Serendipity 3

Harold’s heavy legs dragged his sad and sorry body through the front door of his house. Entering the kitchen, he tossed the newly collected mail on the counter and went straight for the fridge for a beer. He would have preferred to drown his sorrows in scotch, but he had to take a Zoom meeting later. He could drown himself properly after.

Charlie had left him. It had only been three weeks since they met on the bus, when she left the note on the seat for him to find, and that same night had the most amazing date.

It was only two weeks and six days since he found himself in hospital, recovering from the affects of a drug he didn’t know he’d taken, with a black eye and missing pieces of clothing. Best party ever!

It was now two weeks and five days since she dragged him to his bedroom and showed him what he’d been doing wrong all these years.

But after five days of skiving off work to attend an underground guerilla art exhibition. A helicopter ride to a mountain top to then abseil down, (He was terrified, but she was a great teacher). Visiting a very dodgy private club, where she seemed to blend in with ease, while the bouncers were convinced he was a cop. He was still trying to get his head around the sex they shared; everything they did was punctuated by it. A darkened corner of the club. Behind a hideous sculpture of two people making love, (it seemed appropriate at the time). Though perched on a small ledge overlooking the beautiful Jamison Valley was a little too much. You can’t do it with those harnesses on; it was precarious.

Now she was gone. Without a trace. Into thin air, like they’d never met.

Harold's mind was blown, he would never be the same man he was before her, and he was now contemplating how he could possibly go back to being without her.

Sitting in the kitchen, he absentmindedly began sorting his mail. The usual bills and a roll of junk advertising. The bills could wait, but maybe the junk mail might have some specials on. He was running low on scotch. As he unrolled the pamphlets, a letter dropped in front of him. No stamp and just a simple ‘Harold’, scrawled on the front.

Opening it he read:

Harold, I’m so, so sorry. I would really rather explain this all to you in person. I like the person you are. Our time together has been so wonderful. I’m glad you were able to keep up with me. I know I have a lot of energy and that wears most people down, but you kept up pretty well.

I was hoping I wouldn’t have to involve you in my past, but unfortunately, and I should have seen it coming, but you distracted me I guess, and I dropped my guard. Anyway, I’m dragging this out a bit, so I’ll just come out and say it.

I’m a Russian spy.

Harold dropped the letter. ‘No freakin’ way. I mean sure, but no freakin’ way.’ He went to the cupboard and dragging down his last bottle of Jameson’s and grabbing a glass, made his way back to the letter. He continued reading.

I was a spy. In actual fact, I worked for us. The Russians thought I worked for them. It’s a really long story and I would prefer to explain in person, but the basics are, I became a cop as soon as I was old enough, and about half way through my training, some weird shit happened to me. This dude I was seeing, tried to blackmail me with a video I didn’t know he took. I told my supervisor, who passed it along a chain and before I knew it, I was recruited into an agency I didn’t know existed to do counterintelligence against the Russians.

Sounds pretty far out, hey.

Well, I thought I was out, then I got a message from an old contact who said I’d been targeted. I guess the Ruskies found out about me. I had to hide, for my protection and yours.

I know you’ll be freaking out about now, or you’re thinking I’m full of shit and you’ve fallen in love with a psychopath. If I were a psychopath, I could have just dropped you off the side of the cliff we had sex on. If I’m full of shit, then you’re better rid of me. Move on.

Look, I have met a lot of men, a lot, but none of them got me. You got me right off the bat and I liked that. I want that.

If you trust me, then I need you to do something for me. Call out at the top of your lungs. ‘I trust you Charlie. I love you Charlie.

Somewhat confused, Harold stared into his glass, looking for an answer somewhere at the bottom. ‘Damn it all’, he thought, and leaning back he yelled loudly at the ceiling, ‘I trust you Charlie, I do love you Charlie,’ and then more quietly, ‘I miss you Charlie’.

He threw the rest of his drink down his gullet and as it burned its way down, he thought he heard a noise on the roof.

Wandering around his house, he listened intently for the origin of the sound. He’d had possums in the ceiling before, so with golf club in hand he made his way to the access hatch down the hallway. Using the club to carefully raise the hatch, he fell back when a familiar face peered from the dark of the attic.

It was Charlie and by the sweat on her face, she’d been hiding there for a while. She smiled weakly back at Harold, as he sat on the floor staring back, dumbstruck.