The Idris Stone: The Power to Corrupt.

I hadn’t had much to do with my great-great-grandfather over my life. Nevertheless, my father would begrudgingly take me, his only son, to the family events where the traditions of the Smithson family were upheld and passed on.

I was an only child.

When I was a child, and we were on the way to these events, dad would always admonish me to stay as far from Eldrick, my great-great-grandfather, the eldest male of the clan, as I possibly could.

There were rumours that his mother was still alive and in the house’s attic, but they had to be just rumours, right?

“If he tries to get you alone or give you anything, you run to me just as fast as your little legs can carry you, okay?” Dad would say.

I didn’t come face to face with Eldrick until the day of my eighteenth birthday.

He arrived in a big black DeSoto and stood outside our front door on the footpath. When he was ready, he had his driver knock.

I answered. Eldrick held something in his hand against my forehead. The world swam away, and it seemed a choral chorus sang.

My mother snatched me away, “Get away from him, you disgusting old bastard,” she screamed. “You cannot have him!”

I thought he must’ve been a gay paedophile pervert.

“He’s the one!” Eldrick carped to my father when dad reached the door. “He’s the one. He’ll have to wait. I’m not ready yet! I’m not ready yet!”

Cackling like a loon, Eldrick capered down the footpath to the car.

“You cannot have him!” My mother screamed at him. “I’ll see you dead before you get your hooks into my son!”

Eldrick looked back at her, and I was convinced I saw glee pass over his face.

“You’ll be dead before morning’s light, my dear,” he informed her, suddenly seeming very sane. “How will you stop me?”

My mother and father paled and grabbed each other.

“No!” dad whispered in anguish.

“He’s said it. You know it must be true,” my mother answered despairingly.

My mother spent the night trying to give me all the advice she thought I would ever need.

My father had locked himself in his study.

Stupidly, I thought, ‘If I just stay awake with her, she can’t die. He won’t be able to take her if I’m watching.’

My eyelids slid shut around 4.00 am. I swear they were closed for no more than a minute or two. When I opened them, she was gone.

A massive brain aneurism, they told my dad and me. There was no way of telling, stopping, or doing anything about it.

But I knew Eldrick had killed her.

When dad passed, I refused to attend any more of the clan’s gatherings. I didn’t trust myself to not try and kill Eldrick for killing my mother.

Besides, it was 2007. Who the fuck still has extended family gatherings where old traditions are taught and handed down these days?

When Eldrick died, I didn’t attend the reading of the will, either, even though there was a letter asking for me specifically.

‘Fuck him,’ I thought.

The reading was for precisely 1.00 pm (1300) on ‘Black Friday’, Friday the 13^th of September, 2013. At precisely that time, my great-great-grandfather’s big black DeSoto pulled up at the bottom of my driveway. I blinked because I was sure I hadn’t seen it before it suddenly appeared in my driveway.

Great-great-grandad’s driver got out, tipped his top hat to me, and then walked briskly up the drive. He handed me a small yellow envelope.

“Eldrick left one last instruction for me to deliver this to you on his death, Mr Smithson,” he said. “My duties are complete, and I can go to my rest now.”

What the fuck did that mean?

It occurred to me that he was the same driver who had knocked on my door on my eighteenth birthday. He was old then, 31 years ago. He got back in the car and left.

I looked down at the envelope. I almost decided to bin it and walk away.

I looked up, and the car had gone. Perplexed, I walked to the end of the drive, only about 20 metres. The DeSoto was gone, not driving away, not around the corner. It was gone. I walked up the drive and into my home.

As I entered, still holding the envelope, Beatrice Garcia, my Filipino housekeeper, was leaving.

Beatrice was the granddaughter of my father’s housekeeper. Twenty-seven years old and stunningly beautiful. She had done well in the Miss Universe, Philippines, 2012 pageant, placing inside the top ten. No offers of modelling contracts or film roles came her way afterwards, so she took up her Grandmother’s offer of work and a place to stay and came to California.

“If you can’t be a movie star, you can move here and marry one,” Beatrice’s grandmother told her.

Instead, she got stuck with me when her grandmother’s knees got so bad she couldn’t complete her housekeeping duties anymore.

I liked Janela, Beatrice’s grandmother, a lot. She had stayed to look after the house and me after dad passed. I told her she had no reason to look elsewhere for work or accommodation and that she was welcome to stay as long as she wanted.

Janela was as close to family as I had now. Dad passed some 25 years after mum. I’d never been married, nor had I even gone close. Having her, and now her granddaughter, around the house was far better than being alone.

Beatrice and I must both have been distracted because we bumped.

As she likes to be called, Bea is tall for a woman at almost 5 ft. 9 in. (175cm), but I am 6ft. 4 in. (193 cm). Her forehead hit my nose, and broke it.

Blood gushed.

“Oh my God, Mr Muzz! I’m so sorry,” Beatrice exclaimed.

She and her Grandmother always called me Mr Muzz. My name is John Murray Smithson, the same as my father’s. As my dad was John, I became Murray or ‘Muzz’.

“Idth thokay,” I tried to tell her through my broken nose.

But it wasn’t. I felt light-headed and about to pass out.

I held my hands to my nose. The envelope was between my fingers and against my forehead.

“Thy with that hathn’t thappenthed,” I groaned.

The world swam out of focus, and a choral choir sang.

‘I’ve got a concussion,’ I thought as I drifted off.

It seemed only a few moments later that I came to with Beatrice looking concernedly down at me.

“You okay, Mr Muzz?” she asked. “You seem to have taken a fall.”

“I’m okay,” I told her, then got up.

Wait! That sounded normal. Didn’t I have a broken nose?

I put my hand to my nose. It was untouched, unmarked, and not bleeding.

Looking around, I could see the sun had begun its slow dive into the Pacific Ocean. Four hours had somehow passed.

“I thought I had bumped into you, Bea?” I said.

“When?” she asked.

“As I came through the door. You were coming out, and your forehead hit my nose.”

“This is some kind of joke, right, Mr Muzz? I don’t get American humour.”

What the fuck? Right?

“Yes, Bea,” I said, “just a poor American joke. Better not tell that one to your friends.”

“If you’re okay, Mr Muzz,” Bea said, “I’ll leave you to it. I have an acting lesson tonight.”

I put the hand holding the envelope to my nose again, making sure it wasn’t broken.

“I wish you’d stay,” I muttered to myself.