Within view of the famous temple, a man sat reading under a tree.
‘Are you reading science-fiction?’
Within view of the famous temple in the forest, a man sat under a tree, reading. Despite his shaven head, visible under his hoodie, and lean monk-like frame (which wouldn’t be surprising considering where I was), I noticed that he wore a Fitbit. His eyes remained on his Kindle. I wanted to ask him about material possessions rubbing up against a monastic lifestyle, but didn’t since I don’t speak Japanese. On the other hand, I didn’t want to walk on down the track and make the hard climb up to the temple just yet. So I decided to wait. I crouched opposite the reading man, and remained silent. The man continued reading. I was curious – to know more about this man on a forest path, needing to know what he was reading about.
He looked up, as if he’d noticed me for the first time although no one else had come up or down the path other than me. He began speaking suddenly, as if he was merely picking up a conversation that we’d been right in the middle of. ‘One by one, everyone is leaving the planet.’ I lost my balance and had to place my hands on the soil to steady myself. He’d spoken in English. There was an accent, but in English nevertheless. ‘Excuse me? What was that again?’ ‘One by one. We are leaving the planet continuously.’ ‘Are you reading science-fiction?’ ‘No. That’s not science-fiction. Us leaving one by one is a fact of life. We’ve never stopped the business of leaving.’ ‘Or arriving,’ I said presently, as it clicked. The monk looked pleased. ‘Now you get it. There is nothing else to understand.’
Every planet is different. But each one, when we are gliding at this height, also has similarities. Beautiful, mysterious. Carrying much hope and potential.
If this is your first trip to this planet, you’d think there was nothing solid below, only a gaseous entity enveloped in multiple layers of assorted clouds. Sheets of white sail by in the upper reaches of the atmosphere. The late evening sun, warm and unhindered, lights the peaks of the clouds, while leaving other parts of the sailing behemoths in shade. A kind of powder blue / indigo lighting creates the illusion, however momentary, that we actually, physically, are flying over a mountain instead of a collection of water vapors.
The wind at this height really stretches the clouds out. I see a pair looking like crocodiles lounging on the surface of a river while soaking in the sun. Other clouds are thick, absorbing the full light of the sun and reflecting it back like giant, glowing cotton candies. As we watch, there now appear pieces of darker blue, among tattered puffs of white. I can’t see what’s there, and the ghostly light and the sheer drop below, makes it hard to tell from our vessel.
Then, as we make a turn, I see – in between the shreds of clouds, past the glowing light, way way below – what appears to be a body of water. A lake perhaps, glinting sunlight off its surface, glass-like. Very small from up here, but clearly containing a reflective substance. It could be water. That would explain the abundance of clouds. And then, around the possible water body, I steal a glimpse – as clouds below move this way and that – of what seems to my eyes to be not just an absence of vegetation, but exposed soil. My heart sinks in recognition, as moving clouds obscure the view once again. Exposed soil may mean one thing: Inhabitants. Such a patch around a water body, if visible at this distance, might also mean large scale land-clearing. It might mean exploitation.
If this is your first trip to this planet, the hope and potential you feel is fragile and may soon be gone. This might turn out to be just another planet.
The spiky haired fellow was nervous, still in shock. Regalia had to get him to start talking. Then he needed to keep him talking.
Regalia circled the fellow a couple of times, trying to get a feel for his interviewee. Unlike Mrs Pall, who’d been gung-ho and communicative throughout her interview, this fellow looked guilty before anyone had accused him of any thing.
He was a very nervous young man. He never looked straight at Regalia or held his gaze for very long, at least not initially. In a way, his mannerism didn’t match his spiky hair and spiffy clothes. One would think that he was the one arrested for attacking a wedding guest instead of the other way round.
‘What’s your name?’ Regalia began, trying the most obvious and least threatening line of questioning.
‘Dickinson. Samuel.’
‘Dickinson Samuel?’
‘Actually, it’s Samuel Dickinson.’
‘Whose side are you on? Were you invited by the Bride or Groom?’
Tears began welling in Samuel Dickinson’s eyes,
‘You mean ‘the late Bride and Groom’.’
Regalia sighed and finally settled into the chair opposite the spiky haired fellow.
‘I heard the gunshot like everyone else but I couldn’t tell which direction it came from. So I simply ran. Then that woman came at me with a fork.’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean. Who invited you?’
‘Aarav, the groom.’
‘Was he a friend? Family?’
‘A friend. We’d both attended culinary classes together in the UK. That’s something that no one in his family knows about because as you may have guessed – it’s a family of movers and shakers. They don’t do business, they own them. Aarav’s interest in cooking was greatly discouraged and I don’t believe he told anyone here about it.’
‘Can that explain why you were circling the wedding cake, as witnesses put you?’
