Nowhere man, p.1
Nowhere Man, page 1
Nowhere Man
Deborah Stone
Nowhere Man
Copyright © 2024 by Deborah Stone
All rights reserved.
Permission to reproduce or transmit in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, photographic and recording audio or video, or by any information storage and retrieval system, must be obtained in writing from the author.
Nowhere Man is a registered trademark of Deborah Stone.
First printing September 2024
Stone, Deborah
Edited & Interior design by Eva Myrick, MSCP
Printed in the U.S.A.
“The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.”
- Stephen King
Table of Contents
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part II
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
For Jonathan
Part I
Chapter One
Patrick was keen to ensure that he got this, his final project, exactly right. He had always been a stickler for intricate details and this in particular had to be executed correctly and on time. The layout of his house was not hugely helpful for this endeavour. For maximum effect, he would have preferred the lounge to be visible from the front door, but of course, most houses were not designed this way. The whole point of the entrance hall was to shield visitors from the main living spaces, in case of unexpected or unwanted callers, or the occupants themselves being caught in various degrees of undress. It was merely that, frustratingly for him in relation to this exercise, the location of the lounge did not suit his purposes. So, his only other option was to shift the furniture he required into the hallway. Actually, he would not need to move too much. His armchair and a side table would suffice, but the lighting would be critical. This special tableau must be the very first thing she would see as she came through the front door. His requirements were most specific.
Moving the armchair - Patrick’s own chair, which he had sat in most evenings for the past forty odd years - was more challenging than he had expected. He wondered how they had ever got it into the lounge in the first place. It was large and cumbersome, with splayed arms that stuck in the doorway whether he tried to take it forwards, backwards or turned it on its side. The crocheted arm protectors, placed there by his fastidious wife to keep them from fading, kept falling off, but as he had always hated them anyway, he left them behind where they fell on the green patterned carpet, next to the pile of dust that had accumulated under the chair. He reflected on the fact that Diana was so fussy about the possibility of him marking the arms of the chair with his sweat, yet she was not house proud enough to have moved the actual armchair to hoover underneath it. Out of sight and out of mind, he mused, a phrase that could possibly sum up most of his life, at least until now, when he was simply out of his mind, having lost sight of any other solution other than the one he was about to adopt.
Patrick paused, wrestling his crumpled handkerchief from his pocket, and using it to wipe his damp forehead. He was not a fit man, having long ago succumbed to the numbing effects of alcohol, fatty food, and spending too much time in cars and sub-standard hotels. A thousand years ago, he had been reasonably lithe and handsome. In fact, he had been quite the athlete at school, but life had sapped him of the will to care. He could not pinpoint the exact moment when he began to let himself sag, but his body had gradually piled on the pounds to mirror the sheer weight of his disappointment at not having lived the life he had really wanted. He glanced down at his belly and sighed, the lower buttons of his shirt straining against its bulk, while large sweat patches had stained his armpits. Stuffing his handkerchief back into his trouser pocket, he took a deep breath and lunged at the armchair one last time. This final wrench succeeded in pulling it through the doorway, although it did bring a sizeable chunk of the doorframe with it.
But that’s no longer my concern.
Patrick dragged the chair into the centre of the hallway, lining it up so that it would be immediately visible from the front door. He stood back and considered its positioning, nodding with satisfaction. Then, he returned to the lounge and unplugged the standard lamp, which he carried into the hall and placed next to the chair. Picking up the plug cable, he hunted around for the socket, but quickly realised that there was no such thing. It was amazing how long you could live in a house and yet not realise its electrical shortcomings. The nearest socket appeared to be back around the corner of the lounge door. He would have to dig out an extension cable, which was irritating, as it would leave a trailing wire, but there was nothing else to be done at this juncture.
He ran his fingers through his hair - which was still thick and wavy at the age of sixty-five, even if it was somewhat whiter than brown these days - before shuffling off into the kitchen at the back of the house to search for the extension. The grey Formica table where he ate most of his meals was badly chipped, as were the majority of the cupboard doors. His wife had begged him for years to allow her to remodel it, but it was such an expense, and he could never quite see the point. The units served their purpose just as they were, and Patrick saw no reason to spend a fortune on a new kitchen just so that his wife could boast to her friends that she had an island and an American fridge-freezer. He had suggested that they could change the handles on the cupboards, but this had been dismissed as a paltry effort.
