The Hexagon

© 2011 by Mark Ringsted. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/04/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8665-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8666-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Contents

DAY 1

DAY 2

DAY 3

DAY 4

DAY 5

DAY 6

DAY 7

DAY 13

DAY 14

DAY 15

DAY 16

DAY 17

DAY 19

DAY 20

DAY 21

DAY 22

DAY 24

DAY 25

Day 26

Day 27

DAY 28

DAY 30

DAY 31

DAY 38

Teresa and Brian

Many thanks for your support.

Early days, 32 years ago.

The storm raged outside but it was neither the roaring thunder nor the flashing lightning that stired him. He awoke in the darkness to the mutterings. What the hell is going on? he thought. A moment later, once his mind had cleared, he knew what it was. Not you again boy!

In anger he lept out of bed and stumbled against the wall. I have had enough of this. He pulled on his night gown and stepped into his slippers. Leaving his bedroom he marched, full of purpose, along the hall. He burst into the bedroom enraged at his loss of sleep and ready to chastise, Did you hear me boy? I said enough is enough… The bed and the room are empty. Nonplused he shakes his head to clear his mind and vision. Not here?

The mutterings continue. He turns and follows the sound back down the hall to the top of the stairs. Downstairs? Why would he be downstairs?

Quickly he descends. Heavily and noisely. He halts on the last step, silent, to get his bearings. He moves a little more cautiously to the closed door and listens. The mutterings grow louder. To his mind they are baiting him. He finds them as unerving in this moment as he did the first time, and the many other times since.

Angered he determines to charge in. Hand poised on the doorhandle he stops in his tracks. The mutterings have changed from the normal english to a tone and language he does not recognise. This time is different from those others. This time he is afraid.

Carefully he opens the door, his earlier anger replaced with trepidation. The scene that meets him does nothing to alleviate his fears. He is in awe and every fibre of his body tenses. Nearly every piece of furniture, every wall and even the ceiling are covered in multicoloured numbers.

His mind reels. I don’t understand, what is happenning?. He staggers and very nearly faints. Regaining his senses he focuses on the large armchair in the corner and the young boy standing upon it. The boy smiles at him and then turns away. With his hand he paints a ‘6’ on the wall and continues his chant. One six is six. Two sixes are twelve. He paints ‘12’ on the wall. Three sixes are eighteen. Again the language of his chant changes.

Shocked into action the man rushes forward, This must stop. If I have to beat it out of you, this must stop! He takes hold of the boy, lifts him, turns and sits in the chair. He places him face down upon his lap and commences to smack him furiously. This cannot go on boy! This must stop!

The man is completely oblivious to the bright light, that dazzles the boy so that he has to use his hand to shield his eyes. This he does so he can see the sad faced witness, her head bowed with hands praying. The father, intent on administrating punishment is blind to this amazing presence.

Early days, 31 years ago.

They gather to watch the flame haired girl from the window. She has taken it really well.

Don’t let the way she is acting fool you. I have been her neighbour all her life. She is grieving deeply. What child wouldn’t? she stated and then sipped her tea.

Losing one is bad enough but this. What will become of her?

They have located a distant relative but he isn’t keen to have her, the priest said.

Poor love.

I would love to take her but George said we have our own problems.

I have made arrangements for her, it seemed the best thing to do, the priest said.

They all nod in agreement and continue observing her.

In the garden she is apparently unaware of their observations. In her own world she is happy.

We see her from behind, kneeling on the grass, busying herself with her dolls, and we listen.

And where do you live, in the woods? She waits. Pardon? Yes I know it. It’s lovely there. And what about you? There is a pause. The church, yes I know where the church is. We go there most Sundays. At least we did before . . . she cuts short the sad thought.

She turns her ginger haired head and listens more closely. No, I don’t remember seeing you there either. Do you have any children? She listens intently, and then nods in agreement. Yes girls are certainly much better. Boys are always getting up to mischief. She listens again. Yes it has been nice meeting you too.

We see a bird rise and take off into the trees.

It is only now that we move round to see she has another bird standing on the back of her hand.

I know you are a boy, but you are all grown up now.

For the first time we notice the bird twittering back.

Yes you used to be naughty but not anymore. The bird appears to reply and she smiles. Yes, three small mouths to feed daddy. She lifts her hand. Off you go. I shall certainly see you soon. She watches as he takes flight and flies off over the fields.

