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A Very Modern Fairy-Tale

Slone's Fortune

By Ricky ChopraPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
1
A Very Modern Fairy-Tale
Photo by Christina @ wocintechchat.com on Unsplash

Roger Slone had a look of sheer terror she would never forget as he gasped for breath. Fearing the final page was about to turn, he sluggishly pulled the oxygen mask from his face. She fought him to place it back over his mouth but then released her grip when she sensed the distress this was causing him.

She gently wiped his brow as he coughed and spluttered, “I want you to have it.” His voice was frail and pained, so she leaned in close, so close his breath fogged her visor.

“Have what, Mr Slone?” she asked, dreading these would be his final words. Of late, too many had struggled to cleanse their souls in her attendance.

Slone could barely muster the energy to lift his eyelids, “A fortune.” “Fortune?” asked nurse Kadeesha Abebe as she frantically pushed the emergency button.

His piercing blue eyes widened as he stared into the face of death, “Find my little black notebook, and you’ll be rich.”

Abebe turned to see a doctor was coming. “Rich?” she repeated as she held his hand. “What do you mean?”

It was an apt question, given her patent was dying alone in an NHS hospital in London. Slone’s chest dropped but failed to raise, and Abebe feared the virus had claimed another victim. She felt the side of his neck for a pulse then reached over to shut his eyes. “Jesus, you gave me a fright,” she proclaimed as Slone gulped one last breath.

“I have bitcoins that are worth a lot of money. But I forgot the password.”

“Didn’t you write them down?”

“Yes. But I lost my notebook a few years ago.”

“Where did you last see it?” she asked, instantly regretting her insanely silly question.

The muscles in Slone’s face relaxed as he accepted his fate, “Find the book, and promise me you’ll do something worthy with the money.”

Doctor Ranjit ran over to Slone's bedside and checked his vitals, and he then looked over at Abebe. “Nurse, can you check his file for me please. Did he consent to resuscitation?”

Abebe reviewed his notes. “Do not resuscitate.”

Ranjit checked his watch. “Time of death, two-thirty-two am.”

***

Abebe rang the doorbell and waited. After two further attempts, she knocked on the door of Slone’s neighbour. The red door opened, and a woman in her early fifties scowled as she answered, “Hello? Yes?”

“Hi, yes, I’m looking for the relatives of Mr Slone.”

“Why?” interrupted the neighbour as she rushed to put on her face mask.

“Oh, it’s a private matter,” answered Abebe.

“Private? Oh dear. Well, he lived alone, you see.”

“Alone,” echoed Abebe.

“Is Roger,OK?” asked the woman.

“Sorry, no, he died last night,” said Abebe cautiously.

“Oh my god, Roger’s dead?” asked the woman in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, but yes. I don’t suppose you know if he has any relatives or a girlfriend I could contact?”

The woman shrugged her shoulders. “No. He was a quiet man, kept himself to himself.”

“OK, thanks,” said Abebe disappointedly.

“I have a key,” announced the neighbour. “He gave me a key when he first moved in. You know just in case.”

“Can you get it?” asked Abebe without thinking about the consequences. “I need to find a relative.”

***

Charlie watched Abebe intensely as she searched for clues. “What are you looking for, love?”

“Mr Slone told me to find a small black notebook.” She replied as she searched the back of his sock draw.

“Oh. And Roger told you where this notebook was?” Charlie asked as she slid open his wardrobe door.

“No, he said he’d lost it years ago.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t think you’ll find it here. As you can see, he kept the place very tidy.” said Charlie as she ran her hand across his laundered shirts.

Abebe closed the drawer and sat down on the end of his bed. “You’re right. There is no way he would have misplaced the notebook here.” She looked over at a photo on the dresser. “Do you know who this woman is?”

By Joanna Nix-Walkup on Unsplash

“No, I don’t think I’ve seen her before,” answered Charlie as she squinted to see the woman in the dark blue dress.

Abebe traced her finger down the side of the frame. “Such a shame. He was a very handsome man.”

***

Abebe could hear the call from behind the scruffy black door. “I’m coming,” a man shouted angrily. “Yes? Yes?” asked the shabby pensioner as he looked Abebe up and down.

“Hi. Err yes. Err I wonder if you can help me. A recently departed patient of mine once lived in this house.”

“And?” snarled the pensioner.

Abebe sighed as she repeated herself to yet another stranger. “I was wondering if you found a little black notebook when you moved in?” She looked past the man and at the heaps of old newspapers and waste-filled plastic bags that clogged up the hallway.

Alarmed, he raised his voice. “No. No. Are you from the council?”

“No, sir. I’m a nurse at the Royal Free.”

“Nurse? This is my stuff—mine, I tell you. You can’t have it.” With that, he slammed the door in her face.

Abebe was starting to question her sanity as she walked towards the tube station. She’d visited four of Slone’s five previous addresses to no avail. Maybe it was time to face facts. Her fairy tale search for Slone’s little black notebook was no more than a welcome distraction, a flight of fancy that gave her hope for a lost future. A reason to fight on when all seemed too bleak and bitter to carry on.

There was one last known residence on her list. After that, she feared her quest would come to an end. Her longing for a better life influenced her decision to leave her family in Africa and come to England to study to be a healthcare professional. She had been happy here, but the last twelve months had nearly pushed her over the edge, and she was barely holding it together.

