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    Exit 39
    Exit 39
    Exit 39
    Ebook252 pages4 hours

    Exit 39

    By Russell James

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    About this ebook

    The entire story is narrated into an iPhone. Why? Crosby Ravensworth is so busy he can’t make time to scatter his father’s ashes, nor to sort out the dysfunctional family he hoped he’d left behind, nor to decide which of the four women in his life he should connect to.
    His father has committed suicide and the funeral will be the first time Crosby meets any of his uneasy family for five years – his stepmother (who never accepted him), his stepbrother (a priest), his half-sister (a businesswoman, ever on the phone like Crosby) and his youngest half-brother (out of work). Crosby leaves with a sealed box of his father’s papers, a last letter and the task of scattering his father’s ashes at a quiet location in the Lake District. When he has time.
    He’s a 24/7 guy whose work takes him to some great places – Venice, California, Munich – even if he doesn’t get to spend much time in them (hardly any, to tell the truth). And he gets to travel all over Britain to, well, Hartlepool, Carlisle, Birmingham . . .
    He lives in Staines.
    At the start of his story he has a permanent girlfriend (a lovely girl with all too permanent ambitions) and an ex-girlfriend upstairs. Then he meets a wonder-woman in America and his brother’s girlfriend with her long blonde hair and biking leathers.
    He really will have to make some choices.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRussell James
    Release dateOct 29, 2013
    ISBN9781311074904
    Exit 39
    Author

    Russell James

    Russell has been a published writer for some 25 years, is an ex-Chairman of the Crime Writers Association, and has written a dozen and a half novels in the crime and historical genres. He has also published various non-fiction works, including 4 illustrated biographical encyclopaedias: Great British Fictional Detectives and its companion work, Great British Fictional Villains, followed by the Pocket Guide to Victorian Writers & Poets, and its companion, the Pocket Guide to Victorian Artists & Their Models. His books include: IN A TOWN NEAR YOU (Prospero) THE CAPTAIN'S WARD (Prospero) AFTER SHE DROWNED (Prospero) STORIES I CAN'T TELL (with Maggie King) (Prospero) THE NEWLY DISCOVERED DIARIES OF DOCTOR KRISTAL (Prospero) EXIT 39 (Prospero) RAFAEL'S GOLD (Prospero) THE EXHIBITIONISTS (G-Press) POCKET GUIDE TO VICTORIAN ARTISTS & MODELS (Pen & Sword) POCKET GUIDE TO VICTORIAN WRITERS & POETS (Pen & Sword) GREAT BRITISH FICTIONAL VILLAINS (Pen & Sword) GREAT BRITISH FICTIONAL DETECTIVES (Pen & Sword) THE MAUD ALLAN AFFAIR (Pen & Sword) MY BULLET SWEETLY SINGS (Prospero) REQUIEM FOR A DAUGHTER (Prospero) NO ONE GETS HURT (Do Not Press) PICK ANY TITLE (Do Not Press) THE ANNEX (Five Star Mysteries) PAINTING IN THE DARK (Do Not Press) OH NO, NOT MY BABY (Do Not Press) COUNT ME OUT (Serpent's Tail) SLAUGHTER MUSIC (Alison & Busby) PAYBACK (Gollancz) DAYLIGHT (Gollancz) UNDERGROUND (Gollancz)

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      Book preview

      Exit 39 - Russell James

      EXIT 39

      an iPhone novel

      by Russell James

      EXIT 39

      published by Russell James at Smashwords

      copyright Russell James 2013

      Full-length novels by this author include:

      Underground

      Daylight

      Payback

      Slaughter Music

      Count me Out

      The Annex

      Oh No, Not My Baby

      Painting in the Dark

      Pick Any Title

      No One Gets Hurt

      The Maud Allan Affair

      Requiem for a Daughter

      The Exhibitionists

      Rafael’s Gold

      This ebook is for your own use only, and may not be given away or sold to other people. If you are reading this book but did not purchase it, be aware that you are infringing copyright. Please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s rights.

