Frankenstein's Guide (Book 1, the LiteraTours Cozy Mystery Series)

Chapter 4: For whom the Bell tolls - Part 1

The image is by Gerry Kiesewetter from Unsplash.

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The door slammed shut with a bang that sent a shock wave travelling along the floor and up Gary's body, first triggering previously dormant nerves in the blasted foot then zinging straight into the new crown he could swear had not been fitted correctly.

I'm a wreck.

Not even forty and fit for nothing but the compost heap. The next moment he regretted the thought for it ushered in other unwelcome memories. The cloying scent of flowers, beautifully arranged only to wilt on the wet mound of greedy earth that had claimed Emma's body. It was no consolation that she had died in an instant, had literally dropped dead. But from the expression on her sweet face, Gary knew a bursting aneurysm must have meant torture, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Not fair . . .

He balled the crutch-free fist and pushed back against on the spikes of heart-wrenching pain that threatened to pierce his carefully constructed façade. Over the last year, it had become easier to keep up appearances, but a calm demeanour was not a given. One careless thought, and bang, back came the loss, an unwanted caller at a lonely house.

"Jon? Jonathan!"

He rarely used his son's full name unless in anger. Usually, it prompted a response. Today, the door to Jon's bedroom remained shut. Either the earplugs had already come back in, or the boy was deliberately ignoring him. Gary suspected the latter, limped ahead and rattled on the handle.

"Jon, I want that door open on the count of three. One . . . Two . . . Two and a half . . ."

The door creaked open, and a tear-streaked face under a tousled blond mop peeped through the crack. Crying was not a good sign. Crying was the epitome of uncool, everything a twelve-year-old going on twenty wouldn't want to be.

"It's no good. We must talk."

Jon's face disappeared, but he had left the door open, which Gary took as an invitation to enter. He forced himself to ignore the fallout littering the floor, just used his crutch to push aside dirty socks, footie albums, computer parts and other assorted boyish clutter before sinking onto the bed next to his son. No books. Books were anathema. The mattress sagged in the middle and needed replacing. Last week, the cleaner had point-blank refused to enter the war-zone ever again; yet another chore he did not know how to cope with. But first things first.

"Jon, you can't just hit your classmate over the head with your snack-box."

"It was empty."

"That's not an excuse. And why did you bloody the other guy's nose? If you keep that up, you'll soon be expelled."

Jon sniffed. "Good. I hate school."

"Nope, you're not getting off the hook. I want an explanation."

The stern parental mode was not something that came naturally to Gary, but in a way, it was just another way of keeping up appearances. At least with Jon, it would be worth it. Hopefully. The boy was spinning out of control, causing a flurry of letters from the school to land in their post box, alternatively threatening disciplinary action or recommending—but not offering—counselling. The parental meetings were becoming increasingly unpleasant, in the last one the head teacher had shown the audacity to call Jon a "little oik" and threatened immediate dismissal. Gary had imitated the stiff upper lip so prominent on the portraits of his ancestors that crowded the attic of their uninspiring abode, euphemistically called "starter home". The haughty expression had worked and helped to call the teacher's bluff. But in the long term, it wouldn't be enough.