Frank and Michelle

Friday, September 13th, at one in the afternoon (i.e. 13.00).

Not the most auspicious date and time, was it? And yet it was when, as Simone notified Michelle, Abigail’s will would be opened, at her office in the heart of London. After consulting with the internet, we found it would be much more convenient to go there and back by public transit rather than taking Jennifer’s car, as we’d done a couple times previously; and so, on a brisk, breezy September morning, we left the Tube and walked the couple blocks to Simone’s law firm, which was situated in a squat, brick-lined building, and advertised by the sign Wheeler, Bishop and Lambton, Solicitors and Barristers.

“Jennifer Simmons and Michelle O’Hagan,” Jennifer told the receptionist, when she asked if she could help us. “Plus a guest. Here to see miss Bishop.”

“Ah yes, we’ve been expecting you,” replied the receptionist, motioning at a sheet of paper set on the reception counter. “Please sign here.” When we did so she handed us three visitor passes for the building, and pointed across the lobby. “Take the elevator to the third floor, then right, and it’s straight down the hall.”

“Thank you,” said Michelle, and we crowded into the elevator. It was an old building, so the lifts were quite small, the three us three just barely fit into one. We made the trip up in silence, then followed the receptionist’s directions and found Simone’s office.

Danny was sitting in a chair in the hallway, beside the office’s door.

“Look who decided to show up,” he said, with a sneer. “Didn’t think ya would.”

“I thought the same about ya,” replied Michelle coolly, looking down at him. “Ya didn’t care one bit about mum, but ya sure care about her money, don’t ya?”

She had a strange accent, similar to Danny’s; it was probably the way she spoke when she was younger, before she started to hide it, and she found it more comfortable to slip back into her old way of speech to argue with her brother. Danny, on his part, grit his teeth. “Now listen here, ya...” he said, and started to get up.

We heard someone clear their throat from down the hallway; the security guard who had been standing in front of the elevator when we came up and who’d checked our visitor passes was giving us a piercing stare, which clearly meant don’t start anything, or else. With a huff, Danny let himself fall back down into the chair, and we sat on a bench set against the wall opposite from him.

We glowered at each other for a while until the office door opened. “Good, you’re all here!” said Simone, peeking out of the office. “Please, do come in and make yourself comfortable.”

We filed in, and sat on the chair that were already placed out in front of Simone’s desk. The office was clearly as old as the building, and the décor reflected that: tall wooden bookshelves lined the walls, filled with piles upon piles of undecipherable legal texts, and what little space wasn’t taken up by the books was filled by filing cabinets. Simone’s desk wasn’t very big, but it was also wooden and, by the look of it, quite old; she sat down in a comfortable-looking leather chair behind it. As the door closed I could see two large, menacing-looking blokes standing beside it; everyone saw them, they were quite noticeable. “Don’t worry, they’re just here as witnesses for the proceedings,” said Simone, in answer to our questioning looks. “Law requires at least two people who are not involved in the will to witness the opening.”

I would later learn that this was a bald-faced lie; there was no such legal requirement, the two men were there for security, in case something happened. Simone was a smart girl.

“Now, let’s begin, and I apologise if I’m going to be formal; these things must be done by the book,” said Simone. She turned on a voice recorder that was sitting on top of the desk, and spoke clearly and loudly. “September 13th, 2019, the time is one oh five PM; we are gathered in London at the offices of Wheeler, Bishop and Lambton, solicitors and barristers, to unseal the last will and testament of the late Abigail Arthur, died August 8th, current year. I am Simone Bishop, solicitor and executor of the deceased’s estate; present in the room are the legitimate heirs to Mrs Arthur, Danny Collins, Jennifer Simmons, and Michelle O’Hagan.” She paused, looking at each in turn. “As there seems to be no objection, I will proceed to open and read the deceased’s will.”

She reached over to her right, picked up a simple white envelope that had sat unnoticed on the desk, and cut the top open with a paper knife. Inside, it seems, was just a single sheet of paper, which Simone unfolded. She cleared her throat, and read aloud.

“My dears, I am sorry for the pain my departure has surely caused you; I have experienced loss, and I know it’s not easy to get over it, but I’m sure you’ll make it. Our family has always produced strong people.”

Simone paused. “There is no more need for words, not right now. Whatever we wanted to say, we will probably have said while I was still alive. For now, remember me. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

I could see Michelle and Jennifer were holding back tears, and even Danny seemed a bit moved. Simone took a deep breath and carried on.

“Now to the nitty-gritty business. It is my will that the inheritance tax, and all fees and dues, as well as Simone’s compensation for her duty, be paid from my estate. Whatever is left will be divided as follows.

“One tenth will go to my son, Danny. I have not forgotten how he has treated me and his sisters, and while I do forgive him, I feel he does not deserve more than that. The money shall be placed in a blind trust, to be released to him after five years, provided he is not convicted of any crime in that period; otherwise, the money shall go to a charity of Simone’s choosing.”

By the glint in Simone’s eye, I could tell she was already thinking of a proper charity to give the money to.