      For more about the author check his website at

      http://russelljamesbooks.wordpress.com/

      EXIT 39 - an iPhone novel

      by Russell James

      _______________________________________

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      If he had to kill himself, why did he have to do it now? May is my busiest time of year. I’m supposed to be in Hartlepool, yet I’m heading into Cheltenham, my first time. No manufacturing, no industry, nothing but offices and GCHQ. Regency Cheltenham, says the sign, not that I’ve seen much Regency architecture on my way in – only estates, an inner ring-road and GCHQ, unmissable, the famous doughnut, the House of Secrets, looking more like a low-slung warehouse with an enormous car-park and an eight foot high wire fence.

      And its own bus-stop. That’s so quaint.

      Which lane? Middle one, says Satnav. I see that my ‘road not taken’ is Princess Elizabeth Way. Princess? That dates it. No one knew her father would die young and she would become queen – a young queen, can you imagine? No one knew she’d reign as long as Queen Victoria. No one knew. No one knew my father would kill himself. In May. Just when we’re putting the finishing touches to our Christmas catalogue. At least I’m not in the rag trade, trying to guess what folk will wear next year. At Comfreys we have last year’s sales to go by; we know what sold and what crashed out; we invest in winners and ditch the rest.

      Where are we?

      Montpelier. The ‘Regency’ touch at last: painted stucco and black ironwork – and the tennis courts are empty, like a school playground in the rain. What next? Go right, then left, past the grandeur of the Boys’ College. Thank you, Satnav, for that snippet of a guided tour. Perhaps Siri can give me an audio-guided commentary: ‘Now we pass the Boys’ College; note the Victorian gothic architecture, the high stone walls and stained glass windows; note how in today’s drizzle the cathedral-like building reminds us of an old black and white engraving, a half-tone in the rain. Note on your left the less attractive hospital, while straight ahead – ’ Oh, stop it, Crosby, stop it. Why are you spouting nonsense into your phone – to hide your guilt?

      Grow up. You’re not on the psychiatrist’s couch. You’re in the driving seat.

      *

      Sit for a moment. What’s that through the windscreen? A first sight of your family, standing between their cars. Mine is one of the company cars: the others look too old. There’s a Lexus – a company car, surely: it must be Gina’s. And a little Fiat, newer than mine but not a company car. Two highly polished Fiestas and a Jazz. Yellow. Hardly appropriate for a crematorium but they wouldn’t have known that when they bought it. A Range Rover, a Chrysler and a Volkswagen. Family? Who knows. The hearse is eight years old, less polished than the Fiestas but shining in the rain. The black people-carrier beside it must have brought Mother and whoever was unlucky enough to ride with her.

      Who brought that ancient green estate – a Lada, is it? It can only belong to Roland. On his stipend or whatever a priest’s pay is called today a Lada will be the best he can afford; he’ll need an estate to carry parishioners and their junk. Will he take the service? Surely not. There he is, sheltering under the porch at the chapel door, clutching Mother by the elbow in a stance of comfort that must be second nature to him by now. He’s not dressed as a minister; no dog collar, he’s not even wearing black, although black would look more cheerful than that awful grey. He hasn’t changed much in the last five years, except that he needs a haircut and has put on weight. Roland is approaching forty, the oldest of us all.

      *

      Had to break off there to take a call from Nigel. I told them where I was, they know I’m not in Hartlepool; Angela knows: my diary says ‘Father’s Funeral’, plain as plain. Doesn’t anybody look? I may be a 24/7 guy, but there are a hundred and sixty-eight hours in the week. I’m allowed one hour, aren’t I? Does that make sense? Does life make sense? Calm down. I’ve got –

      Calm down. Relax. That pain again, across the chest. It isn’t a heart attack; the doctor said it was lifestyle. He said you only have to sit still a minute. But what if I get an attack while driving? It’s happened twice already – I had to pull in to the side of the road and sit panicking. It was so bad the first time I switched off the engine. I knew it was a heart attack, but what could I do? I was – where was I that time? – going to Milton Keynes or coming back? Going, and I couldn’t hang about because I was late. I hadn’t got time to sit at the side of the road worrying myself to death, worrying I was on the road to death. I’m thirty-five. It was stitch, I thought, it had to be stitch. I hadn’t time to have a heart attack.

