The Gift

Author's Note.

It has been a good many years since I last wrote a story on this site -- life just got in the way, and my priorities lay elsewhere. But I have managed to steal a few hours here and there and offer the following. It's a bit different to my early work, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy it.

Hot_Sister. June 2025.

*

The Gift

Sarah Richardson sat uneasily in an office of Baker, Baker & Phelps, Lawyers, and wondered again why they had asked her to be here. She had no need of legal assistance in her neat, ordinary life, but the message had received seemed compelling and contained enough information to convince her it was real, and that it was worth an hour of her time to attend an appointment.

The figure in front of her was, she thought, typical of any lawyer: of medium height and of florid complexion, dressed in an expensive three-piece suit. She saw the tightness of his collar and the bulge of his waistcoat, testimony to the good living he earned, reinforced by the rich opulence of his office with its thick carpet and the expansive wood paneling. A full-size oil painting of a distinguished figure occupied a good part of the wall behind him -- presumably of one of the founders of the company, but she could see no resemblance to the man seated before her.

For a moment the lawyer regarded her, the light from a nearby window illuminating his glasses like shiny coins, and then he spoke in the patriarchal tones she imagined he used on every client who entered his office, particularly if she were a young and attractive woman.

"Thank you for calling in to see us, Miss Richardson. I promise I won't take up too much of your time."

Sarah nodded but said nothing. No doubt he would get to the point shortly.

"I'm sorry to ask you this, but before I can disclose the purpose of this meeting I must establish your identity. I hope you will bear with me." He watched the girl incline her head briefly before continuing.

"Can you please state your full name and address?"

"Sarah Jane Richardson, 24 Amalfi Crescent, Oakdale."

"And your date of birth?"

"27th February 2003".

"And your profession?"

"Contemporary artist. May I ask what this is about?"

The lawyer smiled. "All in good time, Miss Richardson. What was your mother's full name and occupation?"

"Marilyn Elizabeth Richardson. She was a well-known actress, whom you may have seen on television."

"Indeed - and I always enjoyed her work, as I admire yours. Can you tell me where she lived?"

Sarah gave him the information he wanted: details of her childhood, where they had lived and of the motor vehicle accident that had taken her mother's life two years earlier. Finally, the questions stopped, and he examined the documents she had been instructed to bring: the passport with its bold blue and gold cover; the well-worn driving licence and the medical benefit card. At last he seemed satisfied.

"I wondered if I might ask one last question before I get to the point of the meeting", he said at length, handing the documents back to her. "What do you know of your father?"

"My father?" Sarah was taken aback. "I -- well, nothing, really...only know what my mother told me."

"Which was?" he prompted gently.

"As I say, not much. I know she fell pregnant with me not long after they met, and he left her before I was born. I know she was bitter towards him, which was unlike her." She shook her head. "She never really spoke of him, and I learned not to ask. I only know his name was Pat, or Patrick, and he abandoned her. I suppose she might have told me more in time, had she not been taken."

"Indeed," the lawyer said gently. "It was a tragic loss." He gazed at the window behind the girl for a moment, observing a moment of silence before resuming. "Perhaps," he said, "this might answer some of the questions you never had answers to."

He reached forward and offered her a thick manilla envelope that had been resting on the desk. "This was left in our care just after you were born, with strict instructions that it was for your eyes only and it should be delivered to you, if you survived, on or after your 21st birthday." He smiled faintly. "I'm glad you did and that we were able to track you down."

Sarah took the envelope tentatively. "Do you know what's in it?"

"We do not. The brief was simply to deliver it to you."

"And are you sure it was my father who instructed you?"

"He gave every impression of being so."

Sarah considered questioning his answer but realised he was probably wasn't even working here that long ago. Did legal firms require proof of identity when someone left a bequest? She did not know, and in any case it was probably better to read whatever was in the envelope before worrying about such details. She examined the envelope in her hand, noting the heavy cartridge paper and the bold script upon it.

"Should I open it now?"

"You may, if you wish, and I will extend you privacy to do that. Or you can take it away to open at your leisure." He steepled his fingers, thinking of the right words to say. "In my experience documents such as this can sometimes deliver, er...a profound and sometimes challenging perspective, so perhaps it best if you read it at home when you have the time and inclination."