***

Abebe checked Google Maps and decided she’d cut across the common. She was drawn to a charity shop that had laid out tables just in front of the window. As she savoured the freshly brewed beans, she caught sight of a dark blue dress on the chipped, grubby mannequin missing an arm.

“Excuse me. Err, where did you get that dress from?” asked Abebe.

The Shopkeeper looked over at the crowded window. “What, love?”

Abebe pointed at the dress. “That dress, where did you get it?”

The Shopkeeper shrugged her shoulders, “Oh. Err. Well, that dress has been in the window for years. It’s the only thing I can find that looks good on that mannequin.”

“Do you remember who gave it to you?” asked Abebe, confident it was the same dress worn by the woman in Slone’s photo.

The Shopkeeper placed the tray down on the table next to her. “Let me think.” The woman looked like her soul vacated her body as she searched the dusty archives of her mind. “I believe the Asian lady who bought the turret house brought a bag of clothes in. Yes, they said the man who lived there before them had left them and that they held onto the bag for a few months, but he never returned for them.”

Abebe's heart fluttered. “I don’t suppose you have anything else from that bag, do you?”

The Shopkeeper scoffed. “My word, my memory is not that good.”

Abebe shut her eyes shut tight as she attempted to recall any details from the photo. “I don’t suppose there was a grey twill jacket in the bag?”

The Shopkeeper placed Abebe’s empty cup on her tray. “Err. Not sure. I do remember we had a nice twill jacket on the rails, but if I remember, the lining was ripped and it didn’t sell.”

“Do you still have it?” asked Abebe, clutching the tabletop.

“I don’t think so. We normally send clothes that don’t sell to the recycling plant,” the Shopkeeper said as she wiped the tabletop.

“Would you mind if I checked?”

The Shopkeeper shook her head. “No. We’re not allowed to have people in the shop. You know because of the lockdown.”

Abebe brought her palms together in front of her face. “Could you please look for me?”

This request seemed to fluster the woman. “No. No. I’m far too busy for that.”

Abebe looked around at the empty tables and concluded the woman was making excuses. “What if I pay you for the jacket?”

“Sorry dear, we’re only permitted to sell coffee and cakes.”

Abebe reached down for her bag, removed her purse, and counted out £4.35 in change, all the money she had left for the month. “This is all I have.”

The Shopkeeper caught sight of her identity card in the empty purse. “You’re a nurse?”

“Yes.”

“We clapped for you every Thursday,” the Shopkeeper asserted.

“Thanks, it lifted our spirits.”

“Grey twill jacket, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Let me have a look.”

Abebe stood with her nose pressing on the window as the Shopkeeper flicked through the men’s jackets. She held up a black overcoat as if to say will this do. Abebe shook her head vigorously.

The shopkeeper thumbed to end of the rail and then stopped and slowly lifted a grey jacket.

Abebe jumped with joy as the shopkeeper walked to the door with the jacket in hand. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

Abebe could not be sure, but she wanted it to be the jacket Slone was wearing in the photo. “Could be.”

The shopkeeper passed the jacket to Abebe, and she searched the pockets. Nothing. She then reached into the inside pocket and pulled out the torn lining. “I told you,” said the shopkeeper.

Abebe patted down the jacket, and to her surprise, she felt a solid object in the lining. She dipped into the pocket and removed a black notebook.

The two women sat at the table as Abebe examined the book. “What is it?” asked the woman, puzzled because Abebe hadn’t opened the book.

“My patient’s notebook,” Abebe said as she removed the black elastic band from around the book that had held Slone’s secrets.

Some of the pages had bonded together. “We wash the clothes before we put them on display,” said the woman.

Abebe searched her bag for a small nail file and gently separated the pages of this ever-so-private artefact. Slone’s most intimate thoughts and account details were neatly written out in blue ink on the lined pages. But search as she might, she could not find any reference to Bitcoins. “What about the little pocket at the back of the book?” suggested the woman.

“Pocket?” asked Abebe.

“These notebooks have a pocket at the back; you know: to store receipts.”

Abebe gently separated the back page from the bookbinding and opened the pocket. “No.”

“What have you found?” asked the shopkeeper.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

Abebe removed a torn A4 page and opened it up. “I’ve found it!”

“Found what, dear?”

“Passwords. I’ve found the passwords.”

***

Kadeesha Abebe waited nervously for the reporter from BBC London to set up the shot. She briefly waved to her colleagues who had assembled at the hospital entrance to support her.

“Tell us, Abebe, why you decided to continue working here at the Royal Free hospital after discovering that your Bitcoins were worth over three hundred million pounds?”

“This is more than a job to me. I consider these people to be my family.”

“Is that why you generously gave all the patients and staff a twenty-thousand pounds?” asked the reporter.

“I found myself in a position where I could help people, so I felt it was only right to share my newfound wealth.”

“But why the ‘Slone Ward’ and not the ‘Abebe Ward’? Who is Slone, Miss Abebe?”

The End.

fact or fiction
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About the Creator

Ricky Chopra

Science fiction author. My new book is called "Call Me Izanagi". Musician and producer (Search for Ricky Chopra, Spectrum City and DJ Chops in Spotify) Plus DJ and designer of http://www.spectrumcity.co.uk

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