The Count
Twenty-six-year-old, Jacqueline O’Brien, known to her friends as Jackie’O, worked for a number of years as a journalist in a major Wellington newspaper. In that capacity, she landed the enviable and rare chance to personally interview a lawyer with a reputation for successfully defending notable murder suspects.
She was invited to his home, a 1920s mansion in Thorndon. To get to the front door from the street, she had to hurry through a rain shower falling from a gloomy sky. Inside the house, the furniture looked as equally antique as the building, though some pieces might have been skilled reproductions. Considering her own taste in interior design, she found the period effect to be melancholy.
The celebrated lawyer, a grey-haired man at least twice her age, had met her at the door in person and showed her into his study. It was as large as the whole of her central-city bed-sit apartment. Jackie felt overwhelmed.
A manservant brought in afternoon tea on a tray and left it on a small table between them. The notable lawyer took it on himself to pour two cups. In response to his glance and a raised eyebrow, she said, “Milk, no sugar, please.”
Despite the priority, in her mind, of beginning the interview, her host persuaded her to talk about herself. He was charming and looked interested in what she said, though she thought her back-story was all too mundane.
He interrupted her flow of words with questions here and there then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go out to a press conference to do with the outcome of the latest case I defended. Should have let you get on with your interview, shouldn’t I?” He seemed only mildly apologetic. “Won’t be away for more than an hour. You can either come back or wait for me here.”
Jackie looked at the books on the tall shelves around her and thought it would be a great chance to find out what the notable man read. “I’ll stay,” she said, “if that’s alright.”
“Terrance will look after you if there’s anything you need.”
Jackie woke. She was feeling thirsty. She checked her watch by the meager light of a single table-top lamp then looked out the only window in the room. It was dark outside. She found that hard to accept. It had to be 2 o’clock in the afternoon not in the early a.m. She couldn’t have slept for hours!
Why hadn’t someone woken her? She felt anxious. The house was terribly quiet and still.
She didn’t know how to summon attention. The manservant had just materialized when he brought the tea service earlier.
She stood and made her way to the back of the house, turning on lights as she went and hoping desperately that the power did not go off and plunge her into the gloomy darkness.
No one was in the kitchen. She saw the tea service on the bench, unwashed. The frightening thought crossed her mind that she might have been drugged. She crossed to the bench, identified the cup she had used by a smear of pink lipstick, lifted it, and sniffed the dregs. She could detect nothing but the odor of Earl Grey tea.
She called out Terrance’s name a couple of times, fruitlessly, then decided to re-claim her possessions and leave the house. As she retraced her steps, she left the lights on. The study was still full of shadows.
The next thing, Jackie’O knew was that someone was shaking her by the shoulder. She started to come around.
“You were out for the count,” a recently familiar voice said.
‘Out for the count’ was an expression that her father, a keen follower of boxing, had often used when predicting the result of a knockout while viewing a bout on TV.
The notable lawyer was standing in front of her. She was lying on the leather sofa in his study. She sat up, confused, then glanced out the window. It was daylight. She wondered if, incredibly, it was now after sunrise and she’d slept the further hours.
She saw that her coat remained folded on the armchair and that her purse sat on top of it. Her disability walking frame was still within reach.
A moment later, she realized that she had not used her mobility aid to walk down the corridor to the kitchen, proving to herself that her strange experience had all been a dream she’d come out of unharmed.
The notable lawyer asked kindly, “Ready to interview me, then?”
She was invited to his home, a 1920s mansion in Thorndon. To get to the front door from the street, she had to hurry through a rain shower falling from a gloomy sky. Inside the house, the furniture looked as equally antique as the building, though some pieces might have been skilled reproductions. Considering her own taste in interior design, she found the period effect to be melancholy.
The celebrated lawyer, a grey-haired man at least twice her age, had met her at the door in person and showed her into his study. It was as large as the whole of her central-city bed-sit apartment. Jackie felt overwhelmed.
A manservant brought in afternoon tea on a tray and left it on a small table between them. The notable lawyer took it on himself to pour two cups. In response to his glance and a raised eyebrow, she said, “Milk, no sugar, please.”
Despite the priority, in her mind, of beginning the interview, her host persuaded her to talk about herself. He was charming and looked interested in what she said, though she thought her back-story was all too mundane.
He interrupted her flow of words with questions here and there then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go out to a press conference to do with the outcome of the latest case I defended. Should have let you get on with your interview, shouldn’t I?” He seemed only mildly apologetic. “Won’t be away for more than an hour. You can either come back or wait for me here.”
Jackie looked at the books on the tall shelves around her and thought it would be a great chance to find out what the notable man read. “I’ll stay,” she said, “if that’s alright.”
“Terrance will look after you if there’s anything you need.”
Jackie woke. She was feeling thirsty. She checked her watch by the meager light of a single table-top lamp then looked out the only window in the room. It was dark outside. She found that hard to accept. It had to be 2 o’clock in the afternoon not in the early a.m. She couldn’t have slept for hours!
Why hadn’t someone woken her? She felt anxious. The house was terribly quiet and still.
She didn’t know how to summon attention. The manservant had just materialized when he brought the tea service earlier.
She stood and made her way to the back of the house, turning on lights as she went and hoping desperately that the power did not go off and plunge her into the gloomy darkness.
No one was in the kitchen. She saw the tea service on the bench, unwashed. The frightening thought crossed her mind that she might have been drugged. She crossed to the bench, identified the cup she had used by a smear of pink lipstick, lifted it, and sniffed the dregs. She could detect nothing but the odor of Earl Grey tea.
She called out Terrance’s name a couple of times, fruitlessly, then decided to re-claim her possessions and leave the house. As she retraced her steps, she left the lights on. The study was still full of shadows.
The next thing, Jackie’O knew was that someone was shaking her by the shoulder. She started to come around.
“You were out for the count,” a recently familiar voice said.
‘Out for the count’ was an expression that her father, a keen follower of boxing, had often used when predicting the result of a knockout while viewing a bout on TV.
The notable lawyer was standing in front of her. She was lying on the leather sofa in his study. She sat up, confused, then glanced out the window. It was daylight. She wondered if, incredibly, it was now after sunrise and she’d slept the further hours.
She saw that her coat remained folded on the armchair and that her purse sat on top of it. Her disability walking frame was still within reach.
A moment later, she realized that she had not used her mobility aid to walk down the corridor to the kitchen, proving to herself that her strange experience had all been a dream she’d come out of unharmed.
The notable lawyer asked kindly, “Ready to interview me, then?”
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