His voice grew angry,
‘What witnesses? The wild woman with the fork? Who is she?’
‘She’s a concerned guest who saw you running towards the gunshots instead of away from them.’
‘I have a problem with my hearing, his voice grew softer.’
‘Excuse me?’
Dickinson reached up to his left ear and removed a device. He held it in his palm for Regalia to see. Then he replaced it.
‘My hearing aid. It’s a little aged and faulty. I heard the gunshot like everyone else but I couldn’t tell which direction it came from. So I simply ran. Then that woman came at me with a fork. It was madness, the whole experience.’
Regalia was silent. He had been watching Dickinson’s eye movement as he told his story. The fellow was recalling his experience, not making them up. That was obvious to Regalia, as it would have been to anyone who’d had a passing acquaintance with NLP. The eyes tell you how the brain is working. When the brain is fabricating something, the eyes look one way. When a memory is recalled, the eyes look the opposite way.
‘What did you think of the cake?’
Dickinson, spiky hair and all, appeared to have regained a good measure of his composure back. He didn’t sound so defensive. He gave a condescending laugh.
‘Cake, Inspector? Amateurish I’d say. It tasted too plain. Not fit for such an occasion.’
‘It looked impressive though.’
‘Ah, looks. Isn’t that all that matters, Inspector? The cake was poor. Aarav would not have approved. He and Smyrna did not miss much.’
‘So you did nothing to the cake?’
A puzzled look came on Dickinson’s face. With his spiky top, it made him look like a farm bird.
‘No, I did not. And anyway, what’s the cake got to do with the murders? They died because of gunshots. Didn’t they?’
Regalia continued, as he had no answers, as yet, to these questions.
‘You knew the family a bit I suppose? Tell me. What would have happened to the family fortune with Aarav’s marriage?’
Dickinson sat back, as if Regalia’s question had set him off thinking about something he’d completely forgotten or overlooked, up until that point.
‘Inspector, is it possible to get me a drink? I just realized something. There would be some serious consequences financially once he got married. Damn!’
There was a tone of triumph in Dickinson’s voice.
Regalia stepped out of the room, asked for a drink and waited as his man disappeared into the kitchen area. Through the French windows, the lawn outside shone green in the sunshine, dotted with guests, still in their finery, gossiping, drinking and standing silently side by side. Servants were going, from group to group, with trays of refreshments and finger food.
Inside, a couple of policemen stood beside the bride and groom, whose bodies had finally been covered with a dining table cloth. Just behind the policemen, Jan and George De Cruz were seated, sharing a drink and commenting on the decorations around them, looking for all the world like another couple at a typical function. They looked lovely together. Regalia waved when he caught their eye and they waved back. He needed to get to them as soon as he was done with Dickinson. His man came back from the kitchen, glass of water in hand.
Regalia entered the room, closed the door and walked back to where the young man was waiting. He placed the glass on the table and took his seat,
‘What would change with the wedding, Samuel?’
The young man held one finger in the air, as he lifted up the glass and gulped down its contents at one go. There was a confidence in his manner which was non-existent at the start of the interview earlier.
He sat back with a smile, as he wiped the edge of his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘There is a clause in the will of Aarav’s late father which kicks into effect upon Aarav’s wedding. You see Inspector, I know this because he told me in England, when we were taking cooking classes and he was dabbling with the idea of giving up his family fortune to go on his own. The recklessness of youth and all that you know.’
Dickinson coughed. Regalia took the opportunity to make a circular motion with his left hand, indicating that he should get to the point.
A nod, then Dickinson continued,
‘Aarav is the eldest child in the family. In order to claim the lion’s share of the fortune left by his late father, he needed to be married. But…’
Another cough. Regalia leaned forward, starting to get impatient. He tried to move the telling along,
‘But if he wasn’t married, or dead, that would mean the will remains intact. Someone else would be eligible. A sibling.’
Dickinson coughed. Several times. He sipped the water again and continued his narration,
‘No, Inspector. The crucial thing is that the will is open to not only children from the late father’s known marriage. It specifically stipulates that any offspring who is able to provide DNA proof and is married…’
Regalia froze. Although Dickinson’s words had an impact on his thoughts, what made him stop was the look on the spiky haired fellow’s face. It was stricken, no longer wearing the satisfied expression he had when he’d recollected the details about the family will.
Regalia leapt for the door, threw it open and shouted for medical help, for the seated De Cruz’s to come quick.
When he turned and ran back to the young man, Dickinson was motionless against his chair, head slanted to one side. His eyes were open, a bit of froth was trickling down the side of his mouth, and blood was draining from his face. He’d stopped breathing.
By the time the De Cruz’ arrived, Samuel Dickinson was dead.
