Silas Nash Book 1 Hush Hush Honeysuckle Chapter 3 (a)

Max came out of the hospital entrance, sat on a bench and sobbed. People stared at him as they passed, and one old lady said, ‘Oh, dear,’ but didn’t stop, thank god. He cried until he was dry and then determined that he wouldn’t cry anymore if he could help it because it was a waste of time. And time was so very precious.

He had a funeral to go to the next day. Nanny Clare was dead. Tomorrow they were putting her into the ground—and soon, he’d be there too. He didn’t know how he was going to face all that hurt, so he’d live in every moment. He wouldn’t think about anything but what was happening right now.

To him, the word terminal had always been a holiday departure lounge, the gateway to sun, sand and lots of casual sex, but today, he’d joined the other club. He was 28 and had just missed the 27 Club. It was a shame he’d missed it. He could have had fun with that. However, he was still in the 18-30’s holiday bracket, and he hoped the trip was wild where he was going. He’d been a good guy all this life. He was bolshy sometimes, a bit of a twat, and despite his business being a success, he was always accused of being childish. But what now? He’d been good, said the right things, toed the line and had still been abandoned in the end. His mother, father, every lover he’d ever enjoyed and even his beautiful wife had all left him. He hadn’t done anything to make his parents leave him—they just did. The only permanent relationship in his life had been with his childhood nanny. And she’d chosen this week to leave him too. He was going to be different. From this moment, he was going to say what he wanted, do what he felt like, and to hell with anybody that got in his way. This was his death, and he’d damn well live it.

A child coming out of the hospital stared at him; Max smiled because that’s what you do to sick children in wheelchairs.

‘Piss off, knobhead,’ the kid said.

He needed to be taught some manners. Max took his chair and ran with it down the steep hill while the kid screamed his head off like a girl on helium.

‘Get off me. Get off me, you dickhead. Put me down. Mum.’

‘Kid, you’re looking at this all wrong,’ Max bellowed. ‘See it as fun. Get your arms in the air and scream to the heavens how great it is to be alive.’

‘Put me back.’

‘Careful. One more negative word and this chair tips. You aren’t frightened, not if you don’t want to be. It’s all down to the way you look at it. Come on. Arms up and yell for joy, we’re coming up to the steep bit.’

The boy put his arms in the air, and as Max ran, he heard him giggle. Soon they were both screaming their heads off. ‘Hey, sick people on the top floor, can you hear us? Wake up,’ Max yelled.

‘Yeah, wake up and scream for joy. You’re alive,’ the kid shouted in his high-pitched, reedy voice.

Neither of them had as much puff coming back up the hill, and it seemed no manners had been imparted because the child came out with some profanities that even Max had never heard of. He parked him back in position, unharmed and grinning. His mother was shouting something about calling the police, but Max didn’t stop to listen.

‘That was awesome. But you’re nuts, mister.’

‘Have a great day, kid.’

Max felt the growth expanding in his head by the second. He was post-diagnosis, post-drugs, post-operable and post-caring. They’d given him six months. It wasn’t a death sentence—he was a free man for the first time in his commendable life. Nothing had a consequence.

He could do crack cocaine without it harming him. Die if you do, die if you don’t—easy peasy lemon squeezy. A list of crimes ran through his head, and he was surprised at how many he came up with. Everything from arsenic poisoning to zoophilia—although he didn’t fancy diddling a donkey just yet. Who knew where his tumour would take him? He could have a new bucket list of all the crimes he could commit before he died. It was unlikely he’d be brought to trial. Max could join an orgy party. He had no harmful gifts to give in that respect—except a nasty pramful of twins—and if he caught something green with exploding pus, it didn’t matter.

Maxwell Edward Bartholomew Tyler Jones had it all. Born with a silver spoon rounding his vowels, everything he wanted to have and make of himself fell into his lap at his command. He excelled in property development and nurtured his successful company, from business plans to multi-millions. It meant he could take as many foreign holidays as you could slather coconut lotion over.

Through choice—his choice—he didn’t have kids. His wife wanted them, but the time never felt right. They waited too long, and the marriage fell apart. He could line up half a dozen babies now if his little Michael Flatleys were still dancing. He’d never live to see the brats, but they’d be his legacy—his love heart drawn in the sand with a stick before the tide washed him away.

A sweet finality grounded him as he left the Grim Consultant’s office. They couldn’t do anything for him, and their only offer was palliative care to ease his passing.

Sod that.