      It’s passing now. Perhaps the doctor was right.

      Ah, there she is. Gina, on her phone, standing in the middle of the car-park, impervious to rain – and yes: her car is the Lexus. She’s walking over to it – zap! Is that a key app on her phone? Hands-free. I want one. I’ll get Angela to look one out.

      Go on Gina, ignore the rain. Slap your phone down on the car roof, bang the briefcase down beside it, snap it open, reach inside and – yes, because you’re Gina you find the document first time. Miss Coolness and Efficiency. After five years she’s just the same. Queen Boudicca. Can’t hear a word she says, but every word will be a command. Bang, bang, do what I say. Bang, bang, down goes the phone. Bang, bang, she shuts the briefcase. Clunk, it’s in the car. Zap – yes, I was right, her car key is an app – and look: as she marches away her phone has buzzed again. I’ve been there, Gina! I’d turn my back to answer it – or, since it’s a funeral, perhaps I’d have turned it off – but Gina carries on as if she’s standing in her office. The world is Gina’s office. She doesn’t care. Will she turn her phone off for the service? I mean, Dad’s dead, he won’t hear it ring (though the bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling) and in Hartlepool they’re deciding the whole of the Christmas season, so they’re bound to call me, they’ve got to call me, funeral or not. I can’t let those idiots make life or death decisions while I’m stuck at a funeral.

      Don’t laugh.

      I should not be here. It’ll make no difference to Dad, nor to my family. Mother will say, "Well, if you’ve something better to do." So why have I come? To do my duty. Greet my family and smile. If I put my phone on silent it can vibrate and no one will know. If the message looks important I’ll step outside. As Gina would.

      I’ve just realized: my sister is wearing red! Come on, Gina, it’s a funeral. What will Dad say if he’s looking down from Purgatory or wherever we wait while stuck between death and destruction? Not that he is watching us – his daughter wearing red, his wife with his holy stepson, me staying out of it in the car. I don’t think so. But where’s Miles? He should be clutching Mother’s elbow. Gina won’t, it’s not her style, and straight after this she’ll be back at work. She works in Cheltenham, she’ll have diaried a one-hour window before wham-bam she’s back in line. And I should be in Hartlepool.

      Where is Miles? Not another of his famous colds, when Mother tells him not to come out in the rain? Her little boy. How old is he now? Twenty-six. It would have to be some cold. I can’t see him, and he can’t have changed that much. I’d surely recognize him. Nope. I don’t recognize any of these bedraggled folk huddling in the entrance porch. Why should I? They’re Cheltenham people, and I’ve never been to Cheltenham before. I suppose five years does seem rather long, but I’ve been busy and you know how fast time flies.

      I can’t just sit here. I must get out and go across to them. But will they recognize me?

      *

      Right. Funeral over. Back in the car. So . . . In the last half hour I’ve had sixteen emails, three calls, two texts – mine may be the last car to leave the car-park. I’ll let them think I am collecting myself. I don’t do funerals. I don’t do families. Why should I? Dad was my father (obviously) but from when I was about ten years old he grew more and more irrational till he ended up like a father in the Victorian era: Turn that music down. You can’t go out. He hated kids – not each of us individually, just kids as an intrusion into his life. I suppose we were an intrusion; it wasn’t his fault he got landed with four kids from three different marriages. To marry Mother he’d had to take on Roland, then when she got pregnant with Gina I came back, landing him with Roland from her first marriage, me from his first, Gina from theirs. As if that wasn’t enough for anybody they then added little Miles. He and Gina were the only true siblings in the nest. But Dad did his duty; he brought us up – and stayed married to Mother, which was beyond the call of duty. The reluctant family man. He let darling Miles turn twenty-six before he topped himself.

