Excerpt: The Other Side: Heads or Tails

Chapter Eleven, Page 40/41

In most of the thriller novels I’ve read in my lifetime, if there’s ever a period of calm— these being usually brief, accidental, and somehow managing to still be consequential, and as such managing to define the thriller as a genre—it is, without a doubt, followed by gigantesque bombshell, shaking everyone to the bone if not more.

And sad it is, it is very much thanks to that observation of mine that I now know how very cliché and reminiscent of a thriller novel my life has become.

With that reflection, I pause in my onion chopping and stare off vaguely into the distance, thinking that a gigantesque bombshell, as such, will probably soon fall upon my head. Our heads, rather; it wouldn’t be fair for me to say I’m alone in this. But strictly involuntary is how I could describe my part in this entire business. My gaze, now entirely unseeing, is hovering somewhere near the poles which support the drying laundry, and should someone chanced to see my staring at the clothes in such an unabashed manner, they would doubtlessly think me quite the pervert. Thankfully, before such an unfortunate circumstance can befall me, I am interrupted abruptly.

“Oi, Jamie!” comes a call, directed obviously at me from somewhere outside the large French window I was gazing out of. Hastily, I resume chopping the onions and hurriedly finish the job, no longer caring how well or not the little chopped bits are. I think it rather silly of anyone to care what shape their chopped onions are, but women are very peculiar, and I suppose it develops at a young stage. Even so, the precision with which I have been told to chop these onions makes me think Adélaide has half a mind to spring out a ruler and measure the silly things for a math experiment of some sort; and what I would think of such an experiment is something I most probably should not ramble on about.

By the time the mouth that the call had come from—and the face and body along with it, of course, for a face- and body-less mouth would have mildly disturbing—appears around the edge of the door, I am done with the onions and am even more hastily placing them between the bread. “Yes, yes,” I say impatiently, “I’m getting these sandwiches done, don’t pressure me! My instructions clearly say I am to take the utmost care with these little sods!” Ungracefully I prod one of the sandwiches and frown at it, taking some sort of odd dislike to it, before pressing it firmly between the sandwich grill.

Patrick grins at me ruefully from the door where he’s standing. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “but Her Majesty commissioned me to come on over and check on your advancement as far as her sandwiches are concerned. I am, apparently, to deliver a progress report as soon as you provide me with enough material to have one ready.” His pointed glance alights upon the freshly grilled sandwich I just took out, and despite myself, I can’t help but laugh at him.

“Alright, you,” I say, tossing the sandwich deftly into his waiting hands, “but I’ll have you know, if you don’t give me an amazing and raving report, well—say hello to your doom.” I give him a look meant to be menacing and fail dramatically. “And while you’re at it, take all these I’m done with out to the garden, will you? If you don’t finish them on the way there, at any rate.” For all I know, he tosses it into his throat and swallows it whole, because that’s what you’d think too if you saw the speed at which he eats.