Harold felt the strumming high-tension cables of his body begin to lessen to an easy hum and he stretched back in the chair as the barman placed his drink on the table. "That's an astute guess Mr Thellier, I keep a decent bottle at home for a special occasion, but I suppose exceptions can be made," said Harold with that extra special shit eating grin he saved for his more important clients. He always hated himself for doing it but it had become part of the job, just one of those things you need to do.

After a couple of sips of the excellently chosen whiskey, Harold relaxed still more. "Well you've peaked my interest Mr. Thellier, can I ask what this business we have together entails?" "Most certainly you can Harold, you don't mind me calling you Harold do you? Replied Thellier immediately and continued unconcerned with a reply. "I'm a very open soul you understand, I tend to display my familiarity with those I know, even when they do not know me, he smiled widely again. Harold, the mist of confusion beginning to shroud him once more said, "excuse me, we must have met at the office before and clearly it's slipped my mind, accept my apologies sir", came his uneasy retort. It had sounded more curt than Harold had intended but although the alcohol had soothed him into a measure of relaxation, the electric cables of his body began to whine more loudly again and he tensed against the leather armchair. Old Roberts exhorted a loud snort some twenty feet away and the tome Harold thought was an old medical journal fell to the floor with a muffled thump. Roberts however, lay dead to the world. "Ah the sleep of the old", said Thellier, breaking their silence, "is like the sleep of the dead". To Harold, his grin was now bordering on maniacal and as he looked into Thellier's eyes, he could see them change colour into the deepest blood-red crimson. "Many people despise me Harold, there are many that simply live in fear of me and then there are the ones that do not know me until it is too late for them. You, my friend, fall into the latter category". Thellier said all this in such a detached fashion that Harold's mind rested somewhere between considering this man a deranged lunatic or completely sane and the confusion terrified him.

Harold drained the glass and thudded it down on the table shakily. "Mr. Thellier, I think our business, as you put it, is finished" said Harold as he motioned to climb out of the chair on legs that he imagined would feel like something akin to partially liquefied jelly. "Wait just one moment", the voice was devoid of the bonhomie of earlier. It sounded to Harold like the feeling of a punch to the gut. "I am here with you Harold because I like to deal with my business personally. And I am an incredibly busy man you understand, so I've had to put you on hold for some time. Something in the region of three years or so I believe, but now I'll conclude my business and move on". Thellier's smile was more measured now, more knowing. Harold had scarcely moved as Thellier spoke and now the impeccably dressed figure calmly rose to his feet and offered his hand to Harold. "I always like to conclude on a handshake Harry, it's just good business, but have it your way", good cheer had returned in place of cold steel in Thellier's voice now. "Fare well Harold, I do hope you enjoy the rest of your time". He hesitated and looked around him, "in this place". The coldness of his laugh as he strode out would stay with Harold for the rest of his sullen, empty existence.

Harold Parker stumbled home in a daze of uncertainty, and yet, there was complete understanding too. The life he had lived previously had ended. His whole existence now lived, atrophied and died in the paradoxical bubble that surrounded him as he staggered home. His existence was towered over by the man he had just met, and yet, he was a mad man, of course he was. The cold still bit sharply, but he scarcely noticed and when the rain began and battered him ceaselessly until he reached his doorstep, leaving him a drenched wreck of a man, he barely flinched. The click of the lock ushered in Harold Parker's destiny. It gave a certain, concrete clarity to his troubled thoughts. He had sometimes struggled to switch his mind off, to drift to sleep with the ease that many seemed to have. Karen could always do that, it didn't matter how much was troubling her but she could place it all away in a neat pile and forget it. If Harold had ever hoped to reach this zen-like attitude to sleep, then those thoughts were long since forgotten. The sight that Harold Parker found when he got home would destroy any thought of contented sleep for the rest of his miserable existence. In those times when he was lulled to unconsciousness by exhaustion, the images of his home, of that horror left behind for him to discover. The faces of his wife and daughter interspersed with this nightmare, and always, always the sound of the man named Louis Thellier laughing coldly as he took his leave of Harold that night. And deepest crimson. The colour seemed burned into his retinas.