      I did notice the word suicide was never mentioned at the service: Passed away, aged sixty-three, much beloved of his family. Then something about God’s grace (For what we had just received? For what Dad was about to receive?) and Roland, who sounded a damned sight better than the local priest, gave a short tribute to the man who – how did he put it? – took him in as another man’s child and brought him up in love and duty. Love is not a word I associate with our family. I suppose there is some kind of love between Mother and Roland, even if the one she really cared for, Miles, didn’t come to her husband’s funeral. Miles, their little favourite – unless that’s changed in the last five years? I came, and I’m the black sheep, the odd man out, the one landed on them – I turned up.

      Though I ought to be in Hartlepool, where I see that the idiots have bought an extra five gross of anti-arthritis bracelets, despite the exposé in the Guardian. Five gross? Who’ll carry the can for unsold stock? I should have been there. Instead of which I put my family, my semi-detached family, before my work and did my duty – to my father at least. I did my duty to the only one who wasn’t there. Except Miles.

      Where was their favourite son?

      Oh, Miles, said Roland, as if it was all that needed to be said, as if it explained why Miles deserved their toleration. It’s really good to see you, Crosby. When I looked in his eyes I saw he meant it. Our conversation lasted barely a minute, but so did any conversation in the damp mêlée before we went inside. I didn’t recognize many people – none outside our family – though I may be introduced to them, ghastly thought, at what Roland called ‘the funeral tea’. This is our Crosby, he may say. We haven’t spoken to him for five years. He doesn’t really belong. No, that’s not fair; Roland made me feel I did belong, for him if for no one else. He might have been the father welcoming the Prodigal Son.

      And Gina: we snatched a few words during the service when we both stepped outside to take some calls. Because of the drizzle we had to shelter in the entrance porch (at separate ends, of course, so we could take our calls in private) but when she grinned she seemed the same little Gina I remember as a child – which is weird, come to think of it, because the grown-up Gina is a formidable executive (takes no prisoners) while Gina the child was . . . formidable even then, I suppose, which is why she always got her way. The only girl. She could compete with three rumbustious brothers and always win.

      So there we were, as far apart as we could get in the dripping porch, taking our calls until, when we’d finished, we finally snatched a few words and a stumbling kiss and crept back inside. (I don’t think we’d missed much.) We didn’t say a lot, but it was more than I got from Mother before the service: Oh, you came, she said. And that was all.

      *

      So that’s our family house. The same size as the one in Esher but entirely different: painted stucco instead of brick, three floors (if you count the attic conversion), a cellar, and an elegant nineteenth century exterior decorated with black ironwork. The garden was a mess, as if it hadn’t been tended since the nineteenth century. Couldn’t they get a man in? I thought that was what middle-class property owners did.

      It was strange to see pieces of furniture I recognized, out of place: the dining table and those hideous mock antique chairs, that ghastly settee, several pictures I wouldn’t keep in an attic, and the piano no one plays. (Was it bought for Gina? I can’t remember.) The more things I recognized – sticks of furniture, plates and cups – the more I felt I’d travelled back to a distorted version of my childhood. Here I was holding one of our old plates and standing beside the old dining table, nibbling sandwiches with my stepmother, my brother, my sister, all of us that little bit older and – I’m jumping ahead here, about thirty minutes ahead – just as I was ready to slip away Mother suddenly took my arm (weird: I think it was the first time today we’d touched) and said, Come upstairs a moment. I’ve something for you.

      She swept me out into the hall and up the stairs, away from the supposedly mourning friends and relatives, to a bedroom on the spookily unoccupied upper floor. "Your father said you should have this, if you ever came back. Or did he say when you came back? I nearly threw it all away." It was a guest room, from the cold unused feel of it, the bed looking as if it had last been made up three months ago. I recognized a picture on the wall.

      There, she said. A cardboard box stood on the floor beneath the window. Don’t open it now.

      What’s in it?

      Things he should have thrown away.

      The box had once held bottles of wine and but had been re-used and sealed with parcel tape. When I put it on the bed it weighed as if it could still hold a dozen bottles: no such luck.

      Don’t leave it there. Put it in your car.

      I picked it up again and she smoothed the counterpane as if smoothing me away, as if smoothing him away. Time I was leaving.

      You can’t. Not yet.

