Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller (6 page)

“Thank you, that’s all I
require for now.”

“Of course.”

Jeff stands up to leave.

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Have a good trip and watch
out for the step.”

“The step?”

“You’ll understand when the
time comes.”

Jeff turns his back, he’s
had enough for one day. It’s not time for the guard to escort Casey to his
cell; before the steel door slides shut, he catches a glimpse of concern from
Eve.

“That was intense.”

“It was.”

“Is it true what he said
about your grandmother?”

“Yeah.”

Jeff takes the rest of the
day to contemplate the implications of what Casey said to him. Time and time
again he watches the recording. Casey hadn’t played the psychic game of hit and
miss. No leading questions and no stock message. No farewell acts of she loves
you, or that she’s happy on the other side. The aftermath is all too real, too
close to home for comfort.

Casey is the biggest mystery
Jeff’s encountered so far in life. The tip of the sun dips behind the
mountains,
leaving them to fade to black. The day
dissipates behind him.

“Do we have the address for
Casey’s mother on file?”

“It will be in the reports.
Why?”

“It would be an advantage to
go to the source and find out a few home truths. He can’t contaminate his
mother; he has no contact. Right?”

“Right. He’s not permitted
contact with the outside world.”

“Perfect.”

The whirl of the
jet engines propel; the wheels drone. The plane slowly and archaically taxis
along, stopping at the beginning of the runway. This moment fills the
passengers with either exhilaration or dread. The pilot throttles the engines
at full power to detect any possible problems; there are none. He releases the
brakes.

“How did you get me on this
plane?”

“It wasn’t easy.”

Eve reaches out to Jeff for
comfort; her palms are moist to the touch. She looks so beautiful in her moment
of fear; her braids fall over her breasts, and rise and fall deeply with each
breath she takes. Throughout her life planes have terrified her, a
psychological issue made worse by the security problems of recent years. If the
plane lands in one piece Eve will still think it's a failed suicide attempt.
The engines howl. They are pushed back into their seats; the droning fades as
the jetliner hits its optimum speed and leaves the runway. The plane climbs
ever higher. They hear the wheels and undercarriage doors retract, a thud beneath
their feet. A few minutes later the plane levels out, cruising at its
designated altitude: relief for all on board. Only then does Eve release her
hand from Jeff's.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“No.” Eve doesn’t care what
Jeff thinks; she’s terrified. “I don’t want to look.”

“You’ll be fine.” Jeff can’t
help but smile; he’s never seen her like this. Eve’s such a strong woman.

“I won’t.”

Jeff reads the landscape at
thirty thousand feet, and Eve concentrates on the magazine in front of her.
Below lie golden pastures, national forests and the rolling plains. If Eve had
got her way, they would be driving. The flight is routine, bar the odd shimmer
of turbulence. It seems no time has passed before they are over enormous
deltas, with vast areas of swampland and contrasting coastline below. The
'fasten seatbelt' light comes on. Eve takes a deep breath as she clips the belt
around her waist, and takes hold of Jeff’s hand again. The plane starts to make
its ear-popping descent. Wing flaps retract, their motor whirring, slowing the
plane, creating an unsteady feeling that increases Eve's uneasiness. Powerful
engines throttle back then unexpectedly rev. Hydraulics push the landing gear
down as the earth below moves ever closer, and yet, for all Eve’s fears,
touchdown is a dream. Engines howl in reverse thrust as the state of Louisiana
and New Orleans welcome them.

New Orleans airport rocks an
edgy vibe. Named after Louis Armstrong, his statue stands tall amongst backdrop
paintings of jazz musicians and live music on the concourse. Ceiling fans
resemble airplane wings, and the smell of pralines and Lucky Dogs fill the air.
Once through the bustle of the airport, Jeff picks up the rental car. Eve is
amused at his bland choice of vehicle, and decides to tease him.

“What do you call that?”

“Transport.” Eve’s smiling;
he knows she's teasing, yet he still feels defensive.

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Jeff projects
authority with his voice, and Eve flashes a 'gotcha!' smile back to him. “Stop
it and jump in. We need to find a motel.”

The car door closes behind
Eve with a clunk.

“The rental agent gave me
two pieces of advice.”

“Go on.” Eve has no
enthusiasm in her voice, especially for rental agent advice.

