Blood Diamonds

Chapter 7

Henry

What have I done? Watching Mr. Crowley's horrific and gruesome demise was equivalent to receiving an icy dose of cold reality. I should have quit my fantastical chase of Leila at that moment. I knew that chasing after the wife of a powerful multi-billionaire was not a good idea and that it could end very badly for the both of us, possibly as bad as it did for the poor doctor. But I could not shake her from my every thought; the woman in gold, that's what I called her in my head and in my dreams. She was walking proof that all that glittered is indeed gold, gliding through my dreams and leaving a golden cloud of pixie dust in her wake (which I inhaled willingly). There was no denying the danger I faced if my attempts to woo her became unsuccessful, but I was enchanted. Only time would tell exactly how bad the situation would become if we were caught.

Maybe Leila was just a shiny novelty for Rodney (soon to be dull and discarded) and there was no real harm in my pursuit after all. People like the Smiths collected other people like trinkets in a jewellery box and once their time of enjoyment had worn out (or when they proved to no longer be of use), the trinkets were discarded. It was a selfish thought, I know. I also knew that these people could also break their toys in frustration if their little trinkets did not perform in the way they expected. This was what happened to Doctor Crowley. He was essentially a good man trying to do his best for the under-privileged of our great city; helping those who had little to nothing in any way he could. I remember his famous words: "Nothing can be created from nothing, Henry. Even the tiniest atom is composed of little particles of matter, and if there are no particles available to create, then we can't establish the fantastical structures of matter we see around us today. That is why I strive to give those less fortunate souls something, to empower them to build a life for themselves."

I knew without a shadow of a doubt that his death was not an accident but the doings of the very family I trifled with. Who would have believed me? The police, our trusted politicians and law enforcement in all its bureaucratic forms was in the palms of their greedy hands, so I maintained my silence and painfully sewed my mouth shut with a bloody thread lest I be the next item on their vicious itinerary. The good, old doctor had gotten in their way by thwarting their plans to overtake and privatise the medical centre that he not only managed but started from scratch when he barely had anything to offer the world. Many of the poor who resided in the derelict areas depended on this subsidised medical care, and being at the edge of the city, near the city's carnival where the rich loved to dance and have a good time (often getting hurt in the process), the Smith's thought it a brilliant idea to privatise the centre and capitalise on the opportunity in such a way that only the wealthy could benefit.

Doctor Crowley was not only my mentor, but also my friend. I was his closest confidant and ally who helped him in the background with the legal and political aspects of his battle. It was a painful loss, and I wanted justice, but nothing much could be done for the most part at that moment. This was a war I had to painfully walk through, carefully treading with bare feet on shards of broken glass. If I were to win this war (or at least make a hefty impact) I had to carefully fine-tune my plans, calculating my every move to the finest detail.

I wallowed in self-pity for the next few days following the doctor's death, thinking myself a failure and a coward incapable of avenging him or following in his legacy. How was I to change everything in the region, or the world, if I could not even avenge my friend's death? Who knew how much the Smith's knew of my involvement with the hospital (it was possible that they knew everything because their spies were everywhere; they were spiders weaving webs of deceit), so I did what any sensible man in my position would have done— I continued with my daily life as though nothing had happened and wallowed in tears and a stink of bourbon in the privacy of my own apartment. Henry Eckhart was a politician but at his core he was a soft-hearted fool believing in starry-eyed equality.

If I could just stomp out the canker at its root... The thought re-played over and over in my head on an endless loop; my own personal and mental purgatory. It was easier said than done. Wasting my days with liquor to numb the pain was futile, but I felt totally helpless and was on the verge of admitting defeat. Becoming inebriated every evening offered me a reprieve from these personal demons.

I suppose I should have at least told Leila what she had walked into, about the dangers of her position, but I barely knew the woman (no matter what fantasies I constructed about her in my head). She could know everything and be perfectly fine with it. Trust was a luxury even a person as naïve as I couldn't afford. Something told me that she was even more in the dark and knew nothing, and if that were the case then why would she believe me anyway? I had no concrete evidence yet. I felt like I knew her. I felt like I knew the genuine goodness within that steely, beautiful soul. Still, it was best to not meddle any further until I had a firmer leg to stand on.

Two weeks after the grisly happenings of the ball, I sat on my sofa in my pristine, uptown apartment complete with shiny marble flooring and magnificent works of art (including sculptures of various kinds), drinking my umpteenth glass of bourbon and watching a dirty video on the gigantic television plastered to my wall. It wasn't my proudest moment, I will admit, but you will often find that the dirtiest activities happen in the cleanest of environments, and that the dirtiest people are often shrouded in a halo of glossy, fresh-scented clothes.

We were all muddy sculptures—all of us—using our wealth to hide our true filth; plastering it on like a thin layer of paper mâché to make ourselves feel better and deceive the general population. I knew that the riches were a paper-thin cover-up as I watched the dirty scenes play on in a stench of stale liquor (some woman moaned beguilingly on the screen). Thank God this was the dirtiest activity I indulged in! (Besides actual, consensual intercourse, of course). When I felt miserable and contemplated my own, lonely existence, I humoured myself with porn and liquor within the comfort of my home, trying to forget what lurked in the sewerage waters of my psyche. Some, most, possibly all, the rest of the people in my society took their foul sport to further heights and ventured out to entertain themselves with prostitutes in seedy holes. Not me. I preferred the solitude of my home and once the sexual tension was released, the fantasy and fleshly infatuation, was over.

Back to my tale... That night I sat in my stiff, work attire (too lethargic to actually remove my untucked shirt and loosened tie) with my pants and underwear below my knees and erect manhood out, pleasuring myself in a drunken daze to the sultry images on the wide screen, when I heard the telephone ringing. My first instinct at the time was to ignore it. One doesn't willingly disturb a thirsty man during the throes of lustful self-gratification. I could barely hear the dull ringing that came from the foyer amidst the sex sounds playing in my sitting room, but when I did, I paid no mind to it, rather letting it go to voicemail. My interest was only piqued when I heard the unexpected voice after the beep. "Hi, Mr Eckhart. This is Leila Smith,"  the sultry voice announced. "I have been looking into your campaign and believe that we could work together to form a partnership. Please call me back. Thanks. Bye."  End of message. I could tell by the slight hesitation in her voice that she was unsure of herself. It was unmistakeably the voice of that angel trudging through my thoughts, so I sprang, pantless, from the sofa, forgetting that I was in the middle of a wayward activity, and excitedly dashed to the phone to call her back, feeling slightly nervous (partly happy that she had actually called), and a whole lot of brave for that foolish puddle of mortal danger I was diving head first into.