Dear Beneficiary (3 page)

Tom stopped me answering a number of messages claiming that if I did I would just get more. I couldn't quite understand why that would happen. If I told them I wasn't interested in knowing how to stay hard all night or buy pills for lasting pleasure then surely they would leave me alone?

Apparently not. Tom said some people who use the internet can be a bit dodgy.

‘Please be careful,' he said. ‘If you keep giving your personal details you will get into even more trouble and I might not always be able to get you out of it.'

He was referring to the fact I'd inadvertently joined a social networking group for gay nuns and, on the same day, volunteered for an extreme medical trial in Northern Cyprus. I was just looking for ways of filling time by looking for some freelance secretarial work. So why that Scottish-based Muslim organisation dedicated to seeking out terrorist opportunities in Alaska decided I was the one for them was beyond me.

‘Not everyone on the internet is who they say they are,' he warned.

He tried to circumscribe my world, but his paranoia about safety seemed to be excessive. How much trouble can a computer cause, for goodness' sake?

On his last visit he had set me up on Friends Reunited and Facebook. He uploaded my ‘profile', along with some of my most flattering pictures. I put some effort into it and soon managed to find a couple of people I knew from the past including vague acquaintances from part-time jobs I'd held down during the later years of my children's adolescence. None had replied.

Tom was working on sorting out things called ‘files', which he explained were just like the metal filing cabinets I still had in the home office but were ‘virtual', when I decided it was probably best to go downstairs and get some cake. The kitchen was definitely my area of expertise. He may know a thing or two about ‘megabytes' and ‘rams' (see, I was listening, even if I did think he was referring to a goat with a heavy overbite) but I know about catering.

I took him back the gift of buttered fruit loaf and, as I placed it on the computer desk, peered over his shoulder at the screen, now showing three messages. He'd told me I could see the new ones because they were in bold. Plus the fact I hadn't already seen them would be a giveaway, but I allowed him to patronise me a tad. Two of them were for pharmacy products and one from Friends Reunited.

‘You've had a message from someone called Bob Bryant,' said Tom.

My cheeks went warm. I hadn't heard that name for years and it seemed impossible a message could come from the past through a system so very much part of the future.

‘Oh, goodness, I went to school with him when I was living in Banbury,' I said. ‘He was something of the school heart-throb.'

‘And how old would he have been at the time?' said Tom, grinning.

I worked it out and felt silly.

‘Six-and-a-half. He had a lot of charisma.'

Tom nodded to himself and ate his fruit loaf, virtually in one mouthful. He read the message and it occurred to me the world of technology made everyone overly wary. There was no doubting that Bob was being very friendly and was keen to meet up.

‘There,' I said. ‘You may think people aren't as they seem, but Bob is definitely Bob,' I commented after reading the full message, twice.

‘'ow do you know?' Tom asked while looking at Bob's profile picture – which I had to admit made him look like a cross between Ken Dodd and a Martian rather than heart-throb material.

‘Because he mentions his birthmark – look,' I said, pointing Tom to this detail in the message. ‘And I know exactly where it is!' I said, triumphant that I held knowledge about which Tom had no idea.

‘And where would that be, then? On his bum?' he laughed.

‘No, Tom,' I told him. ‘It's on the end of his penis.'

I saw that Tom looked a bit perplexed at this comment and so went on to explain: ‘He showed it to me when we went into the big holly bush one play time. It was quite large from what I can remember.'

I stalled for a bit at the memory of primary school and all those very first experiences and promises of a world of revelations. Then I noticed Tom looked slightly embarrassed.

‘The birthmark, I mean. Not his penis,' I qualified.

As I spoke I thought to myself how strange that Bob's was the first penis I'd seen – my father and brothers never displayed theirs – and the last belonged to Darius. What a difference a few decades make. My stomach warmed and again I felt a little lonely.

‘So are you going to meet him, then?' Tom said.

‘Oh, no, dear. Look what he says here – he was a postman until he was fifty-five. We would have nothing in common,' I told him. ‘He is just someone to write to, that's all.'

Tom got up to leave.

‘Well, I suppose it beats watching
Countdown
or reseeding your lawn,' he said, making a move to go downstairs.

Retrieving his coat from the banisters he shuffled off out into the street, pulling his cap down over his face and hunching up against the rain that had just started to drizzle ineffectually against a bright grey day.

As I closed the door behind him, having waved goodbye, I heard the distinctive ping which I knew to be a new email. The excitement is addictive and, to be honest, even the occasional weird message from a sex worker in Russia can be more interesting than the terminal drivel on daytime television. I leapt up the stairs with a bound, realising in doing so that my groin injury finally seemed to be on the mend.

I searched around for my reading glasses for a few minutes before remembering placing them on my head sometime earlier. I retrieved them with a sense of relief. The sense of anticipation was quite thrilling as I read the contents of the new message:

DEAR BENEFICIARY
, the message started.

Your friend in charge of the Bank of Nigeria Financial team is in the utmost respectful delight to inform your good person that you have $3,000,000 to collect from their account in good thanks for your kind investment and expectations. Legal problems with the owners in the country prevent rightful return and for your assistance the fund can be shared between you and the choice of your medical teams to bring about good fortune to your friends and their family. We need your immediate information to ensure speedy resolution of this matter and to avoid fraud. Forward your bank details most immediately to arrange distribution of our cash to you as our beneficiary in law.

My heart missed a beat. In fact, it missed several beats. I hoped it wasn't a reaction to my new blood-pressure medication.

This was a message from Nigeria. It had to have something to do with Darius, as it mentioned the medical problems he was facing with his mother.
Oh, my goodness
. I'd given up hope of ever setting eyes on him again. Even on the odd occasion when I'd given in to some ‘auto-eroticism', purely for the purposes of a good night's sleep, I hasten to add, I only ever thought of him in abstract ways. I'd tried to eradicate the feeling his memory induced because it made me sad, as I never allowed myself the thought we would be reunited.

