Concussion

He’d come to this small coastal town on the assumption that everyone would leave him the hell alone. But he’d learned that this was not to be. The villagers treated a foreigner moving into their digs like an invitation to be friendly. He’d had neighbours coming over with lamington cakes, people stopping him on the sidewalk to talk about the weather. One lady with a perm and leopard print leggings had even asked him to join her for a coffee at one of the village’s two cafes. He hadn’t known what to say. And now someone was about to knock on his door. With a growl, he started tidying away the disassembled Glock he’d been cleaning. He wasn’t going to allow anyone inside his house, but it paid never to leave things to chance. The doorbell rang. It was a real bell — its copper gone green with age — not the electronic simulated bell most houses had. Dante put the last piece of his sidearm in its padded metal box, closed it, and locked the lid. He checked the camera again. The young man didn’t appear to be armed, but he made sure his favourite Luger was in its underarm holster. Because old habits died hard, and Dante wanted to buck the statistic about people dying soon after retirement. He padded down the wide hallway, the golden timber floor smooth underneath his sock-clad feet. The front door was solid oak, painted a dark green, with a wavy glass panel showing an indistinct outline outside. Dante unlocked the door’s original deadbolt. He then deactivated the second deadbolt he’d installed with a touch of his index finger and swung the door open. The fresh-faced young man standing on his porch looked surprised at the silent arrival of the house’s owner. He was about nineteen or twenty, with curly brown hair just shy of being auburn. Hazel eyes with long lashes completed the image of country wholesomeness. He even had rosy cheeks for god’s sake. “Er, hi.” The young man gave Dante an uncertain smile. “What do you want?” Dante winced internally. He tried to remember what his therapist had told him about meeting people for the first time. Eye contact, but not too much. Relaxed stance. Smile on the inside, that will show up in your voice. That last one made no sense to Dante. He’d seen plenty of people’s insides in his line of work, and not one internal smile. “Ah, my name’s Charlie. Charlie Wilson.” The young man swallowed. Since Dante was six foot two with a street fighter physique, hair cut military style, piercing grey eyes and scarred knuckles, he was used to people being nervous around him. Being nearly forty had done nothing to mellow his features. “Alright. Charlie Wilson.” Dante tried to smile on the inside. “What do you want?” Charlie swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping up and down. “Mr Reid⁠—” “Call me Dante.” “Mr Dante. My name’s Charlie Wilson.” “You said that already.” “Um… Mr Dante, I’m here to do your garden.” “My what?” Dante looked around the front yard of the 1920s villa he’d purchased six weeks ago, sight unseen. There were a lot of plants in it. Trees too. And other plants in pots. There was even a glass greenhouse out the back — an elegant wrought iron affair that must have been built around the same time as the house. Dante supposed a garden like this would need looking after. That was what gardeners did. “Are you a gardener?” “Yes.” Charlie nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve been doing this garden for the last five years. Mrs Davison — she owned the house before you — had me come in every Thursday to do it.” Was it Dante’s imagination, or did Charlie’s eyes flick sideways to the shadows under a purple flowered tree growing by the side of the verandah? Dante was sure he had. He scowled at the young man. He didn’t like things that made no sense. “You can’t come on a Thursday.” Thursday was when Dante tuned in to his AA meeting - 5pm EST, 9am New Zealand time. Things were discussed in these meetings that were not for gardeners to overhear. Charlie looked crestfallen. “But Mr Dante, it’s important the garden is looked after. It’s one of the finest in the region. There’s rare Chatham Island Lilies, native orchids, and an Amorphophallus Titanum.” “I don’t know what an Amorphophallus Titanum is.” “It’s a corpse flower.” “Oh.” Dante wondered if burying bodies under a corpse flower would be too obvious. Then he remembered he was no longer responsible for burying bodies. “Mrs Davison never got to see the corpse flower bloom while she was alive. They only bloom every seven to ten years, so it’s bound to happen any time now. It’s in the glasshouse, and the temperature needs to be kept just right for it.” “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Dante stepped back, preparing to shut the door. Charlie shot another look at the purple flowered tree, then stepped forward, his face flushed a cherry pink. “I’ll work for free!” “You will?” Charlie managed to look both sheepish and grumpy. “Yes. The corpse plant is extremely rare. There’s only two in the southern hemisphere. She — Mrs Davison would want to know it’s being looked after.” Dante studied the young man. There was definitely something odd going on here. “Is it customary around here for the gardener to come with the house?” “Yes?” Charlie looked hopeful. Dante sighed. “You’re going to keep on about this dead flower, aren’t you?” Charlie nodded. “It’s unique. And it’d be much appreciated by the Te Kohe Botanical Society⁠—” “Fine, fine.” Dante rubbed at his temples. “I get it.” Who knew the local yokels would be so hardcore about gardening? “I should have bought that house by the harbour with the fully concreted front and back yard,” he muttered. The guy who’d owned the house had painted the concrete green. To Dante, that seemed like a sensible type of garden. “You won’t regret it, Mr Dante,” bubbled Charlie. “You’ll get to see the corpse flower bloom, and⁠—” “You can’t come Thursdays.” “Friday?” “Ok.” Dante considered. “I’ll pay you whatever Mrs Davison paid you. Plus ten percent for inflation.” “Thank you!” Charlie’s face shone like a lighthouse beacon. “No problem.” Dante wondered briefly if Charlie had hidden a body in the garden. Why else would someone be so keen to continue digging around in a bunch of plants? Perhaps there was something hidden under the purple flowered tree? He tuned in again to hear Charlie still effusing. “—and Mrs Davison will be so relieved. She was worried about who would take care of everything when she passed. So I’ll be here every Friday morning, half past seven sharp, is that alright?” “Yeah, sure.” Dante. “And I can teach you all about gardening if you’d