Sarah slipped the envelope into her bag. "I will, thank you." She rose to her feet. "I -- well, do I owe you anything for this visit?"

"You do not. I believe the fee paid by your father adequately covered the service we have offered." He stood up and extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Richardson, and I hope that whatever is in that envelope helps you understand your circumstances a little better. I'm sure we will see you again before too long."

Sarah pondered his final words as she left the office but thought them unlikely. She didn't need a lawyer, and certainly couldn't afford them.

But circumstances were to prove her wrong.

*

Four days later the envelope remained on her mantlepiece, unopened. Each day Sarah returned from work and glanced at it, thinking that perhaps it was time. But on each occasion she left it unopened, uneasy with what it might tell her about the past.

Like all children whose fathers had abandoned them Sarah felt not only resentment, but guilt. Her mother had recounted how he'd been in her life briefly, but had left without a word of farewell. Sarah could not imagine he was discontented with her mother, who was the sweetest and most beautiful creature in the world, so it must have been her who drove him away. Had he been disappointed in the prospect of having a child? Would he have found her ugly? Or perhaps he was unable to accept the burden she would bring with sleepless nights, extra expense and crushing commitment.

Whatever his objection to his daughter it was a hard burden to carry, especially for her mother who was left to raise the child on her own. But, because there was no other option, they had moved on and whilst far from wealthy, they had survived. Sarah was not given to profanity, but she thought the envelope would contain nothing but the pain of the past to dismay and disturb her.

Fuck you,

she thought,

whoever you were. And fuck the ghosts you're trying to bring back.

She considered throwing it in the trash but didn't, perhaps because of the regret of not knowing what it said. And so the envelope stayed on the mantle, beckoning mutely as she worked on the canvas of her latest painting.

The fourth day after the lawyer's meeting was a Friday. Weekends were always enjoyable and she was looking forward to a night with good friends at a restaurant not far away. The abandoned envelope caught her eye as she poured a glass of wine and on impulse, she crossed the room to pick it up.

It's now or never, and I can talk about it with my friends,

she thought.

I can bury the ghosts, in whatever shape they may come, and then I can move on with my safe life.

She sat on the sofa and turned the envelope in her hands. It had her name written upon it in spiky handwriting, together with an annotation "only to be opened after her 21st birthday." Other than that, there was no indication of who it was from, or what it contained.

And so, with a sigh, she broke the waxen seal and tore open the flap to extract the dozen or so sheets of paper inside, and she began to read.

'My Dearest Sarah,

If you are reading this, it means that you have been found and your identity verified by my lawyers. It also means you are alive and I am dead, which is as it should be.

I left your life on the day that you were born without any explanation to your mother and I'm sure that some of the resentment she would have felt would have been given to you, too. I understand that, because I abandoned her to the hard life of a single mother, and denied you a father in your formative years. But please understand that I longed with every fibre in my being to stay with you and your mother. She was the first person I had ever loved and I know I would have loved you too.

But circumstances of my own choosing, and the sliver of fate that had brought us together for so brief a time conspired to make that impossible, as you will see. If I had stayed it would only have been for a little while longer, and it would have brought great distress to your mother - and so I chose to walk away, and I could not tell her why.

When you read this letter you may wonder why I bothered to write it, for it is not a happy story. I was a wastrel and a thief. I did far more bad things than good, and I deceived everyone I'd ever known to my advantage, including your mother. It's not a record that will make you like me, but perhaps you may be able to find a little understanding and forgiveness in your heart when you know the truth. I truly hope so.

I won't bore you with many details of my early life, as its of little importance, but I was born Patrick O'Shaun Murphy in the city of Belfast in February of 1971. Yes, I know -- I was much older than your mother although she didn't know that for reasons I will explain.

My childhood was one of hardship and, like many kids without purpose I fell in with the street gangs in the poorer parts of the city. We progressed from petty theft as youngsters to more ambitious crimes as teens, and by the time I was eighteen I was a hardened criminal who cared only for himself and nothing for others. I was in jail by the time I was 20 and spent the next thirty years more in than out of it, and by 45 I was living on the street addicted to heroin, and stealing what I could to support the habit. In short, I unworthy of anyone's love or respect.