Picking up her dolls she walks to the hedgerow. Maisy, she calls.

She addresses her dolls. Maybe she’s not around today.

There is a squeak and she smiles. Maisy, where have you been? A hedgehog scampers towards her and she kneels. Maisy squeaks again as she steps onto the open palms the girl has rested on the ground. Yes, all alone now, she agrees, as she sits back and places Maisy on her lap. All alone now, except for you and the others.

Today, 8:23am.

The morning before it began, found Anthony Redman running through the familiar tracks and trails of the forest he loved. He climbed the hills, jumped the ditches, and clambered over wooden stiles. The rugged ground was hard with frost. His breath clouded and was quickly left behind.

He had always relished the freedom and sheer exhilaration of being one with nature. Had you been there you would have witnessed his effort and enjoyment. He accepted anything mother nature threw at him as being part of the sport.

That morning, as he ran, he recalled a school field trip, to the same forest. There had been a moment when he found himself alone amongst the trees and marveled at the assault on his senses. The scent of nature, and the rustling of leaves. A horse chestnut leaf that he held up to allow the sunlight through. A gust of wind that brought the forest to life, which totally overwhelmed him, and completed the experience.

To his immature eyes nature was a beautiful wonder, untouched, unspoiled, and natural. In that solitary moment he understood that nature was a joy, a wonderment, and awe-inspiring.

He had wandered deeper through bushes and bracken that, to him, appeared to open up to allow access and then close behind him. He entered the heart of the forest and felt welcomed. He also felt small and the forest imense but he was happy. Happier, by far, than he had ever been in all his nine years. He had been tempted to stay. He did not understand why, but this was home. He felt at ease.

Now he returns here whenever he can. In all weathers, be they rain, hail, sun, snow, wind, blistering heat, and numbing cold. He thrives in all conditions. He battles the elements and relishes the physical and mental challenge. From time to time, in conversation, when the topic of the seasons arrises, Which is your favourite? He answers honestly All of them. This is the runners answer, and indicates how important running is to him. It is his life.

He has competed in races here, won a couple. He has trained with other runners here but never enjoys running more than when he is on his own, in his forest. He runs to clear his mind, and for the solitude. The loneliness of the long distance runner is his, and yet, how can you be lonely when you are at home, here in the forest?

DAY 1

Day 1, 8:06am.

He ran to work the morning it began. The air was crisp and chilled him. The pavement was icey but he didn’t mind the odd slip. He loved these days, he loved any day when he could run.

Unlocking the centre he knew he had a good thirty minutes before anyone arrived. He had his usual revitalising strip wash, then consumed toast and a warming mug of black coffee.

When Sophia arrived she sniffed the air. The smell of toast always makes me feel hungry.

There is plenty more bread if you want some.

Tempting, but I better not. What have you got there?

Just some faxed referrals. Do you want me to make a start on them?

No it is alright I’ll make some tea and get straight to it.

The kettle has boiled.

That’s good. It’s freezing out there!

I know, I love it.

How could you? I can’t wait for the summer. She said shrugging to shake away the cold.

And then you’ll be complaining about the heat.

True. She picks up and shows him his mug. Do you want another?

Please.

Day 1, 9:30am.

The full compliment of paid and volunteer workers have arrived and the office is a hive of activity.

Anthony is speaking on the phone. . . . And that will increase your weekly income by… He thinks for a moment. . . . £76.35. Yes that’s a week. That’s all right it’s my job. Yes, I’ll ring you in a few weeks to check all is well.

Chris reaches for the calculation. Was this amount weekly or monthly?

Monthly.

He taps on the calculator. He’s spot on, again. And I’ll say it again, you should have been an accountant or a scientist or something like that.

Taking back the calculation. And I’ll say it again, I do have the ability but not the inclination, he said, smiling.

Their manager, Hannah, joined them. You wouldn’t want to leave us anyway, would you? You love being an adviser.

Yes, it was always my dream, as a lad, and why would I want to give up all this? I’d miss you guys.

Except Chris, Hannah teased.

That’s true I wouldn’t miss you Chris!

Ek hou van jou so goed!

They all stop and look at him.

Sorry, I meant to say, ‘I love you too’, Chris said.