      I smiled. I know it seems awfully short, but I’m on a busy schedule and –

      Has Michael spoken to you?

      Michael?

      For goodness sake. Oh, bring the box. Michael Sandler, she said as I followed her down the stairs. Your father’s solicitor. Not that I ever thought I would need a solicitor. I suppose I’ll have an enormous amount of paperwork.

      Didn’t Dad leave his things in order?

      We had reached the downstairs hall. He should have done. He had enough time to think about it. That’s what Michael wants to talk about.

      Gina was coming in the front door, checking her phone. Can’t stay, Mum, she said. What’s in there? She frowned at my cardboard box. Making off with the family silver?

      I smiled but she did not smile back. You can’t take anything till we’ve been through probate. You’re not handing out presents, Mum?

      Just a pile of old stuff for Crosby. Things from his father.

      Like what?

      The roar of a motorbike rattled the front door. After a final rev the motor switched off and in the ensuing silence the front door trembled, guests stopped talking, and the only sound was the gentle – I have to say, inappropriate – background music: Adele’s Take It All.

      That’ll be Milo, said Mother as she opened the door.

      I looked at Gina. Milo? I mouthed.

      He calls himself Milo now.

      Miles does?

      "Didn’t he tell you? He’s always telling people."

      I haven’t spoken to Miles for years.

      Last time I’d seen him he’d been at university, and seeing him now, standing in the rain and lit by a glaring carriage lamp outside the door, he looked much the same: gawky, nerdy, long hair tied in a ponytail, but this time – I don’t think it was there before – he had a tiny beard. He wore leathers and carried his helmet in his hand. Behind him I could see a girl similarly clad in leathers, detaching herself from a helmet and shaking out her long blonde hair.

      Hi, Mum. He kissed her, then turned to the girl behind. Coming in?

      No, I’d rather lie in the garden in the rain. She pushed past him to come inside. Where’s the kitchen? I’m starving.

      I’m Milo’s mother – But the girl had gone. And who was that?

      Um.

      For a moment I thought he had forgotten the girl’s name. Oh, that was Fay. Yeah, she’s okay.

      I’m so glad you could come, Milo. I know how busy you must be.

      I couldn’t tell whether that was irony. I didn’t know Mother did irony.

      He closed the door. Yeah, made it. Hi, Gina. Wow, Crosby, you’re here too. What’s that? Don’t bother to strip the house, man. There’s no treasure here.

      Mother laughed nervously.

      I was just leaving, I said to no one in particular – a feeling of déjà vu, that in our family no one listened when I spoke.

      But Miles had heard. Cool, man. I’ll see you sometime.

      His girlfriend had reappeared. She was chewing on a chicken leg and had brought a second one for him. There’s bread and stuff, she said. Or are you staying by the door? When he ignored the chicken leg she began chewing on it herself. Mother tutted and turned to Miles. You’re dripping everywhere. Do get changed into something dry.

      Fay laughed. I didn’t bring a change of clothes. I’m naked underneath. She began to unzip the front.

      Stop that! snapped Mother. She has no sense of humour. Fay had never meant to pull the zip right down, I guess, but I lingered to make sure.

      Miles said she could shake dry, like a dog. Wipe me down, she said.

      I opened the door and started along the rainy path. You haven’t spoken to Michael, Mother called.

      Send him out.

      It’s raining.

      I reached the car, threw the box on the back seat and slipped inside behind the wheel. Peace descended with the rain. The windows streamed with wet – they’re misted as I speak – and it was like peering out from behind a waterfall. For a moment I closed my eyes. Back in my car, free from the lot of them, I was panting like a dog. I’d survived the family. I glanced at my watch, surprised to find I’d been in the house less than an hour. For all that time I had not once checked my phone. A dozen emails, a missed call and three more texts. I began scrolling through. Inside the car’s cocoon, rain pattering on the roof, all windows closed, the air was soporific. My breathing slowed to normal. I could dwell on every email, follow the links. Mistake. I was so unaware of the actual world that I didn’t notice the man’s approach, and it was only when he rapped on the

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