Heaven Nor Hell, page 1
HEAVEN
NOR
HELL
by
Paul Greenway
copyright 2014 Paul Greenway
Chapter One
Tuesday
‘I’m very sorry, Auntie Edna.’
She dabbed her mascara-streaked eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I'm not.’
Todd’s expression of feigned sympathy transformed into one of confusion. ‘But I thought–‘
‘These are tears of joy, Todd, not sadness. Your Uncle Charlie was a bastard. We all knew that.
‘Oh. I didn't.’
They were at Centennial Park, a sprawling cemetery among the inner southern suburbs of Adelaide. Among the immaculate gardens of blossoms and roses enjoyed by the prolific bird life is the Jubilee Chapel complex. Inside one appropriately solemn and neutrally-coloured room, mourners were dutifully paying respects by shaking hands with relatives, strolling past the coffin to view the deceased, laying extravagant wreaths, and devouring all the food. The sounds of jewellery jangling from the women’s arms and ringtones from the businessmen’s phones punctuated the unusual silence among those who had nothing in common except a passing acquaintanceship or distant kinship with Charlie Harper.
Todd’s aunt tried, with a spectacular lack of success, to dress and act half her 65 years, and even the funeral of her husband was no excuse not to dress up in the summer’s latest fashions. She pointed to a young man in a corner prattling meaninglessly on a mobile phone. ‘Your cousin Cyril is ordering ridiculously-overpriced speakers for the Jaguar he'll inherit from his father.’ Edna nodded towards a woman facing the open coffin with one hand deep inside a handbag. ‘And your Auntie Betty is standing over her brother's coffin with a large kitchen knife in her handbag just …’ Edna paused. ‘… in case he ...’ She gulped.
Edna had to squint intensely to fully recognise the expression of sheer horror spread across the face of Betty, whose jaw dropped as she started hyperventilating. Within seconds, Betty staggered backwards while trying to extract something from her handbag. She then collapsed to the plush grey rug below.
Five others reluctantly put down their cups of coffee and plates of sandwiches and rushed to Betty’s side. They turned en masse as Betty raised her flabby arm crookedly towards the coffin. The two females screamed and buckled in a crumpled heap, while the three men gawked wordlessly as the corpse stirred.
* * * * *
The University of Adelaide is situated along the northern fringes of the city’s business district. Over 140 years old and surrounded by stately icons like the Art Gallery, Library and Museum, the campus boasts the extensive Barr Smith Library, accessible from steps linking North Terrace with the unimpressive River Torrens. Inside the library, hundreds of students were avoiding lectures, socialising and taking advantage of free Wi-Fi while lounging across a series of pink and lime-green cushions.
Among this throng was Todd, a curly-haired 23 year old with a cheeky grin struggling through the second year of a journalism degree that would be virtually useless before he even graduated. He often sat motionless and stared expressionless at his books and laptop, but this time he had a reason.
Two of his fellow students strode into the study room with the pink walls: Ashleigh, with cropped tousled hair that enhanced her striking round cheeks; and Jordan, a lanky lad whose manner, attire and general untidiness could be best described as “nerdy” – a term he relished anyway.
‘You look like you've seen a ghost.’ Ashleigh was genuinely concerned and sincere.
As Todd exhaled, his lips quivered. ‘I think I just did.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Jordan couldn’t fake any semblances of sincerity or concern so he checked Todd's laptop screen instead. ‘And where are all those ideas you promised us yesterday?’
‘I ... uh ...’
‘Todd!’ Ashleigh scowled. ‘We came here to brainstorm, remember?’
‘… for our investigative assignment?’ added Jordan, although they all knew.
‘I was at my uncle's funeral this morning …’ mumbled Todd.
‘Oh, sorry. I forgot.’ Ashleigh offered a compassionate smile.
‘… but I did see a ghost, there at the funeral. My Uncle Charlie was lying in the coffin.’ Todd trembled at the recollection. ‘Then, everyone started crying ...’
‘But that’s normal.’ Jordan was sure this was true, although he’d never been to a funeral.
‘… after someone else laughed.’
‘You have a weird family.’ Jordan was confident that laughter was not normal.
