2. Kingsley
2
KINGSLEY
H ospitals are eerily quiet in the dead of night. So quiet they almost mimic a deserted tomb. I follow close behind Tate and another man as I’m escorted to my father’s room. It’s not lost on me that there are guards stationed at every corner we turn and any nurses we encounter shrink away in fear as we pass them.
“I see my family’s presence still works a charm,” I snort, somewhat resentfully, my steps faltering.
“People are scared of what they don’t understand.”
Tate turns back and motions with his chin for me to keep walking.
“Is it really necessary for all this security?” I ask. “He’s probably not even checked in with his own name.”
“Safety measures, Kingsley. One can’t be too careful. It’s this room,” Tate says, coming to a stop in front of a room sandwiched in between two others. It is the room furthest from the lifts, closest to the fire exits, and nowhere near the corner rooms which would have had a spectacular view but provide less security with the wraparound windows.
Tate steps into the room and looks toward the bed. The old man is sleeping soundly, a priest by his side.
“You should wake him,” Tate says, standing by the door. “He’s anxious to see you.”
The priest rises and walks across the room toward the door, nodding once in my direction. There is a click behind him, and I turn to see the door close; both men have left and I am now alone with my father. For a long moment, I regard the ageing man from across the room, then take a few tentative steps toward the bed, where I stand spellbound by his image. He has always seemed larger than life, and now he’s immobile, reduced to a hospital bed.
“What took you so long?” The old man opens one eye, then the other, then shoots me a soft smile.
“You’re awake.”
“Why are you surprised? The priest wouldn’t shut up until I pretended to be asleep.”
I chuckle and take his hand in my own, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“How’s it going, old man?”
A wistful look passes between us. He’s frail and old and he looks so different to the last time I came home to visit.
“It’s not going,” the old man says, struggling to sit up. I help him and fluff a pillow behind his back to make him comfortable.
“How can I help?”
“You need to stick to the script, kid. You’re all I have left.”
I fix my thoughtful gaze on my father. This is not the life I ever would have chosen for myself, but it’s one I found himself in. And now I have to live it, for better or for worse.
“King…” the old man starts, before he’s interrupted by a deep chortle from his lungs as he coughs. I pour a cup of water and lift it toward my father, placing the straw against his dry lips.
“Your safety is everything to me, King. I need you to be safe. This is not the time to let your guard down.”
“You’re going to be fine,” I reassure him, setting the cup down on the bedside table.
He shakes his head, looking somewhat dejected, and advises me he’s had a good run. In truth, I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him. He’s my only living relative and I’ve lived such a sheltered life, I wouldn’t know how to go on. Where to begin? What to do?
“My time has come. This will all be yours, but be smart, King.”
“I wouldn’t know the first thing about doing what you do, father.”
“Promise me,” he wheezes. “Promise me, when the time comes, you will run the business.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re all I have left.”
“You’re my only child. This will all be yours; you need to run it with an iron fist."
“Tate’s been with you since before I was even born. Why can’t he run it?”
The old man shakes his head defiantly. “Only you."
“He’s been a good soldier,” I remind him.
“There’s only so far you can trust him, King. Do not trust a person if the introduction comes from Tate.”
It is my turn to shake my head, as I look at my father in confusion. What has changed between my father and Tate that he no longer trusts him?
“Durian,” my father says. “Call Durian.” Before he falls back into a fitful sleep.
* * *
Tate drives me to the compound, where I am faced with more soldiers and more enforcers than I’ve ever seen in my life. When I question him on the wisdom of having so many strangers around, Tate responds by asking me not to question his judgment.
“You’re forgetting something, Tate,” I remind him, looking at him pointedly. “You work for me, not the other way around.”
Tate snickers and lets out an exasperated sigh as he walks away, before he looks back at me over his shoulder and says, “Don’t forget what we discussed about you leaving. For your own safety, do not go anywhere without me.”
I shoot him a death glare and stick my middle finger up, but he just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, before getting into his car and driving away, reminding the soldiers not to let their guard down.