Chapter Five

If Sandra had still had her phone or even a watch she would have known precisely how long she’d been left waiting and been annoyed about it. She had neither, so she was annoyed about that instead. She’d finished her sandwich and espresso #4 some time ago, and had been pacing up and down the starkly decorated foyer. She’d examined the blank stone wall on the left. The blank stone wall on her right. The blank stone wall opposite that distinguished itself from the rest of the foyer by having two entrances – the one she came in with the lawyer however long ago, and the one she assumed she was going to go through later. Hopefully sooner, but it felt like later.

She was now examining the part of foyer that made it stark rather than empty. On the wall behind the couches where she had sat was a huge canvas – it was unframed, and appeared to be unpainted too, and stretched for several metres up and several more across. Sandra assumed it was art, given it was in the foyer of what could only be the office of a very wealthy man, and it was very large and it was the only thing there.

But for the life of her she couldn’t figure it out. It just seemed like wank.

She was examining the bottom left corner of the canvas like an entomologist would examine a new species of flea. She’d started on the right, and had slowly made her way four metres to the left, just close enough to stay in focus, convinced that, somewhere, there was a mark on this canvas. There had to be a dot of paint; a sign, a smidge, something that indicated that it was not blank like the foolish observer assumed, and the purpose of the canvas was to search for the meaning of the art in an expanse of nothingness, or some such crap.

It was a very intense exercise. She’d burnt off the initial burst of caffeine pacing up and down the walls; she had now achieved the morning coffee zen – alert, focussed, slightly wired and ready. Ready for what? Anything. Ready for anything. Definitely anything. Whatever it is. Ready. Yup. What’s happening? I’m ready for it. Look out. Let’s do it. Yeah. 

She was transfixed with the bumps in the canvas when she heard the echo of footsteps. She chose to ignore them.

She could immediately tell it was a big echoey room when the lawyer had led her in there from the private lift. She hadn’t said anything, but she could hear her sneakers reverberating the slight squeak every footstep made on the polished stone. After she’d been asked to wait with a coffee and the greatest sandwich known to mankind, she sat down and watched the lawyer leave before she started.

The silence was startling. No outside sounds, no inside sounds. His feet had echoed into the other entrance and faded away. There was nothing. 

She shifted a little in her seat and the leather farted quietly, but it still echoed around the chamber. She shifted again simply to reach for her food, but stopped suddenly as the sound of the couch reverberated around her emphasising each and every movement.

Grab the sandwich. 

Echo of sandwich grabbing.

Pick up the sandwich.

Echo of toasted sandwich moving through the air.

The whole thing was horribly disconcerting, and she paused waiting for silence again for reasons that she didn’t know or understand, but it seemed like what you were supposed to do. The smell of freshly cooked bacon drifted to her nose, and her stomach instantly vocalised its protest at being made to wait. The echo had only just begun when she’d had enough and took the first bite. 

It was incredible. She’d never eaten anything like it before. So simple, but so immensely pleasurable. She chewed, trying to savour the experience, but her internal pleasurelogue was derailed by the ongoing echo of chewing. Jesus, I don’t normally eat that loudly do I?

Bite. Chew. Echo. Bite. Chew. First echo just ending after second echo begins. Sip coffee in tranquil sounds of echo-chew. Now sipping echo blended with echo-chew and couch fart. Somewhere there was a remix. A dance musical involving toasted sandwiches and coffee. 

She wasn’t going to be put out by this. Fuck you and your echoey McGoo. I’m gonna eat this sandwich and drink this coffee as loudly as I want. And she did. She wanted whomever it was waiting for her down the other entrance that, despite being kept in the dark and manipulated, she was still in charge of herself, and the noises she should choose to make. The BLT became a protest sandwich. And when she protested, she protested hard. 

It was with this in mind that she chose to ignore the lawyer until he was right beside her. They’d left her alone to make her uneasy, make her feel like they were in control of the situation. They wanted her vulnerable. They’d pumped her full of espresso to put her on edge. Well, she was damn sure that, despite all of that being true, they were going to have to fight to maintain their advantage.