Todd stopped sighing so he could ponder. ‘Everyone was crying when they realised my uncle wasn't dead.’
‘So, who was laughing?’ asked Ashleigh.
‘The corpse.’
‘Weird as shit.’ Jordan opened his daypack as his interest rapidly waned.
But Ashleigh’s curiosity intensified. ‘Your uncle's still alive? That's great.’
Todd shook his curls. ‘Not according to his friends and my relatives. They told me Uncle Charlie was – is – a gangster. Part of some group involved in all sorts of dodgy stuff.’
‘He's a gangster?!’ Jordan was now animated. ‘That's great!’ Several students actually studying at nearby tables rotated towards Jordan and glowered, so he made a token effort to whisper. ‘I mean, there's a story in that. There has to be. Maybe, your uncle was murdered.’
‘Nah. Uncle Charlie died of heart failure. But there is a story, my friends. A big one.’ Leaning forward, Todd whispered almost inaudibly. ‘How and why was he pronounced dead?’
Ashleigh found it impossible to contain her excitement in hushed tones. ‘Funerals. Resurrection. Gangsters. Malpractice. Sounds awesome!’
Chapter Two
Wednesday
The one place where no-one even bothered pretending to study was the Uni Bar, located in the Union House in which all other essential aspects of university life can be found: the STA Travel booking office, cinema, gym and Mayo Café.
As usual, the bar was packed at lunchtime, but Todd and Ashleigh had found their usual table with its semi-circle of cushioned seats. As Todd stared at a quarter-page article in the glossy University magazine, On Dit, he alternated between frowning, muttering and sighing. Ashleigh flicked through The Advertiser, South Australia’s only daily newspaper, which she never considered worthwhile buying but always found discarded somewhere on the campus. The empty glasses scattered across the table indicated the typical monetary drawbacks of university life.
Jordan approached and slapped Todd on the back. ‘Oh, stop sobbing, will you? Your story about Uncle Charlie's resurrection was printed.’
Todd lifted up the thin edition of the University publication. ‘But it's not the lead story.’
Jordan groaned. ‘What do the lecturers tell us? It's about the story, not the reporter.’
‘That is such crap.’ Todd scowled at Jordan and the empty glasses. ‘It’s always about the reporter.’
Ashleigh flicked over a page of The Advertiser. ‘Well, your story was picked up by the mainstream press.’
Todd leaned over Ashleigh's shoulder with guarded enthusiasm. ‘Really?’
Ashleigh smirked. ‘Yep, about 25 words on ...’ She peered at the number on the bottom right-hand corner with exaggerated intent. ‘... page, oh, 32.’
Todd leaned back, even more dejected. ‘And they misspelled my bloody name. Everyone knows Ridgway has no “e”.’
‘I didn’t.’ But Jordan didn’t care remotely enough to look up from his iPhone.
‘There’s still a story here, I can smell it. But it needs more substance.’ Todd thumped the table with dismay. ‘The story needs more balls.’
Jordan flicked down the screen of his phone several times. ‘And Uncle Charlie hasn't even rated one single mention in Twitter-space.’
Ashleigh folded up The Advertiser untidily and turned towards Todd. ‘We've got to talk to the doctor who signed your Uncle Charlie's death certificate.’
Jordan stooped to pick up his daypack. ‘And I'll borrow some decent camera gear from the faculty. It's time we stopped wasting our time on words.’ He flicked his right hand disparagingly across the newspaper and magazine. ‘No-one reads anymore.’
‘But we still drink!’ Todd pointed at the empty glasses on the table. ‘Whose round is it?’
‘Yours.’ Ashleigh growled.
* * * * *
The Morphettville Medical Centre is, perhaps incongruously, located opposite a McDonald’s outlet and across a tram line from a racecourse. Large and functional, but devoid of any soul or ambience, it was created primarily to make money for investors rather than to maintain the health of locals.
