The last word. David Edwardson

on both sides of the castle. This, verily, was that same estate of the Tweedie family. Ronald Tweedy, none other than the most famous building magnate, who made the company almost from scratch. He survived a lot of misery and suffering but he didn’t despair and today, on his son’s birthday, he have to make an important statement. In the meantime, I’m just one of the guests who came to this event.

      Two men in suits from private security inspected the guests. When it was my turn I was asked to raise my hands and turn around. The man with a metal detector checked my body, said that everything was all right and wished a good party. I was in the building and perfumed ladies with their men were everywhere; they were all dressed in a pretty classical style and it seemed I was in the nineteenth century in the Victorian era.

      A huge long buffet table for guests was richly covered with various dishes. Suddenly a waiter came up to me and offered me some wines to test. I asked for a red semisweet. The waiter handed me the glass and went to the other guests.

      With a glass in my hand, I was looking at musicians playing classical compositions. The violinist was so skillfully playing the Antonio Vivaldi’s violin composition “The Seasons”, so for a moment the noise ceased: I closed my eyes, as if I was plunging into a trance, and heard only him playing.

      Accidentally the music stopped and I saw Ronald Tweedy standing on a stage in front of all the guests.

      He was quite old and his bright red hair hardly combined with his wrinkles and his thick brows gave him a formidable look. His height was above average and elegant gray suit perfectly combined with his manner of speech and emphasized his charisma.

      He greeted everyone and was pleased with such a large company of guests gathered in his house. I wasn’t sure about the exact number of guests, but there were quite a lot of them, considering on how huge was only the first floor of his castle.

      He called his only son on a stage. Slowly moving, a young man moved closer to his father. That was a skinny tall guy, even taller than his father but they were still alike, in particular with red hair and thick eyebrows. But some kind of uncertainty was felt in him which seemed quite strange to me due to his father’s greatness and the day of his own birth.

      “Today’s a special day for my son that’s also important for me and gathered in here,” said Mr. Tweedy.

      “Many of those present here are members of my family and part of my part of my friends and, of course, are interested in promotions,” Ronald grinned.

      There were heard cheers among the guests, photographers were taking pictures from different angles. I wasn’t a fan of the paparazzi, so I stayed behind the guests not to get into the camera lenses.

      “Today I want to congratulate my boy Alan, who became a man… I wish you sincere love, great victories and that your way in Tweedy Industrial was clean and correct.”

      The guests were amazed, the sea of applause overwhelmed the audience. Ronald embraced his surprised son and handed him the microphone.

      It was incredible: a huge building empire since then was in the hands of an eighteen-year-old boy! His eyes twinkled and his face looked lost. Holding the microphone in his hand, Alan was speechless.

      Everything looked really believable, as if the son really didn’t know about it and his father didn’t prepare him at all.

      “I’m grateful to you, father… It’s a great honor for me and I’ll do everything for the company development and for the pride of our family,” Alan again embraced his father and thanked everyone, wishing to have a good time.

      I was touched. I’m sure for many of them it was a historic moment. Guests one after another rose on the stage, congratulating and hugging the father and the son.

      Music started again and the stormy joy of the guests was accompanied by dancing and singing.

      Alan was sitting at a table surrounded by his partners and friends, happily leading the conversation. By the way, his father was his only close person. I heard that his mother and sister had a tragic death but the details are unknown until now.

      Having tasted a dessert, I watched the celebration. Mr. Tweedie was passing by, chatting with the guests. Later he went up to the second floor, most likely to rest from noisy guests.

      I left the table and moved to the stairs, as a waiter came to meet me. I asked him:

      “Excuse me, where do you have the restroom?”

      “The restroom is on the left in the corridor but now it’s quite crowded. You can use the restroom on the second floor, having passed same on the left side of the second floor,” – the waiter answered hastily.

      “Thank you a lot,” I said.

      The waiter nodded and moved forward.

      Slowly going upstairs the marble steps, I looked at the snow-white outcroppings of the walls near which there were taking to each other guests. Unlike the ground floor, the first one was an observation point. Having risen on the first floor I turned left, moving to the toilet. A maid passed by me, holding an interesting vase in her hands.

      I went to the restroom entrance and slowly opened the door.

      White tiles completely covered the walls, the floor was made of marble with a bluish tint. I entered and closed the door behind me, in front of me stood a toilet, I leaned in and saw a pistol with a silencer and leather black gloves.

      I put on those leather gloves and picked up the gun. It was ParaOrdnance R 18.9. In simpler terms, that was a Canadian copy of the Colt with a slightly low-profile design and a silencer.

      Holding the gun in my hand, I turned to the mirror that was hanging over the sink. I looked at my face – it was no longer my face, but the face of a murderer, an executioner who takes life from the victim. Looking at my own reflection, I saw only a deep darkness that concealed true intentions. And only the mirror was a witness to the future action, but it was only a moment, accompanied by an absolute emptiness.

      Behind the colored lenses, painted hair and an overhead nose, a completely different person was hiding, unwilling to look at his own face, he was hidden deep in his mind, far from this place and future actions. Now the role was assigned to the cold-blooded killer and those moments of thoughts were not necessary to him.

      I hid the weapon in my jacket, put my hands in my pockets and went out

      from the restroom. Moving along the corridor, I was looking at the paintings hanging

      on walls, dark-red walls perfectly combined with creations of great artists. The corridor was surprisingly deserted. Moving more and more slowly, I listened to the presence of noise behind the door, but everything was very quiet. Really, who is interested in walking along the empty corridor in the midst of a holiday?.. Approaching the end of the corridor I saw a slightly opened door to the library, behind where there were rustling. Perhaps the old man was turning the pages of an old book from childhood, or archives of the company, perhaps even family album with photos of a young son. However, it didn’t matter for me. It was important that it was him.

      Quietly entering, I saw huge bookshelves. The shelves were filled with books, some of them were so old that even the names on their roots were erased.