Read the opening chapters of The Secret Anatomy of Candles
O N E
Jasper did not yet know that his wife was already dead as he
paced back and forth on the light brown, Purbeck marble floor
of Durham Magistrates’ Court. The iPhone he was holding to
his ear clicked in to Jennifer’s recorded message.
“The Candles are out. Please leave a message after the beep.”
He loathed that message, but he had to concede that
Jennifer was right in taunting him that he was never at home
long enough to change it. One reason for this was that the
conduct of every court case was always the same – consuming,
demanding, exhausting – and this case was no different. Jasper
was an enthusiastic slave to the process and could literally
disappear for days at a time without returning home.
With a grimace, he stabbed a finger at the iPhone and
slipped it back inside his broad, pinstriped, charcoal suit. He
stopped pacing, hands on hips, and stared at the large round
clock on the wall above the entrance to court one. It was ten to
four. Jasper was annoyed that he had made the call, annoyed
that he had succumbed to sentimental distraction just
moments before his crucial closing argument.
But his concern that he had not managed to raise Jennifer
at all over the past four days was growing. She wasn’t even
returning his voicemail. Where on earth could she be? With a
resigned sigh he realised that there was no time to dwell on
this, as he had to concentrate on the cunningly contrived plan
he had devised to save his client’s case.
As Jasper glanced about the cavernous foyer, echoing with
murmurs of gossip from scattered clumps of people dotted
around like weeds in a fallow field, his eyes were drawn to the
unmistakeable purple dress of his client, who resembled a
plump, ripe cranberry. She was standing beside her mother
and, quite unbelievably, cradling the disfigured baby in her
arms.
“Damn it,” Jasper hissed through clenched teeth. “I told
you, don’t hold the baby – give it to your mother.”
There she was, in full view of the public just minutes before
closing remarks and final jury deliberations, doing exactly what
they had agreed she must not reveal to the world. She caught
his eye and smiled, waving excitedly. He stared back, gesturing
animatedly with his arms for her to pass the baby to its
grandmother. Had they taken in a word of his careful
instructions that would need to be carried out to the letter in
just a few moments? Did she not realise how critical every
nuance of his finely crafted performance was, especially in such
cases where the evidence was so weak?
Shaking his head in despair, he took a deep breath and then
sat down beside a worn, tan leather briefcase on the wooden
bench straddled between court one’s two entrances. Rubbing
his greying temples with his left thumb and middle finger, he
ran through his rehearsed speech silently, lips moving
wordlessly and eyes staring blankly ahead.
Just then the increasingly familiar tic began to tug at the
corner of his left eye, causing him to blink repeatedly as though
he had a speck of dust in it. Quickly, the spasm began to spread
to his cheek, distorting the contours of his clean-shaven face
with warm and uncontrollable contractions.
Not now, he cursed, not moments before he needed to face
the members of the jury, establishing close eye contact,
connecting with them, and winning them over. He held out his
left hand and stared at it, willing the noticeable tremor, which
now also controlled his hand, to cease. But even spreading his
fingers apart and tensing the muscles until his knuckles
blanched was futile.
He closed the errant fingers into a clenched fist and with
his head bowed forwards Jasper suppressed a scream of
anguished frustration. What was happening to him? Why were
these tics and spasms invading the autonomy of his body,
mocking him? His moment of silent torment was interrupted
by approaching footsteps clipping the shiny marble floor.
“Well, if it isn’t Jasper Candle?” said a man’s voice.
Jasper looked up, surprised, and annoyed to be disturbed.
It was that awful man with sweaty palms whose name he could
never recall. He too wore a charcoal pinstripe suit, the
solicitor’s badge, and worn but polished black brogues. Today
he exuded an odour of garlic, no doubt from his lunch.
“I thought I’d catch you here. If you’ve got a moment, I
must talk to you about the Edward Burns case. You really have
gone too far this time, Jasper. How do you sleep at night, man,
have you no conscience?”
Jasper took a deep breath as the spasms continued to
corrupt his calm demeanour. He was accustomed to the vitriol
and immune to the animosity, bordering on repugnance, that
his colleagues directed at him. He accepted that his choice of
clientele was not one that cultivated popularity amongst fellow
solicitors.
Without responding to the inflammatory outburst he
gesticulated with his thumb in the direction of court one and
the wall clock.
“I haven’t got the lager and lime right now,” Jasper said in
a gentle accent that betrayed his east of London childhood.
“What?”
“Closing argument’s in five minutes. No time to chat,”
Jasper said, avoiding eye contact.
“Typical,” the man said, wrinkling his upturned nose and
sniffing loudly.
