The Black Opal Read online

  The Black Opal

  By

  S.G.Norris

  2

  Copyright © 2021 S.G.Norris

  ISBN 978-1-8382624-2-6

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

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  Hate and ignorance are not natural states of being. It is a choice we make to persuade ourselves we have no responsibility for the people and events around us.

  Southern United States and Central America

  Map Data © 2022 Google INEGI

  Chapter 1

  Nashville, Tennessee

  The final chords trip off my guitar and close with a dance around the fret board, ending with a final memorable riff. I take a small bow as Roseanna absorbs her usual glory. Which is fine. They come to see her not me.

  Her voice rides a scale between deep double base blues bouncing off the walls and the soft velvet of heart breaking melody. The unique blend is delivered with a husky edge that you’d expect from a well matured bourbon aged in Jamaican rum casks. She’s just turned twenty-five, face of unblemished youth. Listening with my eyes closed, I am in another century listening to the sound of the ancients.

  The applause continues throughout the Nashville saloon bar and I lean over to wave a couple of CDs from the box at the front of the stage. A few cheers are loud, a sign of a good gig. Let’s hope they’ve got pockets as deep as their cheers. A flicker of the eyes from Rose has a way to loosen even the tightest purse.

  ‘No-one plays guitar like Donnie Knight. Take a bow Donnie. The best damn guitar player in whole of Tennessee or I’m Marilyn Monroe, ya hear me. Y’all.’ I take the bow as instructed and the applause rises but their attention is on Rose like bees dancing round pollen.

  ‘Five dollar bills is all you need. We’ll take cents if that’s all you got. Damn, we’ll take a hundred for all you rich cowboys showing off those new leather boots, loving the sound of Tennessee right here.’ Roseanna says, ‘I see y’all, with those fifty dollar hats from Henry’s on the strip. Y’all be begging for the gear, all you need to end the day is the sound of Nashville right here. Country Rose, right here, y’all. High jiving, high flying.’ People flock to her as she takes the dollar bills quickly and efficiently. The tattoos on her pale arms shimmer in the small spotlight

  The show adrenaline slows in me and I hide a small yawn behind the back of my hand. Packing away my favoured classic Gibson guitar, I nod at Rose. She winks back. The bar is busy for a Thursday night and a few punters come and shake my hand. I find a cloth and wipe off the sweat before reaching out.

  ‘Please take a CD,’ I say, as dollar bills are handed over.

  Roseanna gets her usual drinks from the bar as a few guys come to flirt with her. It’s fun to watch her go into full rock and roll mode as she wows them with talk of her songs and up close there are always questions on her extensive tattoos.

  Time was I would be jealous, especially if there were some rich pretty boy lawyer types working on their cowboy fantasies, waving hundred dollar bills at her. Sometimes I want to shout across, ‘she’s not going to do you dudes,’ but that wouldn’t be great for sales. Let them believe.

  I leave her to it and step out the back to have a smoke. A decent night’s takings. I wonder if I need to go do the open mike later round on the strip. It’ll get me an extra fifty but can I be bothered. Though Rose will bark at me for not getting enough together to go on tour. A proper RV so we can go properly on the road. So much for rock and roll, more like suburban housewife, I tell her.

  But that’s Rose, 1950’s fashion icon and femme fatale, 1900s tattooed lady, 1920’s Creole blues singer and 21st Century comfort freak. She’s nothing if not a contrast. Nashville loves her. So do I. She’s a wild spirit and not easily tamed. But why would I want to tame the fire that makes her what she is. I’m just a dude with a fancy guitar. She can burn down the house in two lines of a song.

  The alley is quiet. I see a couple of chefs along the way doing the same as me, sneaking a cigarette break. It’s a warm clear summer night which brings out the rotting smells of the back street garbage but the smoke cuts through that as I get a minute to think.

  The show’s good. Living the dream, playing my tunes and I’m happy for anyone to tell me I’m the best damn guitarist in the whole of Tennessee. Who doesn’t want that? But Rose is right. It’s good for now but we’re better than that.

  A gunshot followed by a cry. A woman.

  Where did that come from?

  I look down the alley but I can’t see anyone and the two chefs are not there. I think the sound came from the south entrance so I run down looking from side to side into every yard entrance. Someone could appear from anywhere with a gun. I look again behind me. If they see me, they might not want any witnesses.

  A scream for help this time, desperate, urging. Where’s it coming from? I don’t see any movement.

  There’s a turning further down a dead end alley. I try along there. The lamp on the corner is smashed. I slow down, focussing my eyes with the half-light from the streets around.

  I see the shape of a woman sat up by the bins. She’s holding her stomach.

  ‘Hey, you ok?’ I shout.

  No movement around. Think she’s alone. Don’t want anyone leaping out and taking me by surprise.

  ‘I’m shot?’ she says weakly. Her English is laboured under her Spanish accent.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask as I reach for my cell phone from my pocket. I call 911 and start explaining where I am.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, ‘I came down here to rest.’ She points to her bag over the side. A rucksack and big Walmart carrier.

  ‘You’re homeless?’ I ask, ‘you didn’t see who shot you?’

