Chapter One
ARCHIE CRANE WAS fuming, yet again! Fighting with his wife was the cause, the exact
same fight he’d had goodness knew how many times already. Not that the outcome was any
different, it never was; nor did he ever learn. You’d think an intelligent man; the senior
financial controller for the biggest bank in the country would eventually realize that
nothing was going to change.
Lucille, that greedy, lazy good-for-nothing was always going to spend all the money
she could, eat all the cake in the universe, and use her remaining time to make her
long-suffering husband as miserable as possible. Quite an achievement when you realise
that Lucille, not Lucy, heavens no, was still on the right side of thirty. Only just, but…
Archie was on the wrong side of forty. He was short and a little podgy, nondescript
rather than ugly, balding and completely useless at sports. He did have a rich sense of
humour, which he was mostly too shy to express; he could see the funny side of his
predicament, exactly the same as his father’s had been and exactly what he had promised
himself would never happen to him! Five years ago, when he had fallen desperately in love
with a sweet, voluptuous Lucy, she didn’t mind him calling her Lucy then, he had been
oblivious to the cautionary note sounded by his elder sister, and relied instead on his
instincts, and his beloved’s protestations.
Five years is a long time. Love is a very serious emotion. So is loyalty, or it
should be. It took that long for Archie to come to terms with the fact that he had been
duped, that Lucille’s interest had only ever been his money, and the likelihood he would
make much more the prime reason for their continued cohabitation. It never occurred to him
to divorce her, he didn’t think like that. He didn’t know what to do.
Fortunately, Archie’s financial instincts were more reliable, actually several orders
of magnitude more reliable! Indeed, given his completely unprepossessing nature, it was
only his unerring ability to correctly predict economic fluctuations, and make precisely
the right decisions, that had allowed a chap like him to get where he was. His survival
skills in the labyrinthine underworld of office politics were negligible, his agenda
naively that of his employer’s prosperity. Nobody really liked him, how could they, he was
always right, though many were jealous, really jealous, of his uncanny, spooky
infallibility.
It had taken nearly fifteen years for Archie to reach his present position, a
consequence of his diffident personality sure, but mostly due to the succession of
superiors stealing the credit for his brilliance while concealing its source. In the
modern corporate world most executives channel the abilities of their underlings to their
personal aggrandisement. Talent, particularly such a unique and priceless talent, will
eventually proclaim itself, not least because those self-same executives seldom stay in
the one place for long, and the right information can make a slick operator a lot of
money. Indeed, during the past six years Archie had steadfastly steered The Bank through a
gruelling recession, dotcom hysteria, international uncertainty and spiralling energy
prices. The shareholders loved him, or rather the bank, a 1 for 2 bonus share dividend,
unheard of in recent times, had seen to that. The directors grudgingly admired him; after
all, he had made them very wealthy, and the envy of their peers, domestic and
international! His true value, however, was measured by the enormous packages now on offer
to tempt him to rival banking groups, and other financial entities. When the Treasurer,
that’s right, that Treasurer approached his old school chum, Leonard McKenzie, a current
director of the bank, to sound out the possibility of appointing Archie to the
Chairmanship of the Reserve Bank, a very generous campaign contribution was required to
make the offer go away before Archie got wind of it.
The latest offer, from a major American bank no less, which an astonished Archie had
imprudently revealed to Lucille, was the cause of the current dispute. And that dispute
was the cause of the accident. Actually, when a motorist hits a pedestrian, it’s always
the motorist’s fault but sometimes it’s hard not to feel sympathy for the hapless driver
when it’s the pedestrian who strides blindly into the face of oncoming traffic. Pity poor
Valerie Harper then, just eighteen and driving her dad’s hulking SUV for the first time.
She hit Archie Crane dead on, barely getting a foot on the brake pedal before the thump of
the collision sent Archie careering through the air and thence to Emergency, more dead
than alive.
Both legs were broken, multiple fractures, his spleen was burst, his chest was
crushed and a splintered rib pierced his left lung, his skull was fractured, he was in a
coma, and a betting man could get 20 to 1 that he’d make it through the night.
By nightfall, the news of the calamity had reached all those who needed to know.
VALERIE HARPER, SITTING nerveless in a police interview room with her shocked parents
ineffectually comforting her wasn’t responding to a single question asked by a caring
policewoman. Not that there was much to know. There were a dozen witness statements
describing the pedestrian’s culpability, and no contradictory testimony. It was unlikely
even a Negligent Driving charge would be laid. Of course, when Mr. Crane passed away, as
he was sure to do, there would have to be a coronial enquiry, and an autopsy.
THE BANK’S BOARD of Director’s held an extraordinary meeting, which achieved nothing.
Their terror was palpable! The unspoken consensus was to pray, pray very hard, that Archie
would pull through. Six directors were physically present, including the chairman, Sir
Colin Hampton. He was old, he had to be. He’d scraped in just under the wire. Family
connections, a shrewish first wife’s burning ambition, and generous political donations
had been enough to elevate his very modest business achievements to sufficient
pre-eminence to deserve recognition in the last Queen’s Birthday Honours List before that
wretched Labor government abolished royal gongs altogether. And wasn’t that decision
loathed by every society matron worth her salt! Perhaps those few among them whose spouses
were already so honoured might have been discretely smug.
