The handwriting of the past
Morning began in its usual, predictable way. Andrew Spencer woke a minute before his alarm, as he had done for years. He lay still for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled rush of water from the bathroomhis wife was already up. The flat was cool, curtains half drawn, letting a dull grey light seep in.
He reached for his phone, checked email, messages, calendar. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nine a.m. the briefing, eleven a meeting with the bank, then lunch with a potential partner. Everything was under control.
The kitchen smelled of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread. Emily, in a cotton robe, hair pulled into a careless bun, was already pulling slices from the toaster. A newspaper lay spread on the table beside his favourite mug.
Are you staying late today? she asked without turning.
Im not sure, Andrew poured his coffee. It depends on the bank. If we sign, Ill be home by eight.
She nodded, sat opposite him, scrolling through a news feed on her phone. Their conversation felt thin, but that no longer seemed strange. They lived side by side, not intruding on each other, like two parallel lines. Outwardly everything looked prosperous: a flat in the city centre, a country house, a car, holidays on schedule.
He ate, almost without taste. His thoughts were already back at the office. He needed to run the numbers again, just to keep the bank from bargaining. He liked everything to fall into place, neat and predictable.
Only one episode never fit the tidy picture of his lifesomething he deliberately avoided thinking about. Over twenty years ago, when he still worked in a tiny firm on the outskirts, when salaries were delayed and the office rent had to be paid in cashfilled envelopes, he and a partner had concoced a scheme with dummy contracts. By todays standards the sum was laughable, but then it felt like salvation. One accountant suffered the worst of it. Andrew preferred to call it an unfortunate coincidence, not his fault.
He pushed the memory aside, took another sip of coffee and glanced at the clock.
Im off, he said, standing.
Emily gave a brief nod, still glued to her phone.
Outside, the courtyard already echoed with car engines, horns, hurried footsteps. The driver waited at the entrance, as punctual as ever. Andrew slipped into the back seat, reflexively checking whether his briefcase was still beside him.
His office was in a glass tower in the financial district, a building he had once rented a cramped cubicle in and now occupied almost half a floor. In the reception, a secretary greeted him.
Good morning, Mr. Spencer. A courier left something for you on your desk.
From whom?
She didnt say. Just left it and went.
He nodded, walked to his office. A spacious room, floortoceiling windows, a massive desk, the wall adorned with neatly framed diplomas and certificates. Everything shouted stability and success.
On the desk, atop a tidy stack of papers, lay an envelope. Thick, white, no return address, stamped only with his name in a crisp, slightly oldfashioned hand.
He lifted the envelope, feeling the textured, expensive paper. For a moment the ordinary day seemed tinged with something out of place.
Another piece of junk mail, he muttered, though he knew it felt anything but promotional.
The secretary peeked in.
Coffee?
Yes, thanks, he replied and, after she left, carefully tore the flap.
Inside was a single sheet. Black type printed from a printer, unsigned.
You remember back in 98, in that cramped office on the third floor, you signed three fake service contracts? You said no one would be hurt. Yet one man lost his job and later his flat. Hes still alive.
You like to think everything is under control. But the past doesnt vanish. It merely waits for you to let down your guard.
If you want your partners and family to stay in the dark, be ready for a conversation.
Ill be in touch soon.
A dry feeling settled in Andrews mouth. He read the text again, the words landing like a weight. They werent vague hints; they were precise details.
He sank into his chair, the paper trembling in his grip. His heart beat faster than usual. The memory of that shabby office, peeling paint, an old desk where he and his partner stayed up late scheming, surged forward.
He truly had said nobody would be harmed. The accountant, a quiet middleaged man, simply never turned up for work one day. Rumours spread that hed been dismissed, that he was in debt. Andrew never looked deeper. He had already learned not to look back.
He placed the sheet beside the envelope, closed his eyes. Who could have written this after all these years?
A knock sounded at the door.
Mr. Spencer, are you ready for the briefing? asked the finance director, a tall man with a neat cut. Everyones gathered.
Andrew instinctively covered the page with a folder.