He rummaged in the ‘everything drawer’; the only one that he was allowed to use as his own. Old fuses, loose batteries, and two screwdrivers fell out onto the black-and-white- chequered linoleum as Patrick bent down to search for the cable. He located one at the back, leaving the rest of the stuff on the floor where it had fallen. She can clean it up later, he reasoned. It will take her mind off things, poor dear.
Back in the lounge, he succeeded in plugging in the standard lamp and then spent some minutes moving the lamp closer and then further away from the armchair in the hall to assess which position might provide optimal lighting for the chair once he was sitting in it. After fiddling with it for a while, he decided that it was the large lampshade that was the main problem, as it was simply too efficient at its job. He removed the shade and stood back. Harsh white light was exactly what was required here. Patrick returned to the lounge and retrieved the small side table, which he would need to place next to his armchair to hold his drink and his letter.
Having sorted out the hall, Patrick heaved himself upstairs to the bathroom, where he scrubbed at his face with a flannel and sprayed deodorant under his armpits. Moving into the bedroom, he changed his shirt, lifting the gold crucifix around his neck to kiss it for one final time, before straightening it and buttoning his collar over the top. He knotted his favourite, blue-striped tie in the Windsor style and combed his hair, so that he would look presentable. You don’t look too bad, all things considered, he complimented his sceptical reflection, which stared back at him, defeated and resigned. He sat down on the bed, removed his grey felt slippers and replaced them with his black leather brogues, which he polished quickly with the same damp flannel he had brought with him from the bathroom after washing his face. You’ll just have to do, he remarked quietly, hauling himself back off the bed and walking back downstairs to the kitchen.
He picked up a letter simply addressed Diana and a small glass of colourless liquid that he had prepared earlier and left next to the kettle. He carried these two items into the hall and placed them on the side table, ensuring that the letter was face up and clearly visible, before settling himself into his chair. He blinked hard, took a deep breath and then swallowed down the contents of the glass in one gulp. Placing the glass back on the tab le with a decisive thump, he rested his hands on the arms of the chair and closed his eyes, his mission completed.
Chapter Two
Diana did not have the best start to her day. Just after she arrived at work, she received a call on her mobile from her mother’s neighbour, Belinda.
‘Diana, sorry to bother you so early, but I’ve just had to rescue your mum.’
Diana, holding the receiver between her teeth while attempting to open a box of gift cards that had just been delivered to the shop, sighed audibly. ‘What’s she done now?’ She ran the scissors along the Sellotape that held the top of the box together.
‘Well, she appears to be stuck underneath the garage door. I think she was trying to put her bins out and she must have pressed the wrong button, so that the door came down on top of her. The problem is, I can’t release it, because I can’t get inside the garage. The door is wedged, and so is she. I don’t have a key to get into the bungalow and she’s obviously quite distressed.’
Blast, thought Diana. She kept meaning to sort out a key for Belinda, but had never got around to it; only partly through laziness, but mostly because her mother was vehemently opposed to the suggestion.
‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s upset. Brian is sitting with her.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Diana slammed the receiver down and grabbed her bag. She turned the sign on the front door of the shop back over to Closed, locking the door from the inside, before exiting at the back of the shop where she had a small parking space for her car. Her heart was racing with both anger and frustration as she reversed out of the alley and onto the main road, narrowly missing a young mother who was pushing her baby’s pram into her path. It would take her at least half an hour to reach her mother and then who knows how long to sort out this latest accident. She would lose half a day of trade at the very least and it was coming up to Christmas, so it really mattered. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly that she almost lost all feeling in her fingers.
Her mother was becoming increasingly impossible. She refused to move into sheltered accommodation where someone could be on call to help her, never mind the thought of an actual care home. She definitively refused to have any help in her own home, claiming that they would only serve to get in her way. The situation was completely unmanageable.
‘And anyway, Diana. What would I do if I had help? Sit there staring at this stranger all day long? I don’t think so!’
The only other option was for her mother to come to live with Diana, and that was never going to happen. Diana and her mother had always had a strained relationship to put it mildly, and Patrick would never contemplate having her as a permanent resident. Their resentment of each other was entirely mutual; her mother still believing that Diana could have done a lot better for herself and Patrick being fully aware of this fact as she mentioned it to him on almost every occasion. Yet her mother was obviously no longer capable of living alone. She was forgetful and often confused. In the past year, she had drunk surgical spirit by mistake and alternately taken too many pills in one day or too few. She called Diana several times a day asking her to pop to the shops and bring things over, never recognising or remembering that Diana actually worked and had her own home to run. It was truly hopeless.