Was that Afrikaans by any chance? Anthony asked.

It just sort of slips out.

How very strange, Sophia said, looking at some case sheets.

Hardly, it’s not like I can help it, Chris said.

Not that you idiot. We have just had two new clients referred to us, one from the hospital and another from a community nurse and they’ve both got the same surname, Taylor.

That’s a coincidence, Anthony said.

Yes, and they’re both in your area. She hands them to him.

He studies them. Are you sure these haven’t already been referred to us?

No, I don’t think so. I think we might have some different Taylor’s. It’s funny how often that happens though, isn’t it?

He moves over to the filing cabinet where the ‘Open’ client records are stored. It’s just that I’m sure I’ve seen these names recently. He checks inside the cabinet. No, you’re right Sophia. There are two more Taylor’s, but they’re different from these two. Quite a coincidence. He examines the files and then searches through all the other files, extracting a couple.

Want a coffee? Hannah asked. There is no reply. Anthony?

Sorry I wasn’t listening.

I know. I’m making drinks. Black coffee?

Yes. Thanks

His obvious distraction intrigues her. What are you doing?

Just checking a few files. What are the chances of also having four Browns at the same time?

You’re not back on that again? I’m off to the kitchen.

Chris settles into his chair. What was all that about?

I pointed out that we have four Browns. I find it fascinating.

In what way fascinating? Is this the beginning?

I think it’s a mathematical thing.

Like what are the odds of four people with the same surname, living in the same area, having cancer at the same time? Chris enquired.

Yes. Exactly. Anthony begins extracting files. And two Digby’s, two Davies, three Ebdens, two Fredericks, three Grahams…

OK, I get the point. It’s just a coincidence my friend. Don’t give it another thought.

Maybe, but…

. . . maybe not? The phone rings and he answers it. Ashden Cancer Support can I help you?

Anthony, deep in thought, remains studying the files before him.

Day 1, 12:15pm.

We see the office is now not so busy and Anthony is on the phone. That’s alright Mr Jacobs. I’ll see you next Tuesday at nine, and we’ll get your claim in. Yes, take care. Bye.

Would you like me to put that into your electronic diary for you? Sophia asked.

No, it’s alright thanks. I’ll do it. I need to put a couple of others in at the same time.

OK. Hannah, would you like me to start typing the minutes from yesterday’s meeting? Sophia asked.

You could do. Looking at the clock Or we could have an early lunch and go into town and do some very early Christmas shopping?

Good idea! I’ve got my eye on a top to wear at the Christmas party, Sophia said.

You’re supposed to be buying presents for other people, not yourself! Anthony said.

Don’t listen to him, we do our Christmas shopping our own way, don’t we? Hannah countered.

Can you all please stop talking about Christmas? Chris said sharply.

What has rattled your cage? Sophia asked.

He smiled. It’s too early!

Scrooge! Bah humbug! It’s nearly December, and Christmas starts here! Come on Sophia, let’s shop! Hannah said. They link arms and leave singing Christmas Carols.

Chris sits back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. I must admit it is beginning to feel like Christmas.

Yes it does, and then you get this, and it jolts you back to reality, Anthony said.

What’s that? Chris asked.

The latest list of ‘RIPs’. Your Mrs Sommers is on it.

That doesn’t surprise me, she was really ill when I last saw her. Do you want me to pull them out? Chris asked with a sigh.

No, it’s alright, I’ll do it and leave yours in your tray. You get off to lunch and I’ll hold the fort.

He grabs his coat. OK, I don’t have to be asked twice. You should get out yourself. I will see you in an hour, Chris called over his shoulder.

Yes, see you then. He extracts the files on the list from the cabinet and begins closing those that are his clients. Filing them with the other files for dead clients, he is again struck by how many doubles and triples of surnames he comes across. I wonder? Taking the box file labelled ‘RIP A-Ag’ to his desk he begins sorting through them and making notes.

After grabbing a quick lunch for himself he spends the remainder of the day on his normal duties. At the end of day the office gradually empties until, finally, he is on his own.

Now let’s see. He thought. He begins checking, and cross checking, the open files, moves onto the closed files and finally onto the ‘RIP’ files of those that had died this year.

When the cleaners’ leave he looks at the clock and it is already past seven. The next time he glances at the clock it is