EXCERPT FROM IMPOSTER
By
"GOOD HEAVENS!" THE
bespectacled, fifty something coroner startled, abruptly stopping short as he
was about to perform the post mortem on the severely bruised corpse brought in
a few minutes ago with nearly half its face nothing but caved in dried blood
and gore. A low moan escaped its lips
and one dazed amber eye slowly blinked open.
The other one was swollen shut.
"What the devil...? You're
alive!" The coroner stuttered his
colourless pale-grey eyes behind wire‑rimmed glasses, almost popped out
of their sockets.
"Where am I? This don't
look like either Heaven or Hell, an' yer sure as hell don't look like the man
upstairs or the other fella below."
With extreme difficulty, Kenn Michael Harrison raised himself and sat up
on the sterile steel slab that was the operating table. The white sheet covering him slid down to
just below his waist. "Yeah, I
s'pose I must be back on ol' terra ferma. They must not 'ave wanted me up there or
down below after all. Damn! Every bleedin' bone in m'body feels like
I've been run over by a tank."
“Stay where you are!" The
coroner commanded. Recovering from his
initial shock, in his typically pragmatic British manner, he stalked over to
the phone on his paper and file littered desk.
"Ain't goin' nowhere guv'.
From the feel o' me right now, I'd say I'm stark naked and I don't think
the public's ready fer this magnificent sight." Kenn lifted the sheet and looked down at his lower half. It was intact, thank goodness. "But Jesus H. Christ, everything hurts
like bloody hell!"
Despite of himself the coroner smiled then proceeded to make the call.
"You better send someone down here, STAT! Apparently, the corpse that was brought in
half hour ago, is still alive and kicking!" He barked to the person
on the other end.
The coroner hung up the phone again and glanced at the man on the
table. Despite being desensitized to
all the unpleasant sights he had witnessed during his lifetime in this
profession, he felt pity for the man when he did have a chance to see his
face. It was not an event the coroner
wanted to witness. But at least the
chap had a sense of humour.
Two orderlies appeared with a stretcher within minutes after the
coroner hung up the phone, and took Kenn upstairs to the hospital. Once there, he was immediately taken to the
operating theatre, anaesthetized and God alone knows what the hell they
did. Because when next he awoke, Kenn felt
like an Egyptian mummy, all swathed in bandages with holes for him to see, hear,
speak and eat.
* * * *
*
NEXT DAY KENN HAD A NURSE DIAL MARK Hammond's number in Canada for him,
and learned that Mark had come to England for his funeral. Someone was kind enough to give the nurse
the number to the suite Mark had booked at Claridge's. She dialled it for Kenn and gave him the
receiver.
Poor Mark, he almost went into cardiac arrest upon hearing Kenn's
voice. He could hardly wait to get off
the phone and drive down to the hospital in Plymouth.
During the time that Kenn waited for Mark to arrive, he had his first
visitor. One he would have preferred
not to see, and wondered who the devil had told the man.
"Kenn Michael? Are you
awake?" Lance asked softly as he
entered the room.
"Yeah." Kenn
grunted. "What are yer doin'
here?"
"So it is true after all. You really did survive. I'm
glad." Lance said as he sat down
in the visitor seat beside Kenn's bed.
Saville Row clad, six feet four inches tall, dark, handsome and
aristocratic. Despite the limp that required him to use a silver-handled
walking stick, Lance radiated power and confidence that his position as the
president and CEO of one of the world's largest conglomerates dictated.
"Are yer really?"
Kenn rasped with thinly veiled hostility, staring straight ahead through
the hole left open over his good eye.
"Why would you believe otherwise?" Lance felt the other man's resentment and knew the reason for it,
and even understood it. Had the
situation been reversed, Lance knew he would have felt the same.
"I don't know, yer tell me.
Anyway, why did yer come?"
"Look Kenn Michael, I
understand that you have every right to be resentful after what happened. I
wish I could change the way things turned out but I can't. However, I can remedy part of the situation."
"What are yer talking about?"
"I spoke to the doctor before coming to see you...."
"So?"
"While your facial injuries are pretty serious, it's not a
hopeless situation. With reconstructive
surgery, you can lead a normal life again.
And apart from a few fractured ribs, there was no other serious injury,
so you're lucky in that sense. I've
taken the liberty to arrange your admittance to Dr. Harold Gray's clinic in
Beverly Hills. He's one of the best plastic surgeons in the world." Lance informed him. "Since the accident happened on my
property and in my car, I felt it was only fair that I cover all your expenses
for the re-constructive surgery. But
there is one thing I want you do for me in return."
"What?"
"I'd like you to go with a completely different look..."
"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE LANCE!
NOW!" Kenn snarled, enraged
at the nerve of the man at asking him to disappear in not so many words. He reached for the buzzer to summon someone
to come and have the man thrown out, but Lance quickly reached over and firmly
restrained Kenn's hand.
"Listen man, I know you love Jennifer‑Claire, but she has
chosen me. Prove that you really love
her and have her best interests at heart.
Let her have a life without being torn in two different directions man.
You don't have to accept my offer if you don't want to, but I'm asking you to
do so for Claire's sake."
Kenn stared up at the other man, still enraged, but also stunned at
Lance's insecurity. However, when Kenn
thought about her and how much he really loved her and only wanted the best for
her, he was left with no alternative but to do what Lance had asked.