  ‘No, no,’ she says. She tries to move, to sit up more but she curses in pain.

  ‘Stay still,’ I say.

  I kneel beside her and shine the torch on my cell phone over her so I can see her in the light. She’s slim, actually quite skinny. Not surprising, if she’s sleeping on the street. She’s wearing a blue vest top and denim jeans. As I get closer she reaches out a bloodied hand and grabs mine. I wince a little but don’t let go.

  ‘Hold my hand, please. I don’t want to die alone.’

  ‘I called 911, they are coming.’ I say. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Daniela,’ she says.

  ‘Where are you from Daniela?’ I ask. I keep looking round but don’t see any activity. Just the two of us down an alley. I’m scared. I don’t want her to die. But what can I do?

  ‘From Honduras,’ she replies. The effort to speak causes her to wince again.

  ‘I’ll go get help,’ I say. I feel so helpless. This woman could die on me and I really don’t know what to do. I wonder about my life choices. Being good at guitar never saved a life, did it?

  ‘No, please, stay.’ Daniela winces again and squeezes my hand. ‘I don’t know how long I last now and I can’t be on my own. Not now.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I ask.

  ‘Si, Si…yes’ she says, ‘but the pain is fading, losing much blood.’

  I take off my white shirt, then rip up it up to make a towel, pressing it on the wound. It’s the best I can offer. We both p
ush down but the shirt is full red in seconds.

  ‘Please, my bag?’ I lean over to the rucksack, returning my hand to the wound as soon as I can juggle my balance. ‘Pocket, please.’ I unzip the pocket and take out a photograph.

  I can’t see it well in the light.

  ‘See the man, with me. Please go to him. Take the photograph. I came to see him. Need money for my daughter. The gangs take her. El Panteros. We have nothing. Unless he give them what they want, she will be sold for puta or they kill her. I want her to live, come to US. He knows he’s her father but he refuses to listen to me. He got the security to take me to the street. Please, I don’t want my daughter to be same as me.’

  She’s crying but I can’t think about that and instead try to keep the pressure on the wound, while holding the photograph in my hand.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘She is Opal. Please put your hand in the pocket there is a stone there.’

  I reach in and pull out a small gumball sized stone. Shining the torch on it, I can make out different colour pigments in its mostly black form. It’s smooth and heavy in my hand.

  ‘It’s a Black Opal. From Honduras. She is named from it. Just like her it is perfect, her eyes have all the colours when you look at them. ’

  She whimpers as she speaks, words barely audible.

  I study the stone again and then put it in my pocket.

  ‘Promise me you’ll help,’ she says, ‘promise. Find him.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, not sure what I am agreeing to but that doesn’t matter at the moment. I just need to keep her alive.

  ‘You are a good man, I feel it in you. You will see Opal someday. Please give the stone to her. She will know it’s from me. She will know then that I never gave up on her.’

  She squeezes my hand once more and I feel a tingling sensation through my fingers. On her lips is the inkling of a smile. A moment passes and the smile fades. She lets my hand go. Her head slumps to the left and I realise she’s stopped breathing.

  I hear a siren in the street and the noise of paramedics.

  ‘Down here,’ I shout. ‘Now. She’s dying.’

  The ambulance crew are on her in seconds and I stand away. Shirtless and covered in her blood. I stagger back against the opposite wall.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Daniela,’ I reply, ‘she’s from Honduras. She has a daughter called Opal, like the stones.’ I say the words but I feel them fading with Daniela’s life.

  The paramedics pound her chest and shout her name but I know she’s gone. I can feel it. I turn away. The pain in my gut grows as I dare to glance at them as they work. I can’t explain it, I only met Daniela seconds ago and yet I feel like I’ve known her all my life.

  I fall to my knees, watching the paramedics work. Why do I feel so heartbroken?

  Chapter 2

  Time seems to be on pause. I stand in the street watching the comings and goings of the police and paramedics until eventually they push me away for more forensic examination. I feel tearful and weak as I return to the bar. The glory of the night’s performance is washed away and all I feel is loss. I don’t want to leave her. I’m letting her down. She only just came to me and now she’s gone.

  Uniform officers introduce me to the homicide detective.

  ‘Detective Stephens,’ she informs me. I don’t shake hands given I’m still not cleaned up.

  The detective is respectful to the extent that she appreciates I’m in shock but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a hundred questions for me. She’s a small middle aged woman in a grey suit and black blouse. Her outfit looks uncomfortably tight on her. Her eyes are dark, maybe the poor light in the bar doesn’t show her at her best but when she smiles and her stare is less firm, I get the sense she’s on my side.

  By the time she’s gone through the first barrage of questions, it’s clear that I’m a witness not a suspect.

  I’m allowed to go to the wash room and clean up while she goes back to the crime scene. Bill behind the bar has a sweat shirt I can pullover and cover myself. I’m happy to get her blood off my hands and body. My shirt is lost to forensics but that’s ok, I don’t want to see it again. I feel so disgusting with the sticky drying mess of blood. Looking at the blood running off in the sink, I feel tainted, a victim. Am I marked now? She’s left her stain on me and by default, I’m carrying the burden of her death. I don’t want it. I scrub harder to rid myself of the horror.

