Page 59 of Beyond the Hedge Maze

“Late?”

“A group of us get together every Wednesday and Saturday mornings to play cards. We meet at the pub before it opens. Reminisce, talk about the state of things, you know, old man things. Ben started it up, actually.”

Oliver’s chest opened, the hole in his heart expanding. “I didn’t know that.”

Cillian patted his upper arm. “You weren’t meant to know everything, Oliver. Children never are. That’s the way it should be. You were supposed to be focused on your own life.”

He didn’t need this. Not now. Not with the way he’d left Jesse. Not when the rain was already set to ruin his sanity. Not when his phone was a lead weight threatening to pull him under. He swallowed, blinking back tears because he had somewhere he needed to be, and it wasn’t crying on the pavement. “I’m sorry to rush off, but I really do have an appointment.”

“Of course.” Another pat. “Good luck with Barnaby.”

Oliver stayed standing in the rain for a moment longer, watching Cillian until he disappeared behind the pub’s door. He needed to gather his thoughts, put back on the mask that had been thrust into his hands the day of his grandfather’s funeral.

He crossed the street to the all too familiar office of Mr. Stillwell. In his worst nightmares he’d be here, trapped behind the etched frosted glass of the front door as a large bowtie with razor sharp teeth hunted him down.

Usually when Oliver arrived at Mr. Stillwell’s office, he’d let himself in and find the man frantically trying to organize the chaos of paperwork littering his desk. He’d scoop up piles of loose documents and stack them on top of each other in random heaps, seemingly making space for what? Oliver didn’t know. Mr. Stillwell would grin jovially at him as he did it, jabbering on about everything and nothing at all while Oliver analyzed the bowtie of the day. There were cartoon character days, striped days, sometimes polka dots days.

But today his bowtie was a solid brown. Today he was already sitting. The papers were already organized.

Oliver tentatively sat in one of the leather wingback chairs and did his absolute best not to meet Mr. Stillwell’s eyes. He felt like a schoolboy called to the headmaster’s office. It was better to sit quietly and wait for your punishment, not to jump the gun with zealous self-defenses that would only make matters worse.

“Oliver, as you know, there have been a multitude of actions taken against you and the Chapman estate. The first of course was the will contention.”

Oliver bristled. His parents had claimed that the will was executed with undue influence. He had sat through that court hearing, wearing the same suit he had worn to his grandfather’s funeral, while his parent’s solicitors outlined their “facts”. They brought forth fabricated instances in which Oliver had manipulated his grandfather to change the will in his favor. Thankfully, even if it had taken nearly a year to get to court, the verdict was swift and in Oliver’s favor. It also meant that his parents had to, in the end, pay Mr. Stillwell’s legal fees.

“But since their attempt at overruling the will failed, they are now threatening civil litigation. More aptly, they are claiming that certain property, specifically the house, was promised to your father, and that he has suffered due to that broken promise.”

No matter how many times Mr. Stillwell had tried to explain the legal process, terms like proprietary estoppel went in one ear and out of the other. What Oliver did understand was that his parents’ financial situation was as fragile as his own. They had planned to sell Chapman to pay off their debts and help finance their lifestyle for as long as they possibly could. They were broke, they were desperate, and they were making it Oliver’s problem.

“Has something changed?” Oliver asked. “I thought we were in the pre-stage thing?”

“Pre-action,” he gently corrected. “The purpose of this step is to hopefully avoid taking the matter further to the High Court. I’ve done my best to handle this part of the process, but unfortunately, this isn’t quite my area of expertise, and I don’t seem to be making much progress.”

A headache was blooming behind Oliver’s eyes. He needed Mr. Stillwell to get to the point. “Mr. Stillwell, at the risk of seeming rude, please can you dumb this down for me?”

“If we don’t settle this matter now, if Charles and Patricia seek to move to formal litigation, I am afraid you will need to find other representation.”

Oliver tried to find solace in the fact that Mr. Stillwell truly looked pained to deliver the news, but his mind was already spinning. “And that would cost how much? To hire another solicitor?”

“It’s hard to say definitively.” Oliver took off his glasses and set them on the desk. He pressed his palms into his eye sockets and forcibly tried to will away the now prevalent headache.

“Mr. Stillwell, please…”

“At least £25,000, most likely more.”

It was the conversation with the roof all over again, like everything he had ever consumed was threatening to come back up and out of his mouth. “How do I keep that from happening?”

“Mediation, and soon. Try and bridge the gap with them without going to court.”

He put his glasses back on and finally, for the first time in their meeting, looked properly at Mr. Stillwell. “They want money, and I don’t have it.”

“Yes,” was his simple response.

“I haven’t spoken to them. At your counsel.”

“I stand by that advice, although I believe we have reached a standstill.” He stood, and Oliver recognized it for what it was, a dismissal. Mr. Stillwell was letting him know that there was nothing else he could do, and Oliver had to decide how he wanted to handle his parents moving forward.

The rain was heavier on the walk back to Chapman House. Within minutes, he was soaked through, his jumper clinging to his skin, his shoes squelching with each and every step. His glasses were peppered with raindrops, but he didn’t need his vision to know the way home.