"My Gawd, yer are threatened by her feelings fer
me....." Kenn shook his head,
feeling a sense of victory over the other man, but happy to witness that Lance
was human after all. However, Kenn
still knew that Lance Stevens was not a man he wanted to cross.
"Put yourself into my shoes Kenn Michael, just for a moment, and
tell me that you wouldn't feel the same."
"I suppose I would mate," Kenn admitted honestly.
"So you'll do it?"
"Yes, but strictly fer her sake."
"Thank you Kenn Michael, I knew you'd understand."
"Now if yer don't mind. I'd like to be alone." Suddenly as though remembering something
else, Kenn stopped him again as Lance got up to leave. "Lance?"
"Yes?"
"How is she?"
"She's going to be all right, the gunshot wasn't too serious. The doctor was able to remove the bullet and
stabilize her without having to bring her to the hospital. Claire has the constitution of a horse and I
wouldn't be surprised if she's up and around by the time I get back." Lance said with a boyish grin. "She was already chafing at having to
stay in bed and rest all day."
"I'm glad she's goin'
t'be all right. What about
Brandon?"
"His body will be flown back to Canada the day after tomorrow
after the police have completed their inquest into his death."
"Anyway, if yer don't mind, I'd really like to be alone now. I'd
say give my regards to Jenny, but I can't do that now, can I?" Kenn swallowed hard on the constricting lump
in his throat, and injected steel into his voice as he looked away from Lance,
at the dull, grey day outside the window.
"Go now Lance."
“Very well,” Lance got up and left the room.
He never saw the watering of Kenn's one un-bandaged eye, or the single
tear that coursed down and dampened the bandages just below it.
Kenn lay there pondering his decision for a long while after Lance
left, and came close to reneging in his promise. Then he thought about Claire and remembered how he only wanted
her happiness. And if Lance was the one
who would make her happy, then so be it.
Mark arrived about half-hour later, and when Kenn apprised him of his
intention, Mark thought that along with part of his face, Kenn had also lost
his mind. Soon after Mark arrived, so
did an orderly, to change the sheets on the bed. Between him and Mark, they helped Kenn into the extra visitors'
chair. Neither of the men paid any
attention to the orderly and continued talking. Meanwhile the orderly made up the bed with clean sheets.
"A new face yes, because it's necessary, but a new identity? Why?"
Mark asked, perplexed.
"I've got m'reasons ol' chap." Kenn replied enigmatically.
He chose not to tell Mark that the visit from Lance Stevens had
everything to do with his decision.
"I think you should at least talk to someone first..."
"I don't need a fuckin' shrink Mark!" Kenn snapped. "I need yer help.
We've been mates fer a long time an' this is the first time I'm asking
fer one major favour. So, are yer with
me or not?"
"All right." Mark
agreed resignedly, unable to refuse Kenn anything. Apart from being his business partner, Kenn had also taken the
place of the son Mark had had, but who never lived to become an adult.
"First of all, I still want yer to arrange the funeral. Closed casket. Then I want yer t'spring me the hell outta here an' take me to
it."
"Man you're crazy."
"Like a bed bug. But no
better way to find out how much people thought of yer, than attendin' yer own
funeral."
* * * *
*
TIM CAREY COULDN'T BELIEVE his good fortune, as he listened to the
conversation between the two men, while he made the bed. A venal, down on his luck, thirty‑something
rock music groupie who had long decided that the world owed him a living, Tim
knew who the injured man was. Just two nights ago it was believed that he was
going to make a comeback when he got on stage in London with Jenny Devereaux,
even though it was a far cry from his 'Black Daze' heavy metal style. But the chap still had it in him. If anything he had sounded better than he
ever had before.
Nigel Cotten, one of the orderlies who had brought Kenn up from the
morgue, had recognized the former rock star despite his injuries and had
mentioned it to Tim, his good mate. Tim on the lookout for any opportunity that
would help him land the good life, had boldly walked into the hospital, sneaked
an orderly's uniform from his friend's locker and pretended to be one of the
staff. He had also stolen a dictation
tape recorder from a secretary's office, then furtively hung around outside the
former rock star's room waiting to see who visited. While he had missed Lance's
visit, he considered himself having struck gold when Mark Hammond arrived and
entered the patient's room. Upon seeing
a young female nurse's aide with fresh sheets for patient's bed, also about to
enter the room, Tim had offered to do the task for her. Preoccupied with something else on her mind,
she had been only too happy to let Tim take over.
Now here was the former rock
star was all bandaged up, talking about changing his face and identity. Along
with intrigue, Tim smelled the opportunity he was seeking here, like a hunting
dog on a fresh fox trail. Thank heavens for the little tape recorder in his
pocket recording every word. He could
have notified the press, but Tim decided to hold out for bigger and better
stakes, and this conversation was going to be his ticket to the good life. He didn't know how long it would be in
coming, but Tim was as certain as the Sahara was made up of sand, that the day
was going to come when he could utilize this tape to his advantage. He would just have to be patient and find
another means of supplementing his meagre income until then. And he had to start by getting the hell out
of Devon, and up to the City where it was all happening.
The next day Tim heard the news of funeral services being arranged for
the former rock star. He reached for
the tape that he still had in his jeans-pocket and smiled smugly.
One day you are going to
make me a very rich bloke Mr. Harrison.