Going, he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
At the briefing he delivered the usual figures, made notes, nodded, listened to reports. Yet his thoughts kept drifting back to the envelope on the desk. Someone was digging up his past. Someone knew too much.
After the meeting he returned to his office, picked up the sheet again. The back was blankno signature, no contact, just the promise of a future call.
He flipped through his contacts. The old partner? They hadnt spoken in a decade. Maybe he was angry that Andrew had moved on, but how would he know the accountants fate? Perhaps a current employee had stumbled on old files? How could they know about the thirdfloor office from 98?
He paced the room, running possibilities through his mind. Call the partner? Ask directly? Did you send me that letter? sounded absurd. And what if it wasnt him?
His phone buzzed. A message from Emily: Are you staying late? Need to know if I should start dinner. He stared at the screen, unsure how to reply. Everything around him felt fragile, like a house of cards ready to collapse.
Ill try to be earlier, he typed, putting the phone down.
The day unfolded under a veil of invisible threat. Bank meeting, lunch with the partner, project discussionsall performed on autopilot as if following a rehearsed script. Inside, he waited for the promised contact.
By evening, the secretary entered with a note.
Mr. Spencer, you had a call from an unknown number. They said theyd call back later.
Did they introduce themselves?
Just a calm, male voice. Said it was a personal matter.
He felt a tightening in his chest.
Driving home, he stared out the window, the city lights blurring into a smear of neon. The driver chattered about traffic, but Andrew only nodded.
At home, silence greeted him. Emily had left a note on the table: Went to my sisters, dont wait for me. A plate of food sat under a cling film. He poured himself a measure of whisky, settled in the living room, turned on the TV without choosing a channel. Images flickered, but he didnt watch.
Each time the phone lit up, his body jolted. Only work emails and adverts appeared.
Night stretched long. Faces swam in his mind: the accountant whose name escaped him, the partner who had insisted on that one way out, a girl from the neighbouring department who once looked at him with hope before the office shut. Their lives felt like distant stories, until a thread was tugged.
The next day the letter no longer seemed a dream. It sat in the drawer, neatly folded. He retrieved it, read it againno new insight.
At lunch, an unknown number rang.
Yes? Andrew said, tension coiling inside him.
Mr. Spencer, good afternoon, a voice, calm and plain, said. I assume you received my letter.
Who is this?
It doesnt matter. What matters is that I know the things you keep hidden. And I can tell those who matter to you.
Andrew clenched the receiver until his fingers went white.
If you think you can blackmail me
Im not thinking anything, the voice interrupted. I know about the fake contracts, about the man who lost his job and his home. You moved on, became a success story on television, and he survived on odd jobs. I saw you on a programme, boasting about building yourself from nothing.
A rush of shame and anger rose in Andrew.
What do you want?
The conversation, the voice replied. Tonight, seven oclock, at the café on the corner of your street. You know the place. Come alone. And dont tell anyoneno partners, no wife. You understand how fast gossip spreads.
The line went dead. Andrew held the phone, listening to the silence.
The corner café was a modest brick building with a large window where mothers with toddlers and retirees with newspapers lingered each evening. He knew it well; weekend brunches with Emily often began there.
He checked the time. Half past two. Hours stretched ahead, thick with anticipation.
Work ceased to exist. He stared out the office window, watching droplets of rain crawl down the glass. Options swirled: ignore, flee, confront. Reporting to the police? That would mean recounting the whole sordid history, with no guarantee of protection. The police rarely chased a disgraced accountants revenge.
He told the finance director he needed to step out for personal business. The director merely nodded; in their world, personal affairs were respected as long as they didnt disturb the collective.
On the drive home, he found himself watching pedestrians, convinced each passerby knew something about him. The driver asked if he wanted a detour; he shook his head.
At home, Emily entered the kitchen, surprise flickering in her eyes.
Did you come back early? Something happen?
He felt irritation rise, wanting to say it was fine, that he was just tired, but the words stuck.
I have a meeting downstairs, he said. At the café. Workrelated.
The café? she raised an eyebrow. You have meeting rooms, dont you?
Its easier for them, he replied.