The heavy traffic finally cleared on the main road, and Diana managed to cut round the side streets to reach her mother’s bungalow. She stopped her ageing white Fiesta with a screech of the brakes and leapt out of the car. Running up the drive, she saw her mother’s feet sticking out from under the garage door like the Wicked Witch of the East in The Wizard of Oz, Brian and Belinda crouched down by each foot.
‘Thanks so much, guys,’ Diana panted as she came up the drive. ‘I really do appreciate you calling me and staying with her.’
She made a mental note to drop yet another bunch of flowers over to them later on.
‘Mum, it’s Diana. What have you done this time?’
‘Argh, Diana,’ her mother wailed. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Diana ignored her and marched to the front door, rummaging in her bag for her mother’s keys, which she always carried along with her own.
‘Brian, Belinda, you go. I know you’ve got to get to work. We’ll be OK now.’
‘Are you sure?’ they chorused.
‘Yes, thank you so much as always.’
Diana fiddled with the key in the lock and once inside, closed the front door behind her. She was at the same time grateful to but also annoyed by Belinda and Brian, who she knew judged her and the way that she cared for her mother. She did her best, but she intimated from their sidelong glances that they thought otherwise. All it served to do was pile on the guilt Diana already felt like a lead weight pressing down on her every day.
She dashed through the kitchen and opened the door on the other side of the lounge which led into the garage. The top half of her mother lay on the floor, ashen, her legs trapped by the electric door. Diana pressed the button on the side of the wall and the door slowly rose, releasing her.
Diana knelt down.
‘Are you alright, Mum?’
She glanced up to see the neighbours lingering at the end of the drive and she waved her thanks, muttering ‘bugger off’ under her breath.
‘Of course I’m not alright!’ her mother cried. Huge, fat tears coursed down her face. ‘I’ve been trapped here for hours.’
‘I don’t think it’s been hours,’ Diana replied gently.
‘How would you know? It took you long enough to get here. And those two were bloody useless. Asking me every five seconds if I was OK.’
‘They were very kind, Mum. If they hadn’t seen you as they were leaving for work, you might have been lying here for a lot longer. Come on, can you sit up?’
Diana placed her hand behind her mother’s back and helped her into a sitting position. ‘Do your legs hurt?’
‘Yes, of course they bloody hurt. The door fell on top of them!’ she shrilled.
‘OK. Let’s try to stand up slowly.’
Diana gritted her teeth and placed her arms under her mother’s armpits, helping her to stand. Her mother was so light to move, just bones and skin these days. She had been statuesque in her prime, but now had withered to almost nothing, like a wilting houseplant.
Her mother screeched in pain as Diana hoisted her up.
‘Come on, let’s try to get to you into the lounge and I can take a proper look at your legs.’
Slowly, they limped across the garage and into the lounge – a very short distance, yet it took an extremely long time - where Diana lowered her mother onto the sofa, while her mother continued to sob.
‘Now, let’s assess the damage, shall we?’ Diana soothed, talking to her mother as if she were a three-year-old child. She knelt down, willing herself to stay calm, and pulled up her mother’s nightdress above the knees. The skin was badly cut and already bruising.
‘I’m going to lie you down.’
Her mother nodded, sniffing, allowing Diana to lift her legs.
‘Stay there while I get some wet cloths and the first aid kit.’
Diana rushed to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of flannels and the first aid kit, which was kept in the cabinet below the sink. She ran the hot water tap and soaked one of the flannels before returning to the living room.
‘I’ll see if I can clean you up a bit.’
Diana spread the dry towel under her mother’s legs and began to pat the cuts with the wet towel. She then retrieved the TCP antiseptic liquid and some cotton wool pads from the first aid kit.
‘This is going to sting, Mum.’
Her mother howled as the TCP touched the wound.
‘Sorry, but you don’t want it to get infected, do you?’
Diana cleaned the wounds and then placed the largest plasters she could find on top.
‘The good news is that I think they are just flesh wounds, but we need to watch them and get the doctor out if they get any worse. Now, let’s get you into bed.’
Together, they hobbled into the bedroom and Diana tucked her mother in.
‘Let me get you some painkillers.’
Her mother had an ample supply, as the doctor prescribed them readily after each mishap and they had accumulated. She could have opened her own pharmacy.
