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Mr. Quinn's Visitor By David Gardiner
This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that authorship is acknowledged and credited. The copyright remains the property of the author
"Hey! Mister!" Tom Quinn shouted across the street to the tall dark-suited man who was ringing Mrs Clelland's doorbell, "no good looking for Mrs. Clelland. She was taken to the mortuary yesterday!"
The man turned and looked Quinn straight in the eye. Although he was on the other side of the street the intensity of his stare was so strong that Tom felt as though a searchlight had been turned on his face. He flinched slightly under its power. The man's demeanour was grave and severe and he carried a small black briefcase in his left hand.
"You mean, she's dead?"
"Well, they don't take you there for a twinge in your back, do they?"
"How appalling. What are the ethics of this profession coming to?"
Tom was baffled by the remark but noticed that the man's face was very pale and wondered if he might be genuinely shocked.
"Look Mister, I'm sorry if I was a bit flippant just then. Old Mrs. Clelland was found dead by the milkman yesterday morning. He raised the alarm because she hadn't taken in the milk. It's sad of course, but she was quite old."
As he spoke the man strolled across to where Tom was standing, fixing him all the time with that searing unblinking stare. He waited for Tom to continue.
"I thought you were probably from the Social Services," Tom rocked slightly from one foot to the other as he spoke, "They visited her quite a lot. Are you a relative?"
The man spoke slowly "No. My association with Mrs. Clelland was entirely professional. I have been preparing a contract for her signature." At last he blinked, as though it were something he had just remembered to do.
"You look a bit... shaken, if you don't mind me saying so. This is where I live. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"
"How very kind of you, Mr. ...?"
"Quinn. Tom Quinn."
The stranger did not reply but followed Tom down the short passageway to the kitchen/diner at the rear of the house. Tom put the kettle on and sat in one of the high kitchen chairs, motioning his guest to do the same. "Sorry about the clutter. I lost my wife two years ago come August and I'm not much of a housekeeper."
"I am truly sorry to hear about your loss, Mr. Quinn."
"Oh. Nice of you to say so. Life has to go on of course." He dropped two tea-bags into a small ceramic teapot. "She was a funny old bird, her across the road. She used to sit beside the front window all day long with the curtains just open a little crack" he indicated the width with his hands, "watching everyone that would come and go on the street."
"Of course. She was waiting for me."
Tom looked up at his guest and wondered if he was joking or perhaps a bit nutty. There was a brief pause.
"What was it you said you did, Mr. ...?"
"I didn't say, but if you wish to know I shall tell you. I am a representative. An agent. A messenger. I provide a conduit between my employer and those who wish to avail themselves of the services he has to offer."
Tom was beginning to wish he hadn't invited the man in, with his jet-black slicked-down hair and funereal three-piece black suit. He was clearly a nutter of some kind, probably a Mormon or a Jehovah's Witness. "And what services are those?"
The room seemed to become stonily silent, as though all background noises had been switched off. "Anything, Mr. Quinn. Absolutely anything that a person desires."
Tom smiled. "Hey! You're having a bit of a joke with me, aren't you? You're pretending your boss is the Devil."
"I never joke, Mr. Quinn. And I never pretend."
Tom was feeling mainly annoyance now, and a bit of indecision as to what he should do. He had invited a lunatic into his home and now he was going to have to humour him and find a way to get rid of him. He poured the boiling water into the little teapot and stirred it with a spoon to speed-up the dissolving process. Satisfied with the strength of the brew he poured two cups. "Milk and sugar, Mr. ...?"
"Black, thank you, Mr. Quinn."
He handed his guest the tea, noticing that his hand was shaking slightly, causing the cup to rattle on the saucer. His guest's hand was rock steady.
"Tell me, Mr. Quinn," his guest urged, "what would you ask for if you could have anything whatsoever, without limit?"
Tom decided he would play along. No point in making a scene.
"Well, I would like to be young again..."
"Yes. Go on."
"And have lots of money, of course."
"Of course."
"And... a beautiful young wife," he smiled, "or maybe two or three."
"Yes. Two or three. Anything else?"
"Look, isn't this a foolish kind of game for two grown men to be playing?"
"I don't play games, Mr. Quinn."
Tom took a sip of his own tea before he went on. "So. What are you telling me? That I can have anything I want in the whole world, without limit, if I sell my soul or something? Is that it?"
"We would certainly be willing to consider your proposal, Mr. Quinn."
"You're bonkers Mister, Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Many times."
Tom smiled. He was feeling more confident now. "All right then. Suppose I was to ask for immortality. You wouldn't be able to collect on the deal then, would you?"
His guest fixed him with the same unblinking stare. "Why don't you add it to your list, Mr. Quinn?"
