A
GREEN light flickered above the door. Henry had left almost two hours ago in
his land rover. Nancy wished he had noticed Sheila’s errant keys; she wished he
had not stopped her at the gates. Nancy’s self-belief and poise it seemed had breached
Vince’s security system more effectively than an opportunist of the night. A
two-beat buzz cut the air. Nancy retreated into the shadows at the top of the
stairs.
Headlights
drifted towards an arched window below. Strands of light stretched out in
contortions. Her nerves did the same; she could feel them pulling at her inner
skin. The headlights came to a stop. Disembodied in the dark, they etched into
her vision. A low thrum pervaded but she could sense movement just outside.
Keys
scratched into the door. A slither of light cut across the floor. The rhythmic
hum seeped into the enclosure. Mock candles on the landing cast an amber glow
over the foyer, but shadows shielded her from view. She retreated. A clicking tempo
echoed against the walls. A draft lapped against her ankles. She sensed the
door closing. She trained her vision upon the entry below and the sight burned
into her.
The
starched triangle of his shirt collar cleaved the centre of his dinner jacket;
his trousers primly-creased at the shins, his brogues buffed to mirrors. His
hair clipped and brylcreemed around a face of habitual condescension few could
dislodge.
He
had been cut down.
Vince’s
aide, the driver she reckoned, wheeled Vince towards the stairlift. Crutches bobbed
from the rear handles of Vince’s wheelchair. The driver, a stout, bald man in a
raincoat and leather boots unhooked the crutches once he had parked Vince
parallel with the Newell post. He offered the crutches to Vince. Vince seized
them, unthankful. The driver wrung his hands as Vince attempted to straighten
each crutch against the flanks of the wheelchair. The tip of one crutch clanked
against the spindles. The driver lurched forwards to assist. Vince quickly
straightened the crutch and grunted, ‘Get out.’
The
driver backed off but continued to loiter at the desk.
Vince
did not even look at him. ‘I said, get out!’
The
driver reeled on one foot before pausing. He ambled for the door. Nancy could
sense the driver’s discomfiture. He wanted to apologise or say something but no
words would fit.
The
bald man made his leave, pulling the door gently to. Vince leaned into his
crutches. Alone in the foyer, Vince could now nurse his dignity without prying eyes.
A car door made a report outside. The engine gassed up. The headlights at the
window veered slowly away. Did Vince reserve his transits in the stairlift for
his eyes only, she wondered? Did he equate being seen like this as being caught
naked in public? Vince transferred his weight onto his crutches before lowering
himself onto the chair of the stairlift. He slotted the ends of his crutches
into a receptacle beside the seat, not bothering to belt up. He depressed a
button which activated a motor. Nancy admired the elegant hum. The Vlot 2000
Tilt-in Mobility Stairlift certainly proved to be the finest of its kind. At
this admission, however, Vince’s seat refused to budge from the foot of the
stairs. He depressed the button again. Nancy revisited her admiration of this quiet
motor. But in transferring the drive to the seat, it failed. The missing
screws, she believed would remain in the front pouch of her satchel bag along
with her beloved device and the mysterious E keys.
Nancy
hoped he would flick out his mobile phone to get help –not only for him, but
for herself. But no. For one who wore such pride, any act of humility did not
seem possible. He unthreaded his crutches and lowered them onto the steps. And as
predicted, he clambered from the seat of the stairlift without reaching for his
phone.
Nancy
watched gravely as Mr. Vincent Jonas, magnate and proprietor of the Nexus
nightclub chain, heartbreaker of countless socialites and associate of
A-listers got onto his hands and knees. His shiny brogues chafed the bottom
riser. He cursed, she believed, an Italian vulgarity fottere.
He
grappled at a riser above his head and pulled. Now Nancy could see the yields of his dumbbells. She praised him grudgingly with a still expression. Mr.
Vincent Jonas was making progress up the stairs without mechanical assistance.