I can hear you thinking 'how the hell did my mother shack up with such an old loser?' It's a good question and the answer is one that you'll find very hard to believe -- but I swear by everything I held dear that the following account is true. They say that death brings the ultimate truth, and I have no more lies to tell in my last few days on this earth so you must make of my story what you will.

I have not prayed in many years, but I do so now. May God bless you, Sarah, and keep you safe.'

February 1998. Patrick's Story.

I remember the day they made me the offer just as clearly as if it were yesterday.

It was a bitterly cold morning and we were huddled around the brazier, trying to get warm and wondering where breakfast might come from. There was Luke and Jago and Ratchet and a couple of new guys who I hadn't seen before, their faces lean and pinched and the stubble grey upon their cheeks. The cold wind skittered down the empty street, raising a spiral of dust and playing with leaves and scraps of paper, and the lights in the tenement buildings across the Lot were fading in the thin winter morning.

'Jesus H, it's cold!' said Jago. He was crouching next to the brazier and I saw his eyes were watering from the smoke.

'Like a nun's twat,' added Ratchet. We'd given him that name a year or two back on account that his dentures clicked when he chewed -- a regular little noise like the locking ratchet on a winch.

'Nun's twats are tight, not cold.'

I looked over at the speaker, knowing what I would see. Luke was the youngest of us and the best educated. He'd been a stock market jock in better times but stress and drugs had done for him, and now he shared the street with us. He was a nuggety little guy with a thick beard shot through with grey but his eyes were bright and he still had a sense of humour.

'What you say?' asked Ratchet.

'I said that nuns have tight twats, not cold ones,' Luke explained. 'They're tight because they've never bin used, but they're warm.'

Ratchet screwed up his face. 'How d'you know that? Youse never had one, I bet.'

'No, I never did.'

'So how d'you know they is warm?'

'It stands to reason,' Luke explained. 'Their little cracks are small and squeezed together like a mouse's ass. That keeps the heat in.'

Jago laughed. 'That's right, Ratchet,' he said. 'Not like Cindy's canyon. You can feel the heat beaming out of that big motherfucker whenever she drops her drawers.' Cindy was on the street just like us and sometimes exchanged sexual favours for a loaf of bread or a cigarette. Most guys thought the price was too high for what she offered, though. Age and hard living were doing her out of business.

Ratchet grunted. It was too cold to talk and he was hungry, like the rest of us. The conversation died away and there was only the distant rumble of traffic and the sound of Luke's wet sniffing.

I looked down the street to see if any cops were around. They tended to stay out of this area but occasionally you'd see them. The old tenement buildings towered either side like grey concrete barriers, their smashed windows as jagged as broken teeth, and the weeds in the sidewalk were waving in a brisk little wind. I could see another group of vagrants further up, huddled around a fire just like us, and I saw the black limo appear around the corner beyond them.

'Hey, check this out,' I said. We watched as it turned towards us, and we saw the other group run, melting away into the doorways and cellars like rats before a flood.

'It's not the pigs,' observed Jago. He stood up and I saw him glance behind him to check the escape route.

'More like the Mayor's ve-hickle,' said Luke. 'Hey, perhaps he's bringing us voting cards.'

'Or food,' said Jago, hopefully.

We didn't see the car coming the other way until it was almost opposite, and by then it was too late. It stopped suddenly and the doors burst open and three guys came out, moving fast. Big guys. Jago and the others were quick, though: they scooted through the hole in the fence and were gone, but Luke and I were slower and by the time we'd turned they were there, blocking the exit and shoving cards in our faces.

I thought then that they cops, but the biggest one stared at me for a moment with eyes as pale as wet sandstone.

'You fancy a square meal?' he asked, 'and a clean, warm bed to sleep in?'

'Sure, but -'

'You're wondering what the catch is.' He shrugged. 'Nothing. You come with us and agree to a couple of tests, and we'll look after you for a week or so. Hot showers, warm beds, food -'

'What kind of tests?' Luke demanded.