Jasper produced a black business card from within his
immaculate suit and held it out between index and middle
fingers.
“Call my office.”
Printed on the card in silver italics were the words: ‘Jasper
Candle, Compensation and Personal Injury Solicitor, Court
Lane, Old Elvet, Durham.’
The man stared at the card, seemingly transfixed by its
unusual design, his mouth slightly open as if he was not yet
done. Suddenly Jasper recalled his name, and wondered how
he could ever have forgotten it.
Life imitates art, he thought to himself.
“I need to focus, Mr Ferret, excuse me,” Jasper said
dismissively, turning his body such that his displayed language
of withdrawal was unambiguous.
He did not want any further distraction at this crucial time.
It had been bad enough trying unsuccessfully to contact his
wife and wondering where she was, and why for days he had
not been able to reach her. But the last thing he needed at that
moment was to become embroiled in a debate with his
opposite counsel over the complexities of the death of Edward
Burns. The next hour was crucial in wrapping up the present
case, winning it against all odds for his client, and maintaining
his unblemished reputation.
The iPhone vibrated against his chest and Jasper pulled it
out immediately, poking at the screen with impatient fingers.
But it was not his wife. It was from Stacey, his secretary.
“Hi Mr C. Can you talk?” Stacey said in a diminutive voice.
“Quickly.”
“That American woman, Mrs Debra Kowalski, has an
appointment to see you at 6pm. Her child has died, poor thing,
and all she does is cry.”
Jasper’s eyes tightened almost imperceptibly, wrinkling the
skin of his lower eyelids.
“Died from what?”
“Measles, I think.”
Jasper’s face registered surprise as he straightened up.
“I didn’t know you could die from measles.”
A brief silence ensued, before Stacey spoke again.
“Well, that’s what she said.”
Jasper rubbed his twitching face.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” he said, glancing at his
wristwatch.
“She’s called several times. I tried, but she won’t wait.”
Jasper clenched his teeth and pulled a face, as a sudden
spasm jerked his arm violently and almost flung the iPhone
from his grasp.
“Brad Pitt!” Jasper cursed.
He had taken to swearing at these involuntary movements,
chastising them, as though they had assumed a personality that
would respond to abuse and reprimand. Jasper cupped the
iPhone in his palm to steady the tremor.
“What was that, Mr C?” Stacey said.
“Stacey, has my wife left any messages today?” Jasper
looked down as he spoke, scuffing the polished tiles with the
toe of his brogues.
“No, Mr C.”
He paused.
“When last did she call… looking for me?”
“Ummmm… I don’t remember, Mr C, not for a few days.
I’ll have to check the voicemail.”
Jasper pocketed the phone and, taking a deep breath,
glanced up at the wall clock. It was time to go in and execute
his cunning plan. He had warned his opposite counsel
repeatedly about the danger of not accepting his settlement
offer, and now they were about to learn to their cost never to
call Jasper Candle’s bluff.
He picked up the leather briefcase, massaged the incessant
tics around his left eye, adjusted his collar and cuffs, and
marched into court one as though he owned it.
T WO
Jennifer retreated in shock to the safety of the pavement as the
black London cab almost ran into her. Staring at her
incredulously, the driver shook his head and hooted.
“I’m sorry,” she heard herself say.
Jennifer turned around briefly and looked back up Harley
Street with a dazed expression ironed onto her narrow face and
sharp features. Even her eyes blinked slowly, indicative of the
paralytic state of her brain. As she stared up towards the
distinctive pinkish sandstone of number sixty seven, she could
still hear his words echoing in her head, still smell the powerful
sweet musk of his aftershave.
“I am so sorry to have to be the bearer of such bad news,
Mrs Candle,” he had carefully enunciated, his exotic middle
eastern face exuding empathy beneath small letterbox
spectacles.
In her hand Jennifer clutched the letter that he had given
to her: the letter that had shattered her life.
“Take this as a summary of what we have discussed.”
Jennifer recalled speaking to him as if from the depths of
a bad dream, her voice echoing and alien to her own ears.
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of terrible mistake,
Doctor?”
“I am so sorry,” he had said, standing up in his impeccably
tailored Armani suit and offering her his hand.
Pulling the collar of her thick blood red coat tightly around
her neck, she turned into New Cavendish Street and began to
walk in the direction of Hyde Park. Soon she was away from
the traffic in the vast expanse of the park, entering at
Cumberland Gate and walking aimlessly along the many
intersecting pathways. A group of students were playing
football to one side, but she did not even notice them as they
whistled their approval at her.
She walked further before stumbling into something that
squealed.