She continued to stare at the corner of the canvas until he was right beside her. He didn’t clear his throat or say anything. He simply stood next to her, waiting patiently. She was thinking about making is last a really long impossible time when she said:

“Fascinating what passes for art these days, isn’t it?”

Damn mouth. Listen to brain.

“Mr Pohler is ready to see you now”, he said.

She straightened up, and turned to look at him in surprise.

“Isn’t that your name?”

“Please” and with one hand he gestured towards the entrance, and guided her forward with the other. Instinctively she followed the gesture and began walking, and he picked up pace to walk just in front of her.

The lawyer walked rapidly which left Sandra having to make the effort to keep up. She felt like the puppy trying to keep up with the bulldog, and momentarily wondered what would happen if she just stopped. The corridor twisted and turned a number of times before become stairs, and she followed him up until he turned into a silhouette and she entered a chamber filled with natural light.

It was at least twice the size of the foyer, and seemed to be twice as empty. It was difficult to tell; the ceiling was several stories high, and the far end of the chamber a wall of glass. She could see the city sprawled out below, and hadn’t realised how high up they were until now. As she followed the lawyer across the floor she realised the room was a semi-circle of windows, giving a commanding, totalitarian view of the world below. Despite her awe and wonder, she couldn’t help but imagine that whoever had commissioned this room probably had a small penis. 

The lawyer strode deliberately towards a large desk at the far end of the room. Behind that desk was a large chair, and in the chair sat a late middle aged man. As they arrived she saw he held a fountain pen in his hand, and was busily scribbling something on some paper. Sandra wondered what you could achieve in this room if you actually sat here all day under the pretence of doing ‘work.’ She looked at the other office buildings around them, and wondered what anybody was doing in each of those offices all day of every day. She then wondered exactly what she did all day every day in her office. She then wondered if she even had a job. She should really call them at some point.

The lawyer spoke.

“Ms Sandra Walker – this is Mr Richard Pohler.”

She switched gears and took control of the situation. She held out her hand and said firmly “Pleased to meet you sir.” 

He completely ignored her, and continued writing as the lawyer moved to stand behind his chair. She slipped gears and lost control of the situation as she awkwardly waited for him to speak. She noticed there weren’t any chairs, and found herself standing to attention, then slouching, then suddenly having a really, really itchy nose, just inside the left nostril. And she was confident that ‘not picking just scratching’ really wouldn’t hold water here. This sucked.

“Ms Walker, thankyou for coming at such short notice” he said, eventually, after deliberately putting the pen down and looking up at her.

“Well it wasn’t really like I had a choice.”

“Oh I think you had a choice actually. You gave her a choice, didn’t you Sebastian?”

“Oh yes, absolutely.”

“No, uh”, she stumbled, “it’s just a figure of speech. That is, I mean, I didn’t really have anything else to do, so…”

“Nothing else to do” the old man repeated, curiously. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not a murder suspect Ms Walker?”

Her heart skipped a beat. She knew this and that were related somehow, but she didn’t like where this was going.

“How do you know that?”

“I’m going to tell you something Ms Walker, and I’m not going to repeat it ever. Should our association extend past today you will learn that I’m not in the habit of repeating myself. Do you understand?”

“Is that what you’re going to tell me or just the precursor to prepare me for what you’re going to tell me?”

“When I tell you I know something, don’t ask how. Just know that I know.”

“And you probably know a whole lot more, I get it.”

“Sebastian said you were quick.”

“Did he now? Isn’t that nice.”

“He also said you were antagonistic.”

“Don’t hold back or anything.”

 “I’ve asked you here Ms Walker because there is something I don’t know, and I need your help.”

“Let me guess – this somehow involved naked dead guy, doesn’t it?”

“His name was Richard.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want you to tell me what happened to my son.”