I wanted to cry.

CHAPTER FOUR

When I had seen the advert for the Advanced Driving course I never thought it would lead me to Darius. I thought it would be nothing more than a new activity and a way to save money on the insurance I was now paying for my very own car. After Colin's death I was solely responsible for all elements of my life, including the purchase of a vehicle – the first I could genuinely call my own since I passed my test some thirty-five years ago.

Colin always did the driving, even when he broke his toe tripping over one of Titch's Lego buildings of the Park Royal Asda Superstore. Colin hadn't allowed me to get anywhere near the family car after I managed to attach it to a builder's skip I was passing, and carried on driving. He'd been appalled at the fact I kept trying to drive despite having come to a halt, resulting in the offside front panel shearing clean off.

‘Didn't you think to stop at any point?' he'd shouted at me. I reasoned no one had been hurt and it was an accident (even though I was upset at how the builder had spoken to me, once he'd seen his skip was firmly attached to my Rover estate's wing mirror). Colin had just walked away from me, shaking his head, and called up the insurance company. He'd found it painfully embarrassing explaining to the assessor what had happened, not least because the representative from Direct Line had been unable to stop himself from laughing for longer than a few seconds at a time.

So I signed up for the course with enthusiasm, at first hoping the afterlife provided viewing opportunities so Colin could see what I was up to. I changed my mind fairly soon after the first class.

Darius was dressed in a dark blue suit that seemed too tight across his massive chest, the whites of his eyes sparkling against his beautiful dark-brown colouring. The tall, dark man was very well turned out, wearing expertly polished, lace-up leather shoes as dark as his skin. He also wore a crisp white shirt and a pale blue tie with little motifs of what looked like elephants. He fascinated me, and I was compelled to sit next to him. He was like a magnet, full of excitement and possibility. Not only that, he knew how to iron a shirt.

The classes were held at the school all my children had attended, just two miles away from home. The physical journey of going back into the hall where I'd witnessed numerous renditions of traditional Christmas carols, musical concerts involving Jonjo's enthusiastic but painful violin solos, various children's prize-givings and parents' evenings was difficult. I felt like an amateur athlete who, having run a full marathon was being told they have to go back to mile 15 and do the last 11.2 miles again.

I overcame any initial desire to run away when I spotted Darius. I wondered how I might get to know him. I couldn't help but look at his thigh muscles, which were huge. I didn't for a minute think he'd got his clothes from Burton's, as his appearance suggested something far more sophisticated, and I doubted very much they would do his size.

I'd looked over and tried to catch his attention by smiling every time I thought he might look my way. He sat on the edge of his seat, using his substantial legs to keep his balance as he looked at a leaflet on ‘Parking for the Elderly'. His hands were huge, as were his feet. I could see the bare skin of his ankles above his dark grey socks and wondered what he might look like naked. The thought of it made me blush.

The group leader handed round some forms, asking us to fill them in and, while doing so, to introduce ourselves to each other. At last I'd found my chance to make conversation.

‘Hello there. I'm Cynthia,' I'd said, extending my right hand to meet his. Darius took his time responding, which had me worried for a bit, but then he stood straight up, took my hand and pulled it to him before kissing me lightly on both sides of my face.

‘Osezua, or Ozzy for short,' he said.

I thought I was going to faint.

I didn't like his real name and couldn't pronounce the zed without crinkling up my lips, so I changed it to Darius. He didn't seem to mind. He was really a very obliging partner in so many ways, even if some of the positions I encountered played havoc with my weak wrists.

Yes, I've a few failings I can put down to age. I forget the names of my grandchildren and where I've put my glasses – but doesn't everyone?

But the excitement, the connection, the sheer physicality of what I had with my young lover brought me benefits, as well as some welcome challenges. He introduced me to things that would have made Colin's hair curl… if he'd had any.

I would often think how easily Darius accommodated my needs and how often I felt myself thinking about him for no reason. He was so very
stimulating
.

‘That's better,' I remembered telling Darius after he'd adopted a more sensible approach following my complaints about my sacroiliac joint not being as flexible as it might be. He'd reverted to what I think is called the missionary position, although goodness knows why. I didn't think missionaries had sex, and if so does being on one's back make it more godly?

I couldn't help but think back to our time together as a colourful display against an otherwise bleak background of mundanity. It was an oasis from which I could drink pure pleasure in an otherwise dry and dusty life, one I only realised was dull in hindsight.

So when the email from Nigeria came through, I couldn't believe he'd been thinking of me all that time. I read it again and knew this was a message that had something to do with my former lover – and that he wanted assistance in obtaining a large sum of money, some of which would be made available to me.

He'd previously explained that his family had needed his help and that the authorities were difficult to deal with. He also told me Nigeria was full of legal and administrative corruption. We'd discussed the poverty of his country and the greedy destruction of its leaders on many occasions, so this is what it was all about. Bringing the matter to my attention means he will be able to get the funds for his family's medical treatment and I will also benefit by getting a commission for helping him out. A perfect solution.

Of course I will help him
, I thought.
If it is just a matter of using my bank account to liberate what is his, then I will offer him what I can.

It was only natural to start thinking of the financial rewards. I'd be able to help the family. Maybe pay off the children's mortgages and help send the grandchildren to university. Colin's legacy wasn't enough for that by any stretch, so this could be a real godsend. Better than winning the lottery, although the thought of seeing Darius again would be reward enough.

I fished around in my desk drawer to find my cheque book and entered the details of my account carefully into a blank email message, to ensure no mistakes. I wrote a quick reply, taking care not to make any assumptions.