"I could have immortality?"
"With pleasure."
Tom thought for a moment. "There's a trick to that somewhere, isn't there?"
"You are very astute, Mr. Quinn. Consider for a moment what true immortality would mean. When the world comes to an end, and all the people in it are gone, you would still be alive, thinking, perceiving, feeling. And when the whole of creation comes to an end and the stars go out one by one, and there is nothing left but the blackness of eternity, you would still be there. Forever and forever and forever."
Tom shuddered and put down his cup. "You're serious about all this, aren't you?"
"Deadly serious."
The man's unblinking stare began to unnerve him. "Would you mind not staring at me like that, Mr. ...?"
"Of course, Mr. Quinn."
With the man's eyes momentarily off him the tension seemed to lessen.
"Her across the road. Mrs. Clelland. What did she ask for?"
"It would be unethical for me to discuss the requests and proposals of another client. Suffice it to say that hers was a very complex and intricate contract that required a great deal of thought and attention to detail. I put a lot of work into it myself, which was why I was so disappointed to discover that Mrs. Clelland would not be availing herself of our services after all."
His guest was staring again. He didn't seem able to stop it. Tom angled his chair around to face the front passageway so as to avoid his eyes. "You know," he said quietly, "if this was all for real, there is something I want."
"Yes, Mr. Quinn?"
"Eighteen years ago, when my wife was still alive, we had a baby daughter named Clair. The only child we ever had. Somebody lifted her out of her pushchair while my wife was in the grocery store buying a loaf of bread and two pints of milk. We never saw her again. It was in all the papers. If I could have anything in the world I think I would want her to be alive, and well, and happy... And I would want to see her again. But I suppose even the Devil can't change the past."
"Adjustments to the past are not a problem, Mr. Quinn. And let me say that I am touched by the altruism of your request. Would you really be willing to pay with your own immortal soul for the life and happiness of another?"
Tom hesitated. "Yes, I think I would."
"Then perhaps we should sit down and draw up a contract, Mr. Quinn?"
Something in Tom seemed to snap. "Look, I don't know who you are but I think this whole conversation is in pretty poor taste. I would like you to finish your tea and leave. Please don't take offence."
"Of course not, Mr. Quinn. It has been a great pleasure to talk with you. And as you have been so hospitable I shall even investigate the possibility of granting your request free of charge. As a gesture of good will."
Tom turned quickly around. The teacup was on the kitchen table close to where his guest had been sitting but his guest was no longer there.
Tom was severely shaken. He leapt up from his chair, overturning his own tea, which oozed across the table in a swelling brown puddle that made him think of blood and death. Feeling faint he held the back of the chair for support and stood there shaking.
Almost immediately the doorbell sounded loudly, and made him start. He tried to calm down and pull himself together and all the other clichés that people resort to when facing the inconceivable.
As he staggered slowly down the passageway he could make out through the frosted security glass door panels the figure of a young woman, her bright red summer dress half shrouded by a dark unbuttoned overcoat. He reached the door and pulled it open. She was young, less than twenty he estimated, slim and attractive, and her long auburn hair and soft grey-blue eyes reminded him strongly of his deceased wife.
"Are you Thomas Quinn?" she asked meekly. He nodded, almost in a trance. A dazzling smile lit up her face. "It's Clair, Daddy!"
She embraced him for several minutes before either of them spoke. He could see her mother in all of her features now and knew that it was true. It was Clair, and she was alive, and well - and happy.
When the two of them had recovered slightly from the initial shock and he had regained enough presence of mind to guide her in to the front sitting room the words began to flow like the bursting of a mighty dam.
"They always told me I was adopted," she babbled, "but the Social Services had no record of it, and neither had the adoption agencies, and so I went to this strange man that my mother - I mean my adoptive mother - used to go to, because she believes in fortune-telling and mediums and that sort of thing - and he's supposed to be very good. He tells you things and solves problems and advises you. He's very creepy too, but he's very good. And he told me I wasn't really adopted - that I'd been kidnapped - you know? Stolen, abducted, whatever the right word is, and he said he could tell me who I really was, and who my real father was, and he said my real mother was dead, and..."
"Hey! Slow down! Take it easy! Let me ask you a couple of things." She beamed a heart-melting smile in his direction. But her father looked very grave. "This man - was he tall, and very dark, with a three-piece suit and a briefcase?"
"Yes, that's him. Do you know him too?"
"I think so. And..." Tom's voice dropped to a whisper, "did he ask for anything in return? Any payment for leading you to me?"
Clair looked embarrassed. "Well, I told you, he was pretty creepy. He got me to sign this weird contract," she giggled, "in my own blood."
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