'Medical tests. Blood only, to see if we can clean it. Get rid of any dependencies, like.' He smiled suddenly and I was reminded of a barracuda. 'No catch, honest.'

I could see Luke bristling. He hated to be called a junkie, even if he was one. He opened his mouth to argue and I took his arm, quickly, my fingers digging into his flesh to silence him. They didn't look like the sort of guys to provoke.

'OK,' I said. 'But you bring us back here afterward, right?'

He looked around at the filth and the squalor where we lived. 'Right.'

'OK then. Let's go.' I released Luke's arm and we shuffled after them. I could almost smell breakfast.

***

It was great for the first few days -- really easy. The nurse was pretty and the routine was a piece of piss -- a few blood samples in the morning and this weird drink at night. It tasted like dog shit, but it was a small price to pay for getting between real, clean sheets and not worrying about freezing to death or getting set alight by some deranged crackhead on the streets.

On the sixth day a poncy looking guy came around in a white coat and told us we'd done really well, but today was when the treatment would really start. He said it would be tough for an hour or two, but everything would be fine and there would be a cash bonus of 500 pounds for us at the end, if we'd agree. Fuck me, I'd have bent over a kitchen table and taken Arnold Schwarzenegger up my arse for 500 quid, so it wasn't a big deal.

So they took us both down to the treatment room and put us on steel beds with the big overhead lights shining down, and banks of monitors and bunches of tubes and pipes beside them. They put thick leather straps over our arms and legs and tightened them down. The intravenous drips went in and the poncy doctor adjusted them, and then stood back. I remember how his glasses gleamed in the light like pennies on a dead man's eyes and I recall how he looked at us: almost as if he'd just lit a fuse and wasn't quite sure what was going to happen.

Luke was on the gurney beside me. 'I don't like this, Pat,' he whispered. 'This isn't what they said -' but I didn't care. I guess a few days of good food and hot showers had made me remember what it was like to live normal. Besides, it couldn't be that bad, could it?

The first chemicals felt like a drain cleaner had been forced into my blood, surging through my system like coils of barbed wire, scouring and cleaning, burning as it stripped away the clag and degradation of a lifetime. I could feel every single little tube, pipe and capillary in my body wriggling like a skewered snake as the gunk swept through them, my arms and legs jerking and the restraining straps biting into my flesh as I writhed in agony. My heart was racing, hunting like the engine of a chainsaw, and my brain seemed to swell in my skull until my eyes bulged from their sockets. Christ, it hurt! There was no respite, either, no bit of wood to cling to as I rode out the storm -- just unrelenting agony as a thousand wire brushes scoured out my insides to leave the flesh raw and twitching like freshly killed offal on a butcher's slab.

And then, at last, the agony stopped as suddenly as it had started and I lay gasping on the cold steel bench. I felt like a hollowed tree, my insides a throbbing void and only my fluttering heart and my swirling consciousness to tell me I was alive. My skin was clammy and devoid of any sensation so I never felt the prick of the second intravenous feed: but I felt the surge inside me...a coolness like a soothing balm caressing the raw blistered flesh. The sensation spread quickly, filling the aching void to hold me back together and for a few moments it was pleasant: and then, like a Poltergeist, it reared up and flung itself towards my brain.

How can I describe it? It was like nothing I have ever experienced before, or will again. Imagine your brain frozen for a few fleeting seconds, set like a great iceberg in your skull whilst the hammers of your consciousness battered at it like lost souls at the gates of hell. Then imagine it swelling - the ice expanding and your skull creaking and crackling under the strain, your eyes bulging as if they would fly from their sockets and your fingers clawing at the straps to reach them, to push them back lest your head explode in a mist of blood and brains. And envisage colours bursting from deep within the frozen fissures, spinning outwards in a million sparkling fragments to ricochet inside your skull, swirling slowly at first but then accelerating like a cyclone until your consciousness becomes a blur of white and red and gold and the ice gives way to fire. In this maelstrom each cell in your brain is wrenched asunder -- a hundred trillion specks of matter colliding in your skull like grains of sand in a windstorm, flung this way and that, fracturing the connectivity of your brain like splintered glass and bending your dendrites like reeds in a tsunami. And now multiply that by a hundred, and you'd start to get close to what I felt.