Inside, impatient patients sat forlornly along several jumbled rows of uncomfortable chairs. They were bored of staring at the muted TV screen mounted on the wall at a neck-aching angle. Most hadn’t even bothered flicking through the magazines, which were over three years old and mind-numbingly dull anyway. And they weren’t allowed to use their phones to scroll through Facebook and pretend they had friends who cared about their health. So, they collectively raised their heads with undemonstrative curiosity as Ashleigh, Jordan and Todd rattled the door. The patients were also mildly fascinated with Jordan’s bulky daypack in which a video camera and microphone were concealed – although he couldn’t properly hide the top end of the tripod.
Todd had designated himself leader, so he approached the curved desk flanked by grey mobile filing cabinets. Two female staff were frantic
Jordan decided to speak forcefully for the benefit of everyone in the waiting area. ‘You know, Todd, I would've thought you'd need a specialist for severe gonorrhoea.’
Kathy groaned and wordlessly raised her eyes from the computer screen.
‘… especially, you being so contagious and all.’
Todd waved his left arm randomly in Ashleigh’s direction. ‘And these are my friends. Ashleigh something ...’
‘He didn't get it from me!’ Ashleigh scowled.
Todd pointed to his other friend. ‘... and Jordan whatever.’
‘Or me!’ Jordan could out-scowl anyone.
Kathy checked her computer screen and raised one eye towards Todd. ‘Your appointment is at 1.40. Please sit down over there.’ She pointed to the sole remaining empty chair.
Jordan continued at the same volume level. ‘But he can't sit just anywhere with his acute haemorrhoids!’
Almost immediately those near the empty seat swiftly stood and shuffled as one towards a distant corner.
‘Doctor Wagstaff will see you soon.’
‘But, Kathy, I specifically asked to see Doctor Olsson. That’s with one “s”.’
Kathy had no time or tolerance to deal with anyone like Todd. ‘And I am specifically telling you that Doctor Olsson – regardless of the number of “esses” – is unavailable.’
‘But I have to talk to Doctor Olsson about my, um …’ Leaning closer to the window separating him from the receptionist, Todd whispered. ‘… my condition.’
Kathy followed Jordan’s lead and bellowed. ‘Gonorrhoea is quite common, Mister Ridgway! And Doctor Wagstaff will treat your very embarrassing sexually transmitted disease soon!’
‘But …’ Todd noticed his two colleagues meandering down the corridor.
Ashleigh, Jordan and Todd checked the names on every door along both sides of the corridor before finding one labelled “Dr Olsson”. Jordan unzipped his daypack, opened the video camera, and passed the wireless microphone to Ashleigh. All Todd had to do was extract a pen and notepad from a trouser pocket.
Noticing Kathy stomping towards them from the reception area, Todd swiftly opened the door to Dr Olsson’s surgery room. Jordan and Ashleigh hurriedly followed. The room was packed with medical equipment, as well as a bed, desk and chair, but no-one was inside.
They turned and braced themselves for Kathy’s arrival. ‘I told you that Doctor Olsson is ...’ She noticed the video camera and microphone aimed towards her.
Todd clicked his pen. ‘Then, where is the doctor?’
‘I, ah ... I don't …’
‘Was the death certificate of Charlie Harper certified by Doctor Olsson?’
‘Um …’ Kathy gulped.
‘It was according to my report in The Advertiser.’
‘Really? On what page?’
‘Never mind.’ Todd sneered and pretended to make some notes.
Kathy raised her arm towards Jordan’s camera. ‘I'll talk if you turn that bloody thing off.’
Todd indicated that Jordan should close the video camera, which he reluctantly did. Ashleigh positioned the microphone by her side.
Kathy gently closed the door behind her. ‘Doctor Olsson only works here at the surgery part-time, but hasn't turned up today. Hasn't rung in either ...’ She paused – wary, edgy and distrustful. ‘The doctor can't be contacted by telephone or email. And doesn't seem to be at home, either.’
Todd flicked over a page of his notepad with a flourish. ‘I see. My uncle was Charlie Harper. I mean, is. He died – or didn't – last week of heart failure.’
Kathy nodded. ‘I know.’
‘How long did Doctor Olsson treat my uncle for his heart condition?’
‘Your uncle didn't have any heart condition. He was disgustingly healthy for someone who smoked and drank, and whatever else gangsters do.’ She stepped towards the door and gripped the handle. ‘And that is strictly off the record.’