The remaining five directors were all present, courtesy of a very expensive video
link-up. Marc Sanders, the youngest of the bunch at forty-five, had been dragged from a
Swiss ski slope, turning deathly pale the instant he heard of the tragedy. There wasn’t
one among them who trusted the incumbent CEO, M. Elliot Riddle, to tie his shoelaces
correctly. He was that Elliot Riddle, of the he’s not a Riddle, he’s a Joke fame! Until
now it hadn’t mattered. M. Elliot, pliable soul that he was, and son of the legendary
corporate bloodhound, Elliot Snr., (which was why he had the job; no, that he looked like
a hound had nothing to do with it) had never made a decision without first seeking
someone’s, usually Archie’s, counsel. So, praying was what they fell back on! That and the
services of the best physician’s money could buy, wherever in the world they were.
ARCHIE’S SISTER THEE, a lifetime asthmatic, had died a year earlier, without husband
or offspring. She was nearly ten years his elder, and had been his protector throughout
much of his miserable childhood. He had mourned her passing deeply, far more so than his
selfish mother who had never been comfortable with her progeny, particularly after the
early demise of his father. No other immediate family existed.
LUCILLE RECEIVED THE news stoically. She was even able to stuff another slice of
creamy chocolate cake into her mouth. The bemused police sergeant who called to break the
tragic news wasn’t offered any cake, it was not Lucille’s nature to share, and it wasn’t
long before he was bustled out of the house with scarce a decent thank you for his
trouble. Of course, Lucille’s first concern was for the lost eight figure salary, lost
before she had a chance to get her hands on it. But she wasn’t sure she would like America
anyway. There was, however, the consolation of a fifteen million dollar life insurance
policy, and that helped the grieving process. To be sure, the grief was for the money, not
Archibald. She drove to the hospital, scarcely bothering to run a brush though her
straggly, dark hair. She saw no reason to change out of her jeans and sweatshirt, or to
slip on decent shoes. She wanted to be sure he was at death’s door!
Lucille found the sight of her battered, broken, tube-infested husband to be
particularly distasteful. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it. Actually, she’d always
found his touch repulsive, so nothing much had changed. What a girl has to do for a little
financial security! So America was definitely out of the question. Archibald, god bless
him, was as good as dead, and good riddance!
Lucille kept these thoughts to herself, and made what she hoped passed for sounds of
genuine sorrow. A senior physician took her outside, away from the Intensive Care Unit,
and caringly explained the grim prognosis. It was a miracle Archie was still alive. His
prospects were slim to non-existent with heavy emphasis on the non-existent. Life-support
kept him going for the moment. Lucille wished there was some way she could suggest they
pull the plug, right now, but couldn’t think of it.
Proclaiming herself in a state of shock, the distraught wife returned home to the
silent welcome of a half-eaten chocolate cake just waiting to be polished off. On went the
television, off came her coat, up went her feet, and in went the cake. As soon as the
creamy texture touched her tongue, she knew something was wrong. She spat it out with a
snarl of disgust. Something must have spoiled it. She brought a second, smaller spoonful
to her lips with more caution, and sniffed warily. The aroma was marvellous. In popped the
morsel. The taste was disgusting. Lucille wiped her tongue on her sweatshirt, scrubbing
hard to erase the foul, lingering tang.
Succumbing to an angry tantrum, Lucille threw the remains of the awful cake into the
trash, and stomped back to watch her favourite soap. They were all her favourites, the
soaps that is. The 24-hour Soap Channel was Lucille’s one great joy in life, if you didn’t
count confectionary. She had never read a book, for pleasure, in her life! She couldn’t
quite get rid of that tainted after-taste, and it spoiled her evening. She went to bed
early, promising to abuse the staff at the Patisserie first thing in the morning.
ARCHIE HAD OTHER visitors late that night. First were Leonard McKenzie and Stuart
Osborne, directors both, fresh from their gloomy meeting, and clearly anxious to quiz the
specialists. Archie’s prospects were bleak, and would get worse. Sagging jaws and hang-dog
looks bespoke their despair. There was one positive note, a young doctor explained,
anxious to find something upbeat to say. His elder colleagues had long since learned to
muzzle any words of false hope. Four eyes brightened! There was an unusual amount of
electrical activity going on inside Archie’s swollen, bandaged head and that was always a
good sign.
VALERIE HARPER, THE poor girl directly responsible for Archie’s critical condition,
would not be swayed in her determination to visit the victim of her carelessness. That the
police had already confirmed no charges would be laid, that her still stunned parents
begged her to come home with them, made no impact against her stubborn resolve. So she had
her way and around midnight was allowed a brief visit with the unconscious patient. Her
parents cooled their heels in the waiting room. In the end, a nurse had to fetch her,
twenty minutes after the five she was allowed had expired. Tears streaked her blotchy
cheeks, and she was inconsolable.
WHEN THE SENIOR night sister, Grace Williamson, went on duty at 2 am, she found a
cluster of nurses mounting silent vigil at Archie’s bedside. She shooed them away,
realising only after were gone that every one of them was off duty. Their shifts had
finished hours earlier. She was in no mood for any funny business. Overwork, inadequate
pay, and a terrible roster had finally driven Grace to submit her resignation. Her shift
finished at 10 am. The letter of resignation was in her bag and would be presented to the
unfeeling management in the Admin block on her way out the door. That would be that!
Was it only coincidence that Grace spent so much time fussing over the terminal
invalid? Must have been; there weren’t too many patients that night.
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