“The remaining part shall be divided equally between my two daughters, Michelle and Jennifer. I hope they will agree on how to split my earthly belongings, but in case they don’t, I task Simone with making an equal division.

“And that, I think, is all. I have been blessed in knowing you. Goodbye.

“Signed, Abigail Arthur.”

There was a long silence, which was broken after about half a minute by an angry voice. “Hold up, what the bloody hell does that mean?” asked Danny. “I don’t get anything?”

“You will, in due time,” replied Simone. “Provided you don’t land into trouble.”

“That’s horseshit and ya know it!” Danny was shouting now. “Ten percent, in five years? I need it now!” He looked at Michelle and Jennifer. “It was them! It was you!” He stabbed his finger forcefully, pointing at Michelle. “Ya forced mum to re-write the will!”

“The will is dated January 23rd,” said Simone, calmly. “I doubt Michelle had anything to do with it.” She smirked. “You should really calm down. You’re making a scene.”

Danny’s face, already red in rage, became even redder. He started to get up, making a move towards Simone.

I don’t even know how it happened, I blinked and I missed it. The two men who were standing beside the door behind us just a second before were now by Danny’s side, each holding one of his arms, twisting them in a slight but painful-looking way, and forcing him to sit back down.

“Thank you, lads,” nodded Simone. “Now, Daniel, that’s really no way to react.”

Danny started to struggle, but the two blokes held him fast.

“Oh, do stop that,” Simone chided him. “I’m not going to have them toss you out just yet, provided you promise to behave.”

“Fuck ya!” Danny spat out in response.

“Oh, dear, wrong answer. Lads,” said Simone, “please see him out of the building.”

“Come on, mate,” said one of the men. “Get up.” They bent Danny’s arms slightly, forcing him to comply.

“Ya don’t understand!” shouted Danny, as he was led out of the room. “I need the money! Please!”

Please? That word, coming from him, and in that tone, really surprised me. I looked at him, and as the door closed I could see desperation on his face, a look he’d never shown in my presence before.

“Well that was… Unpleasant,” said Simone, grimacing. “I hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that.” Then she looked up at Michelle and Jennifer and smiled. “Now, shall we set up a date so we can look over the list of Abigail’s belongings and decide how to divide them? Would next week work for you?”

A few days later me and Em were eating dinner when the doorbell rang. We looked at each other, puzzled; we had both worked late, and were eating dinner much later than usual, it was almost ten PM. Who could be calling at that time?

When I opened the door there was a man standing there: close cropped brown hair, a short beard, dressed in casual but well-fitting clothes – the picture of a random person, who can blend in a crowd really easily. If I had to define him in a single word, nondescript would have been it.

“Good evening, sir. Sorry for visiting at such late an hour,” he said. His voice was nondescript too; he spoke carefully and evenly, without any hint of an accent. “Is this the residence of miss Michelle O’Hagan?” he asked.

“It is,” I replied, then called over my shoulder. “Michelle! There’s someone here asking for you!”

When Em came to the door the man nodded to her. “Good evening miss. Are you Michelle O’Hagan?”

“That would be me,” answered Michelle. “And you are?”

The man ignored her question. “As I said to your gentleman friend, I apologise for the late hour. I was wondering, would you happen to know where your brother is at the moment?”

“No, I don’t.”

The man clicked his tongue. “This is unfortunate. Would you mind telling me when and where you saw him last?”

“A few days ago, in London,” replied Michelle.

“I see,” said the man. “Well, if you happen to see him, please do give me a call.” He pulled a card out of his coat and handed it to Michelle; standing by her side, I could see it only carried a number, a mobile phone by the looks of it, printed black on white paper.

The man turned to leave, but stopped and turned back when Michelle asked, “What is this all about?”

When he replied it was still in that careful, measured tone, but the words sent shivers down our spines. “Your brother has defaulted on a loan. I have been tasked by my employer to discern his location and… Collect.”

I felt my hair rise on the back of my neck. Neither me nor Michelle were career criminals, of course, but we had spent enough time behind bars to not understand the implication behind those words. And it explained why Danny was so desperate to get a bigger share of the inheritance.

“I see,” replied Michelle, carefully. “And if he doesn’t pay, then what?”

“He will,” said the man. “One way or the other.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” repeated Michelle, and there was an edge in her voice.

“You need not worry about that, miss,” came the answer. “In my line of business we firmly believe in the concept of personal responsibility; his debt is his, and his alone.”

Michelle nodded, but I could see she was still tense. The man started to leave, then paused. “Oh, one last thing. I really would appreciate if you didn’t tell the police about this conversation.”

He smiled, then turned and walked down the street, and he was gone. Me and Em looked at each other, then without a word she walked to the living room table, picked up the mobile phone she’d left there, and dialled.

“Jen,” she said. “Sorry, I know it’s late, but I wanted to ask...”

She paused, listening to the other side. “At your place too, huh,” she said. “Guess Danny really screwed up big time. What do we do?” Another pause. “Tomorrow, after work. My place or your place? Okay, see you then.”

She set the phone back down on the table, then turned to me. “Jennifer’s coming over tomorrow, we’ll decide what to do about this.”