“Watch it!” an old man cursed as she almost trampled his
spaniel that had stopped to sniff a mole hill.
The dog yelped and sprang away to safety, before the leash
tautened and terminated its escape. Rising up from the hem of
Jennifer’s red coat was a smear of mud from its frightened paw.
“I am so… I didn’t see… please excuse me,” she stammered,
looking up at the wrinkled face of the old man.
He looked back into her vacant, swollen eyes, saw the tears
streaking her cheeks and creased his eyebrows.
“You all right, love?” he asked, pulling the circumspect
spaniel towards him on the leash.
“Yes… sorry.”
Jennifer nodded absently, not even feeling the sting of the
wintry chill on her face, and moved on.
She did not know how long she had walked, but eventually
found herself standing on the stone bridge, staring into the
brooding waters of the Serpentine. Ducks paddled about
gracefully in the icy water, occasionally speeding up to chase
down a crust of bread lobbed in by a samaritan on the bank.
Stiffened fingers tinged with blue lifted and meticulously
unfolded the letter on the stone parapet. Jennifer began to read
it again, perhaps doubting her recollection of its contents, or
hoping that it would convey a more benign message now than
it had earlier.
Living with the shadow of this prophecy hovering
relentlessly over her life had been difficult enough, but to
discover now that her worst fears had materialised was
heartbreaking. She felt crushed as a tear rolled down each
blanched cheek, past pale, pursed lips and dropped on to the
letter.
Jennifer stared into the depths of the dark water, drawn to
its tranquil ripples, pacified by its calming expanse, leaning
into its allure. In her mind she tried to imagine the despair that
Jasper’s father must have felt when he had received his letter
and whether the water below Westminster Bridge had called
to him that fateful day, just as it was calling to her now on West
Carriage Drive.
A woman unhurriedly pushing a regal Silver Cross pram
stopped beside her.
“Are you all right?” she enquired, touching Jennifer lightly
on the shoulder.
Jennifer was startled and shrank back from the cold
parapet and the sucking abyss beyond it, absently mumbling
and nodding her head as she stared at the woman with wide
eyes.
“I’m fine, thank you, just fine,” she heard herself say softly
and without conviction.
Walking away towards Albert Hall, Jennifer pushed the
letter deep into her coat pocket, hoping to banish its contents
from her thoughts.
O N E
Jasper did not yet know that his wife was already dead as he
paced back and forth on the light brown, Purbeck marble floor
of Durham Magistrates’ Court. The iPhone he was holding to
his ear clicked in to Jennifer’s recorded message.
“The Candles are out. Please leave a message after the beep.”
He loathed that message, but he had to concede that
Jennifer was right in taunting him that he was never at home
long enough to change it. One reason for this was that the
conduct of every court case was always the same – consuming,
demanding, exhausting – and this case was no different. Jasper
was an enthusiastic slave to the process and could literally
disappear for days at a time without returning home.
With a grimace, he stabbed a finger at the iPhone and
slipped it back inside his broad, pinstriped, charcoal suit. He
stopped pacing, hands on hips, and stared at the large round
clock on the wall above the entrance to court one. It was ten to
four. Jasper was annoyed that he had made the call, annoyed
that he had succumbed to sentimental distraction just
moments before his crucial closing argument.
But his concern that he had not managed to raise Jennifer
at all over the past four days was growing. She wasn’t even
returning his voicemail. Where on earth could she be? With a
resigned sigh he realised that there was no time to dwell on
this, as he had to concentrate on the cunningly contrived plan
he had devised to save his client’s case.
As Jasper glanced about the cavernous foyer, echoing with
murmurs of gossip from scattered clumps of people dotted
around like weeds in a fallow field, his eyes were drawn to the
unmistakeable purple dress of his client, who resembled a
plump, ripe cranberry. She was standing beside her mother
and, quite unbelievably, cradling the disfigured baby in her
arms.
“Damn it,” Jasper hissed through clenched teeth. “I told
you, don’t hold the baby – give it to your mother.”
There she was, in full view of the public just minutes before
closing remarks and final jury deliberations, doing exactly what
they had agreed she must not reveal to the world. She caught
his eye and smiled, waving excitedly. He stared back, gesturing
animatedly with his arms for her to pass the baby to its
grandmother. Had they taken in a word of his careful
instructions that would need to be carried out to the letter in
just a few moments? Did she not realise how critical every
nuance of his finely crafted performance was, especially in such
cases where the evidence was so weak?