Todd triumphantly slid the pen and pad into his top pocket. ‘Of course.’
‘Now, I have to go back and pacify all the patients you've just terrified.’
Todd tried to smile flirtatiously. ‘To show my appreciation, Kathy, can we go out for dinner?’
‘I am not going out with you–’
‘Oh.’
‘–with your medical conditions.’
* * * * *
By late afternoon, the Uni Bar had emptied of students, who had finished dodging lectures and were now starting one of their part-time jobs to pay for their fees. It was now starting to fill with after-workers looking for cheap beer and subsidised meals.
Once more, Todd gazed despondently at his empty glass before glancing at the counter. ‘Do you think if I chatted to that bargirl with those long luscious legs that we'd get free drinks?’
‘I tried that last week.’
Ashleigh wiped the seat before sitting down. ‘Can you two idiots stop thinking about beer or sex for a nanosecond?’
Todd and Jordan paused, shook their heads and answered together. ‘Nope.’
‘Focus, will you? We have a real story here.’ Ashleigh counted on her left hand. ‘We have a doctor who signed a death certificate for someone who died of heart failure, but had no heart conditions.’ She extended her forefinger. ‘Second, we have a gangster who comes back to life.’ Next was a middle finger choked with rings. ‘Third, there’s a doctor who has disappeared.’
Jordan glanced behind Todd. ‘… and, fourth, we have a curly-haired reporter called Todd with severe gonorrhoea and haemorrhoids.’
The leggy bargirl, who had intended to collect their empty glasses, immediately swivelled around and wiped down another table.
Todd glared at Jordan but spoke to Ashleigh. ‘We need talking heads. An interview.’
‘But Doctor Olsson’s gone AWOL.’ Ashleigh sighed. ‘And that receptionist won't talk to us on camera.’
‘… or go out with me,’ added Todd with disbelief. ‘So that leaves–‘
‘–Uncle Charlie.’ Ashleigh spun around towards Todd. ‘Would he agree to be interviewed on camera?’
‘He would if you wear a low-cut top.’ Todd pointed at the empty glasses, uncollected. ‘Whose round is it?’
‘Yours!’ Jordan and Ashleigh growled in tandem.
* * * * *
The esplanade along the southern stretches of Glenelg, Adelaide’s pre-eminent suburban beach, is crammed with rectangular monstrosities of grey concrete and triple-garages. Most are wrapped with balconies and dotted with windows to take advantage of the renowned sunsets that boosted the cost of each home by $50,000 or more. One of these belonged to Charlie Harper, Todd’s uncle.
The lounge room was decorated in a way that Charlie no doubt thought was sumptuous, but the three students considered as tacky. Barely able to resist gazing at the flaming sphere slipping over the ocean, Jordan positioned his video camera on a tripod, Ashleigh checked her wireless microphone, and Todd flicked his pen. In an adjacent alcove, Charlie’s wife, aka Auntie Edna, was again dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief; Charlie’s sister, Betty, had her hand once more firmly plunged inside a handbag; and Charlie’s son, Cyril, was glumly flicking through a catalogue of Jaguar cars.
Eventually, Charlie ambled in clutching a crystal glass of Scotch and ice.
‘Nice to see you standing up this time.’ Todd shook hands with his uncle before introducing his two colleagues. ‘This is Jordan and Ashleigh.’ Charlie nodded at both and furtively glanced at Ashleigh’s low-cut top thinking she wouldn’t notice.
Charlie slumped into a plush lounge-chair and pulled a lever to extend the footrest. ‘Yes, it is a miracle.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of Edna, Betty and Cyril. ‘And you can see how happy my recovery has made them.’
Ashleigh positioned her microphone near the man’s double chin. ‘So, how do you feel?’
‘I feel ... I feel alive.’ His rows of choppers were stained yellow from nicotine and age.
‘We have reliable information that you had no heart condition, yet you died of heart failure.’
Charlie shrugged and again peeked at Ashleigh’s cleavage. ‘All I know is that I was dead. And then I came back to life.’
‘Was Doctor Olsson treating you for anything serious?’