“Watch out for the speed
traps and stay out of the shadows.”

“What’s new?”

“New Orleans is broke; one
way to raise revenue is to screw the tourists.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, and if City Hall
don’t get you; the street hustlers will.”

“Well this town has soul.”
Eve holds that mischievous look in her eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I’m
ready for a touch of southern hospitality.”

Driving through New Orleans'
fanciful streets, they are greeted with the past, present and the future.
Soulful jazz, blues and funk grooves sound from every street corner. A magical
mix of cultures, architecture and street names relating to prominent Spaniards,
French patron saints and royals. Yet it’s on the outer districts where they
choose a motel. Eve falls in love with the Pink Lady Motel, and Jeff prefers to
be on the fringes of the city rather than in the thick of the action.

They park outside the office
which conveniently displays a red neon vacancy sign. The U.S. flag flutters
outside. Entering the building, they are greeted by a small room, an empty
counter, and a pink radiance of flowers to the left. The notice states 'No
Pets' alongside a sign that reads ‘Please ring for service’. The bell chimes
with the flick of Jeff’s wrist. He patiently waits; Eve casually looks around
at the pictures displayed on the wall. The flamboyant architecture of the
French Quarter, a white horse and royal carriage, the bronze equestrian statue
of General Andrew Jackson, and a steamboat on the Mississippi River. A
flamboyant elderly lady wearing a fluorescent pink blazer swans in from the
door at the back of the office. Eve notes her bleached white face contrasts
sharply with her deep red lipstick and her black painted eyebrows. For some
reason best left to herself, she wears a leopard skin western style hat, and
her grey curls protrude from the side. She’s the original pink lady.

“Hi! Thank y’all for callin’
at the Pink Lady. What can I do for y’all?”

“Hi. I'd like two single
rooms please.”

“Jeff.”

“Yes?”

“Make it a double.”

“You sure?” Jeff can see Eve
flush around her chest and neck.

“I’ll feel safer.”

“A double it is.”

The pink lady gives Jeff a
knowing smile; a look of 'it’s your lucky night tonight', and he knows it.

“One hundred and twenty nine
dollars a night. No smoking and no pets; parking is free, and keep the noise
down. You’re in apartment forty eight.”

The pink lady takes Jeff’s card
details and hands the room keys over.

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy your stay.”

The allocated parking space
now hosts yet another rental car, one of an endless stream of vehicles that
have waited outside this brash pink motel. Eve loves the anticipation she feels
whilst opening the door. She may be a strong independent woman, but at times
like this, her guard slips, and like a child she can’t hold back the
excitement.

“Wow! Look at this.”

They are greeted with a
suite channeling the vibe of the sixties. The walls are a light pink, and a
matching circular pink rug sits on top of the hard-wearing grey carpet. There’s
a wonderful curved crimson couch with black upholstery. A chrome stem curves
from behind the couch, and supports, like fruit from a branch, three golden
spotlights. On the wall is a contemporary monochrome New Orleans print in a red
frame.

“She likes her pink, doesn’t
she?”

“Works for me.”

They walk through to the
en-suite bedroom. A large double bed takes center stage, whilst opposite stands
an oval mirror. Eve opens the wardrobe doors; pink again, broken up with
crimson that matches the curtain valance.

“Perfect.”

“Ticks the right boxes?”

“All of them.” This includes
Jeff, but she isn’t going to reveal this just yet. ”So what’s the plan?”

“We’re officially tourists
tonight; I thought we could hit the French Quarter and worry about work in the
morning.”

“Cool, I’ll shower first.”

“Okay.” Jeff stands
motionless with a smile.

“Well go on.”

“What?”

“Get out of here while I get
ready.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Jeff walks through to the
living room and sits down, resting his head on the back of the couch. He closes
his eyes. In the bedroom, flattered by Jeff’s reluctance to leave the room, Eve
smiles to herself as she hangs her clothes in the wardrobe. She places red lace
panties and matching bra on the bed, alongside her black lace long-sleeve
keyhole dress. If nothing else she’s going to keep Jeff on his toes tonight;
secretly, she enjoys all the attention. As Eve steps into the shower and water
flows over her body, Jeff drifts into a deep sleep.
 