Shaking his head in despair, he took a deep breath and then
sat down beside a worn, tan leather briefcase on the wooden
bench straddled between court one’s two entrances. Rubbing
his greying temples with his left thumb and middle finger, he
ran through his rehearsed speech silently, lips moving
wordlessly and eyes staring blankly ahead.
Just then the increasingly familiar tic began to tug at the
corner of his left eye, causing him to blink repeatedly as though
he had a speck of dust in it. Quickly, the spasm began to spread
to his cheek, distorting the contours of his clean-shaven face
with warm and uncontrollable contractions.
Not now, he cursed, not moments before he needed to face
the members of the jury, establishing close eye contact,
connecting with them, and winning them over. He held out his
left hand and stared at it, willing the noticeable tremor, which
now also controlled his hand, to cease. But even spreading his
fingers apart and tensing the muscles until his knuckles
blanched was futile.
He closed the errant fingers into a clenched fist and with
his head bowed forwards Jasper suppressed a scream of
anguished frustration. What was happening to him? Why were
these tics and spasms invading the autonomy of his body,
mocking him? His moment of silent torment was interrupted
by approaching footsteps clipping the shiny marble floor.
“Well, if it isn’t Jasper Candle?” said a man’s voice.
Jasper looked up, surprised, and annoyed to be disturbed.
It was that awful man with sweaty palms whose name he could
never recall. He too wore a charcoal pinstripe suit, the
solicitor’s badge, and worn but polished black brogues. Today
he exuded an odour of garlic, no doubt from his lunch.
“I thought I’d catch you here. If you’ve got a moment, I
must talk to you about the Edward Burns case. You really have
gone too far this time, Jasper. How do you sleep at night, man,
have you no conscience?”
Jasper took a deep breath as the spasms continued to
corrupt his calm demeanour. He was accustomed to the vitriol
and immune to the animosity, bordering on repugnance, that
his colleagues directed at him. He accepted that his choice of
clientele was not one that cultivated popularity amongst fellow
solicitors.
Without responding to the inflammatory outburst he
gesticulated with his thumb in the direction of court one and
the wall clock.
“I haven’t got the lager and lime right now,” Jasper said in
a gentle accent that betrayed his east of London childhood.
“What?”
“Closing argument’s in five minutes. No time to chat,”
Jasper said, avoiding eye contact.
“Typical,” the man said, wrinkling his upturned nose and
sniffing loudly.
Jasper produced a black business card from within his
immaculate suit and held it out between index and middle
fingers.
“Call my office.”
Printed on the card in silver italics were the words: ‘Jasper
Candle, Compensation and Personal Injury Solicitor, Court
Lane, Old Elvet, Durham.’
The man stared at the card, seemingly transfixed by its
unusual design, his mouth slightly open as if he was not yet
done. Suddenly Jasper recalled his name, and wondered how
he could ever have forgotten it.
Life imitates art, he thought to himself.
“I need to focus, Mr Ferret, excuse me,” Jasper said
dismissively, turning his body such that his displayed language
of withdrawal was unambiguous.
He did not want any further distraction at this crucial time.
It had been bad enough trying unsuccessfully to contact his
wife and wondering where she was, and why for days he had
not been able to reach her. But the last thing he needed at that
moment was to become embroiled in a debate with his
opposite counsel over the complexities of the death of Edward
Burns. The next hour was crucial in wrapping up the present
case, winning it against all odds for his client, and maintaining
his unblemished reputation.
The iPhone vibrated against his chest and Jasper pulled it
out immediately, poking at the screen with impatient fingers.
But it was not his wife. It was from Stacey, his secretary.
“Hi Mr C. Can you talk?” Stacey said in a diminutive voice.
“Quickly.”
“That American woman, Mrs Debra Kowalski, has an
appointment to see you at 6pm. Her child has died, poor thing,
and all she does is cry.”
Jasper’s eyes tightened almost imperceptibly, wrinkling the
skin of his lower eyelids.
“Died from what?”
“Measles, I think.”
Jasper’s face registered surprise as he straightened up.
“I didn’t know you could die from measles.”
A brief silence ensued, before Stacey spoke again.
“Well, that’s what she said.”
Jasper rubbed his twitching face.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” he said, glancing at his
wristwatch.
“She’s called several times. I tried, but she won’t wait.”
Jasper clenched his teeth and pulled a face, as a sudden
spasm jerked his arm violently and almost flung the iPhone
from his grasp.
“Brad Pitt!” Jasper cursed.
He had taken to swearing at these involuntary movements,
chastising them, as though they had assumed a personality that
would respond to abuse and reprimand. Jasper cupped the
iPhone in his palm to steady the tremor.
“What was that, Mr C?” Stacey said.