Outside, Max took the steps two at a time and wanted to whistle a Pharell Williams tune. He used to be able to, but his whistle had abandoned him. He had the same number of teeth, but no sound came when he pursed his lips. He needed to whistle again.

This was his life, and he’d never felt freer—unlike most people, he knew when death was coming. Forewarned was forearmed and all that jazz. It was September, and he’d be dead by the fifteenth of February. It was more liberating than being at Old Trafford on match day or the time he’d pissed in the Trevi fountain.

He might pay to change his name. He realised he wasn’t the most creative bloke on the planet, but he’d go for a name like Vlad the Impaler, Maximus the Shagger or maybe just Deathwish. He’d been lumbered with his five-word monstrosity of a name since the day he was born, and enough was enough. He didn’t want Maxwell Edward Bartholomew Tyler Jones on his death certificate.

His plan was coming together. He’d relearn to whistle, change his name to something shocking, and travel to the halls of Valhalla with a drinking horn and Odin for company. He’d seen some foreign lands, but he wanted to visit lots of places before death took him. He wanted to fly in a hot air balloon over the Nile at sunrise and take a gondola ride on the Grand Canal while being serenaded—because that wouldn’t be weird at all. He needed to see diamonds of sun shards bouncing off the Taj Mahal as he smiled at the pretty girls passing by. It was imperative.

But first on the agenda—even before masturbating himself into blindness—was shoplifting. Max could honestly say that he’d never stolen anything in his life, not even a young girl’s heart. But, there was no time like the present.

He drove to the local shop and parked his Beamer in plain view of anybody inside. He wore Armani and drew as much attention as the old lady dragging her wheeled shopping bag behind her. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he expected. He didn’t even know what he wanted. Beer? No, there was a camera above the shelving unit. He could always throw his jacket over it or spray paint the camera as they did in the movies. But he didn’t want to steal paint as well as beer. Not being seasoned, it might draw attention. He’d blame the young tearaway with his head in the fridge. Max resisted the urge to shut the door on him. A man stinking of urine shuffled up beside him. He heard the old man sniff, and they smelled each other—though not like dogs.

As with stealing, he’d never smoked a cigarette, but he fancied one now. He wanted to steal and smoke a whole pack of fags, but they were kept behind the counter under close guard by the lady serving. He realised he might have to hone his gentleman thief persona first.

Deciding between a Twix or Snickers was akin to choosing which of your children to save from drowning. If he’d been paying for it, he’d have bought them both and a Mars too. This stealing endeavour vastly reduced his options.

He looked at the cashier, who was talking to the stinky man. She was oblivious. He had a vision of walking out with the shop on his back, and she wouldn’t have noticed. She didn’t own the business, then—she was an employee, probably on the minimum sixteen hours a week—the tarnished wedding ring, been married awhile. The marriage was stale. Her roots had two inches of growth. She’d stopped making an effort a long time ago. Max could read people and situations. He was what they called astute. His hand slid out, and he grabbed a chocolate bar without a rustle. He put it in his jacket pocket and waited for the coat to set on fire. It didn’t, and there was no lightning bolt either.

‘Yes, love. What can I get you?’

He didn’t want anything. He already had it.

‘I’d like a packet of your finest cigarettes, please.’

‘Eh?’

‘A packet of cigarettes, please?’

‘What kind?’

‘They come in kinds? Well, that’s thrown me. Those brown ones, please.’

‘Marlboro Red? Are you sure you don’t want Silver Blue?’

‘Are they better?’

‘Couldn’t tell you, love, I don’t smoke.’

‘Yes, okay, Blue, please. And a lighter.’

‘Kings or Superkings?’

‘Well, if you’re going to be a king, you might as well be a super one.’

‘Look, love. There’s a queue. Do you want them or not?’

There was one smelly old man who still hadn’t decided what he wanted.

‘Yes, please.’

He paid for the cigarettes, stole a 70p The Sun newspaper from the rack by the door and walked out of the shop without alarm bells going off.

Stealing was so fricking easy.

He got in his car, opened the wrapper and ate the best chocolate in the world because it was free. He took his first-ever drag of a dirty cigarette, coughed, wondered what all the fuss was about and called to a lad of about twelve who was getting off his bike.

‘You, kid. Come here.’

‘What? I ain’t done nothing wrong.’

‘Do you smoke?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, I was going to give you some cigarettes.’

‘Well, I do a bit. Now and again, like.’

Max threw him the packet and wound up his window.

‘Oh. Wow, thanks, Mister.’ The kid had a fag lit before he’d made it around the corner into an alley and out of sight.