He is stepping out of
darkness onto a curb, looking up at an old wooden townhouse. It’s painted in an
Italianate palette of browns, greys and blues. Now, as with all the other
houses on the block, it's decaying like autumn leaves. A small path leads up to
the house; old timber steps that strain underfoot take him to the door. Jeff’s
hand reaches out and he pulls the knocker back, rapping three times. The door
slowly creaks open.
 

From the shadows a small
hunched lady steps forward. She has white curly hair, and wears a knitted black
shawl. Gold framed spectacles sit on the end of her nose. She smiles and
gestures that he’s welcome to step inside. The living room is dark and dismal;
the walls covered in a chaos of graffiti, mathematical and religious symbols.
He reads a few of them, realizes that they mark important family dates: births,
marriages and deaths. There’s a child drawn inside the womb alongside his own
birth date. The old lady reaches out and takes him by the hand towards a cellar
door; red letters are sprayed across it: ‘The end is near.’ Jeff reaches for
the door handle; before his hand touches she calls out his name. He looks to
her as she shakes the side of his arm, only to see her face morph into Eve.

“Jeff.”

“Uh.”

“Wake up.”

“I’m sorry.” Realizing it
was a dream, he manages a lethargic smile. “I must have nodded off.”

“Come on, sleepy head, it’s
time to get ready.”

Jeff gets to his feet and
can’t help but stare. Eve stands before him with sparkling eyes, wearing a
black dress and a beautiful smile. With her slim waistline and seductive legs,
Jeff can't stop his body's reaction. Yet he’s wise enough to understand that
one uninvited touch will destroy any chance he may have later tonight.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. Now go and get
yourself in that shower.”

Taxi drivers in New Orleans
see human nature at its best and worst. Many are well-educated, interesting:
individuals who find themselves chained to their steering wheels, working hard
to support families. Alberto is such a driver; he’s seen more than most, and
yet he is a delightful guide with a wealth of local knowledge. This can lead to
an enjoyable night out at a local watering hole, or an expensive night in
casualty for the less-than-polite tourist. He drives into the Pink Lady car
park; after thirty years in the business he knows every street, all the
celebrities, hustlers, room numbers.

“Taxi’s here.”

Jeff and Eve radiate
anticipation as they walk towards the cab. Alberto reads them in an instant as lovers,
tourists and an easy fare. He steps out of the car and opens the rear door.

“Thank you.”

Eve steps inside closely
followed by Jeff; both are clearly excited. The door is closed, and Alberto
gets back into the driver's seat.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening; would you
take us to Bourbon Street please?”

“Sure.” The white limousine
leaves the Pink Lady behind, and starts the journey towards the heart of New
Orleans. “First time here?”

“Yes, we arrived earlier
today.” There’s a slight pause before Jeff asks. “Could you recommend a nice
restaurant or bar for the evening?”

“What flavor you looking
for? We got bars, night clubs, casino, jazz and blues. Don’t just stop at
Bourbon Street; Frenchman Street will give you the best live music.”

“Quintessentially New
Orleans, but also cozy, with intimate cocktails, and a welcoming atmosphere
would be perfect.” Jeff laughs, knowing he's asking for the impossible.

“I know just the place.”

Jeff and Eve sit back and
enjoy the myriad of architectural styles passing by, so reflective of New
Orleans's long multicultural heritage. Stucco, wood and brick exteriors,
single, double and multi-storey houses. Roof aprons are supported by lacy
Victorian columns. Jewish and Greek Orthodox congregations stand alongside
African American store-front churches. Italians sell fresh produce and the air
is filled with jasmine blossom and spicy food. New Orleans was born from Native
Americans intermingling with African and European settlers, the city founded as
the cultural gateway into North America.

Alberto explains the history
in many of the street names in the French Quarter. Bourbon Street isn’t named
after alcohol; Bourbon is a Royal House of France. Many are named after
Catholic saints, and Canal Street once acted as a division between cultures.
The busy streets start to narrow; horses pull carriages whilst tourists sit
under parasols. Houses on either side are adorned with eighteenth century
ornate cast iron balconies; neon signs and U.S. flags overhang sidewalks.
Alberto pulls over in front of a restaurant, close to two police officers on
horseback. They don’t give the limo a second glance.