“Stacey, has my wife left any messages today?” Jasper
looked down as he spoke, scuffing the polished tiles with the
toe of his brogues.
“No, Mr C.”
He paused.
“When last did she call… looking for me?”
“Ummmm… I don’t remember, Mr C, not for a few days.
I’ll have to check the voicemail.”
Jasper pocketed the phone and, taking a deep breath,
glanced up at the wall clock. It was time to go in and execute
his cunning plan. He had warned his opposite counsel
repeatedly about the danger of not accepting his settlement
offer, and now they were about to learn to their cost never to
call Jasper Candle’s bluff.
He picked up the leather briefcase, massaged the incessant
tics around his left eye, adjusted his collar and cuffs, and
marched into court one as though he owned it.
T WO
Jennifer retreated in shock to the safety of the pavement as the
black London cab almost ran into her. Staring at her
incredulously, the driver shook his head and hooted.
“I’m sorry,” she heard herself say.
Jennifer turned around briefly and looked back up Harley
Street with a dazed expression ironed onto her narrow face and
sharp features. Even her eyes blinked slowly, indicative of the
paralytic state of her brain. As she stared up towards the
distinctive pinkish sandstone of number sixty seven, she could
still hear his words echoing in her head, still smell the powerful
sweet musk of his aftershave.
“I am so sorry to have to be the bearer of such bad news,
Mrs Candle,” he had carefully enunciated, his exotic middle
eastern face exuding empathy beneath small letterbox
spectacles.
In her hand Jennifer clutched the letter that he had given
to her: the letter that had shattered her life.
“Take this as a summary of what we have discussed.”
Jennifer recalled speaking to him as if from the depths of
a bad dream, her voice echoing and alien to her own ears.
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of terrible mistake,
Doctor?”
“I am so sorry,” he had said, standing up in his impeccably
tailored Armani suit and offering her his hand.
Pulling the collar of her thick blood red coat tightly around
her neck, she turned into New Cavendish Street and began to
walk in the direction of Hyde Park. Soon she was away from
the traffic in the vast expanse of the park, entering at
Cumberland Gate and walking aimlessly along the many
intersecting pathways. A group of students were playing
football to one side, but she did not even notice them as they
whistled their approval at her.
She walked further before stumbling into something that
squealed.
“Watch it!” an old man cursed as she almost trampled his
spaniel that had stopped to sniff a mole hill.
The dog yelped and sprang away to safety, before the leash
tautened and terminated its escape. Rising up from the hem of
Jennifer’s red coat was a smear of mud from its frightened paw.
“I am so… I didn’t see… please excuse me,” she stammered,
looking up at the wrinkled face of the old man.
He looked back into her vacant, swollen eyes, saw the tears
streaking her cheeks and creased his eyebrows.
“You all right, love?” he asked, pulling the circumspect
spaniel towards him on the leash.
“Yes… sorry.”
Jennifer nodded absently, not even feeling the sting of the
wintry chill on her face, and moved on.
She did not know how long she had walked, but eventually
found herself standing on the stone bridge, staring into the
brooding waters of the Serpentine. Ducks paddled about
gracefully in the icy water, occasionally speeding up to chase
down a crust of bread lobbed in by a samaritan on the bank.
Stiffened fingers tinged with blue lifted and meticulously
unfolded the letter on the stone parapet. Jennifer began to read
it again, perhaps doubting her recollection of its contents, or
hoping that it would convey a more benign message now than
it had earlier.
Living with the shadow of this prophecy hovering
relentlessly over her life had been difficult enough, but to
discover now that her worst fears had materialised was
heartbreaking. She felt crushed as a tear rolled down each
blanched cheek, past pale, pursed lips and dropped on to the
letter.
Jennifer stared into the depths of the dark water, drawn to
its tranquil ripples, pacified by its calming expanse, leaning
into its allure. In her mind she tried to imagine the despair that
Jasper’s father must have felt when he had received his letter
and whether the water below Westminster Bridge had called
to him that fateful day, just as it was calling to her now on West
Carriage Drive.
A woman unhurriedly pushing a regal Silver Cross pram
stopped beside her.
“Are you all right?” she enquired, touching Jennifer lightly
on the shoulder.
Jennifer was startled and shrank back from the cold
parapet and the sucking abyss beyond it, absently mumbling
and nodding her head as she stared at the woman with wide
eyes.
“I’m fine, thank you, just fine,” she heard herself say softly
and without conviction.
Walking away towards Albert Hall, Jennifer pushed the
letter deep into her coat pocket, hoping to banish its contents
from her thoughts.
