Adrenaline Pumping

Chapter 1: "He's dead"

He got the call on a Friday morning while he was at work. It was from his forty-year-old sister, but it was a strange time of day to talk. They liked to keep contact with each other over the years, because ever since they were kids they had been very close, and they used to do everything together, but a chat in the middle of the week was unusual. He picked up the call anyway and answered.

"Hey, Elaine, I'm actually kind of busy now, so if you could call later-" a pause as he looked at his watch "say in about half an hour, I would love to talk. Just... not now. Elaine?"

But before she even answered, he knew something was wrong. Even on the phone, he could hear that her breaths were unsteady, and after a few seconds, she answered in a croaky and shaky voice.

"Yes, yes I know. It's just...it's just..."

"Are you ok? What's wrong?"

"It's Alan, Patrick. Umm, he's...he's..." she inhaled, before breaking into a stifled cry "he's dead."

***

Patrick quickly got a permit for work leave from his boss and then he rushed down six flights of stairs to the parking underground.  Soon he was off in his little Peugeot racing to his sister's house.

Elaine and her family lived in West Village, a nice area of Manhattan. Patrick always loved to walk under the trees there, especially in the fall, when the leaves were yellow and bright. Unfortunately, it didn't look like he was going to do that today, not under these circumstances. He finally parked the car on their street, but before he went in he saw a police car parked on the pavement. They must have been the ones who had delivered the terrible news. But he put them aside and rushed up the steps to the front door. It was slightly ajar so he let himself in quietly. 

There was a bunch of people inside. Patrick recognized a few familiar faces here and there, mostly friends of his sister or former colleagues of the deceased man. He walked through the hall, searching for her. But he suddenly bumped into a man.

"Hello." the individual greeted with a firm nod. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with grey hair neatly trimmed around the crown of his egg-shaped head. His skin, even though he looked at least fifty, was strangely smooth, perhaps the work of heavy facial treatment. "You must be Patrick. Terrible what happened, isn't it? Terrible."

The journalist was lost for words in that precise moment, his mind elsewhere. "Umm, yes." he managed, before moving on through the crowd.

 Elaine was sitting on the sofa, bawling her eyes out and surrounded by women trying to console her. But on seeing Patrick she got up in one jump and gave him a big hug, squeezing him tight. 

It made Patrick's eyes tear up ever so slightly just on seeing her like this. Her long brown hair was in an untidy mess and her eyes were red, understandably of course. 

Alan had been Elaine's husband for quite a number of years. They had met in a work conference ten years ago in LA, and had started dating soon after. Until then Alan had been living in a town near Washington DC, but once they got married, they had found a house in Manhattan and had been living there since. The couple even had kids, Jake and Maya. They were now ages six and two. From now on, they were going to have to live without a biological father, something Patrick only realised at that moment. This made him suddenly thankful that he had a father growing up, something a lot of people would just take for granted, including himself at a younger age.

About an hour later, the crowd in the house started to leave. And soon, Elaine and Patrick were left alone.

Patrick made a cup of tea for them both (the third one that day) and then he sat down on the sofa beside his sister. She still didn't look great, but at least some of the colour had gradually returned to her face. They both reclined there in silence.