  The residual blood fades from view but I can’t get rid of it all from under my nails and in the folds of my skin. It will have to wait until I’m home. I try to put out of mind that I’m still tinged with the scraps of her blood. It’s stupid, but I can’t shake Daniela out of my head. I feel the grip of her hand on mine, the moment she let go, the moment she passed from my grip to God’s hand. I hope that for her.

  And then the stone.

  Putting my hand in my pocket, I find it, relieved it’s still there. Taking it out, I can see more of it in the light. It’s like a prism of reds, blue and greens frozen into this black/bluish shell. It’s perfect as she described. It must be worth a fortune. Why didn’t she sell it to get the money for Opal? Surely that would have solved the problem, wouldn’t it?

  I put it back in my pocket. Definitely not giving this to the police or anyone. It feels important.

  Roseanna hugs me as I come back to the empty bar. ‘What were you doing out there? You could have been killed?’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything.’ I say. ‘Was just smoking. It was terrible Rose. She bled out on me.’

  ‘You should have come away. She was nothing to you.’ Her tone cuts harsh but I don’t want to fight. I’m too emotional for that.

  ‘She was dying. I couldn’t leave her.’

  ‘If you’d seen her in the street any other time, you wouldn’t even have stopped to look.’

  She storms off to the ladies room, angry. Typical of her. Jealous and pissed when it’s not about her. And yeah, I might not have looked at her any other time. But she was dying in my arms. I couldn’t walk away. How could I abandon her in her last moments?

  The detective comes back to the bar and finds me by the stage. A large bourbon is in my hand, no need to tell her it’s not my first.

  ‘Did you identify her?’ I ask.

  ‘I couldn’t find anything in the bag. So we only know what you told me, her name being Daniela.’ She pushes her loose brunette hair over her ear.

  ‘There’s something else,’ I add, pulling out the photograph from my pocket. ‘She gave me this. Said this man was the father of her daughter.’

  The officer studies the photograph. ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘Me, no idea.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘Should I know?’

  She studies it again and a small smile breaks out.

  ‘Not really,’ she says, ‘but in my line of work he’s pretty well known.’

  ‘So you know who it is?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says.

  ‘And you can share the name?’

  ‘Probably not but given that you could easily see his face on the news tonight I doubt it would remain secret for long. This is District Attorney, Ryan Carter.’

  ‘Seriously. The DA. Wow.’

  I sort of know what a DA is. I know there is one for Nashville as well as every place else and I know they are in charge of prosecutions and are elected. But I never voted for any of them. Only time, I ever voted was for Trump cause the boys said he was going be good for us. Mom, said the same. Though I don’t give a shit about politics, the times I see him on TV he just looks like a deranged orange windbag. No-one I know speaks or looks like that. Who cares anyway, certainly didn’t care about who was a prosecutor. Far as I see they all are rich guys in suits who look after themselves.

  ‘Yeah, that’s him, but let’s keep that between ourselves for now, shall we?’ She looks around and seems a little nervous. I guess she’s thinking it might not have been a great move to share it with me.
br />   ‘I need to take this,’ she says.

  Like I can stop her. I shrug to show my lack of resistance.

  She puts the photograph in an evidence bag. I already stored the image in my Cell so it’s not an issue to let it go.

  ‘Will you take that to Mr Carter?’ I ask.

  ‘Probably need to leave the investigating to me and my team.’

  ‘But you will tell me won’t you?’ I’d like to tell her family that I was with her when she passed.’

  ‘You did say, she came from Honduras?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  She sighs and stands up. ‘I’ll let you know but if she’s connected to Honduras street gangs I’d advise you to keep away.’

  I raise my hand in protest and then let go. What’s the point in trying to find a family in Honduras? Probably impossible. I need to let it go.

  ‘Oh and do you own a firearm?’ she asks.

  ‘I do but it’s in the locker at home. I don’t carry it with me.’

  I’ve never been comfortable carrying a gun. My Dad insisted I went for training and while loads of my bros carry them, I always felt it was inviting attention. Dad loved his guns more than us and I wasn’t going down any road he ever took. I never wanted to use it and never felt the need. And even tonight when I was shaking like a jelly in the street, it didn’t even cross my mind, that’s how much I needed it.

  ‘I’ll need to check it. I’ll take you home and pick it up for forensics.’

  Rose returns as Detective Stephens leaves. ‘You take the van,’ I say. ‘I’ll go back with the cops.’

  She mutters, kisses me on the cheek and leaves.

  I’m relieved when it’s just me and Bill. He passes me another drink while he continues cleaning the bar.

  I look at my hands and think of Daniela again. The tears on her thin face, the pain in her heart for her daughter. She knew it was the end, that she’d been defeated. But she was also calm. Was that because of me, because she’d asked me to commit to help her daughter? Was that why she gave me the precious stone. Did I promise her something? I’ve told the police, so what more can I practically do? Her blood still taints me though. I’m not sure it is enough to wipe clean the sense that she is now my responsibility and I owe her.