She studied him a moment longer, then shrugged. Alright. Im off to my sisters for her birthday. You coming?
Ill see, he said, his voice flat.
She left, bag in hand.
Time crawled. At last the clock neared seven. Andrew pulled on his coat, descended the stairs, stepped out into the damp, cloudy evening.
At the cafés doorway he paused, inhaled deeply, and entered.
Inside, soft music played. Small tables held quiet conversations. He scanned the room, hunting for the one who might know.
By a window, at a modest table, sat a man in his fifties, short, hair peppered with grey, wearing a plain shirt. The face was both familiar and alien. In his mind resurfaced the image of the tiny office, piles of paperwork, a man in a sweater hunched over ledgers.
He recognized him.
The accountant lifted his gaze, gesturing to the empty chair opposite.
Sit, Mr. Spencer, he said calmly, though a steely resolve lingered beneath his tone.
Andrew lowered himself, the chair creaking.
Youlettercall
Yes, the man replied, eyes steady. Didnt expect you?
A chill traveled down Andrews spine.
I never I didnt know what happened to you.
You didnt know because it wasnt your concern then. You were busy building a career, not looking back.
A waitress arrived with menus. The accountant ordered tea; Andrew was offered coffee, which he accepted without thinking.
What do you want? Andrew asked once the waitress left.
A good question, the accountant smiled faintly. Most people in your position threaten, promise to pull strings. You went straight to the heart.
If youre trying to blackmail me
He raised a hand. Im not a collector, nor a journalist. Im the man who lost everything because of your scheme. My job, my home, my health. You never bothered to ask how I fared.
Andrew clenched his fists under the table.
I didnt know it was that serious.
Of course you didnt. Ignorance was profitable.
The accountant sipped his tea, looking out the window.
Ive survived on odd jobs, my health has declined, age is catching up. Then I saw you on TV, a selfmade success. I realised I could never forget.
A mix of shame and irritation rose in Andrew.
What do you want? Money?
The accountant met his gaze. Money is the simplest demand. But it isnt just that. I want you to acknowledge what you did. Not to me, but to yourself. And you have a partner who prides himself on your impeccable reputation. I wonder how hell react if he learns the details.
Andrew imagined his partner, the one who had invested not just capital but trust, who constantly stressed transparency.
So you want me to leave the business? he asked.
I want you to choose. Either you tell your partner and your wife what really happened, and we negotiate compensation, or I will do it for you. Then the conversation will look different.
Andrew leaned back, his mind a storm of conflict. To confess? To ruin the empire hed built over decades? To give those who relied on him a reason to doubt?
You understand this looks like blackmail, he said.
And you understand that what you did then looks like betrayal? the accountant replied softly, his voice firm. Im not a saint. I made mistakes too. But you used me as a disposable resource.
The waitress returned with coffee. Andrew took a sip, the bitterness searing his tongue.
How much do you want? he asked.
The accountant named a sumnot astronomical, but enough to be felt. For Andrew it wasnt fatal, but noticeable.
Its for silence? Andrew asked.
No. Its restitution for the years I lost. Im not interested in the media. I just need you to set the record straight for the people who matter to you.
How will you verify this?
Simple. In a week Ill call your partner. If he says he knows everything, the matter ends. If not Ill do what I must.
Panic rose in Andrew. A week to dismantle his legend. Either he would selfdestruct, or someone else would shatter it for him.
You dont have proof it was my initiative, he tried, looking for a loophole. There were othersmy partner, the other director
I know about them too. But you signed the papers. Others faded away. You stayed in the spotlight. Thats how the world works.
Why now? Andrew asked. Its been so many years.
Because I cant live with it any longer, the accountant answered quietly. And because you still have something to lose.
They sat in uneasy silence as nearby tables laughed, discussed a film, lived ordinary lives.
Ill think about it, Andrew finally said. I need time.
You have little, the accountant said, standing. A week. Ill be in touch.
He left a few pounds on the table for the tea and walked out without looking back.
Andrew lingered, staring at the cooling coffee, hands trembling. The choice loomed: confess now or wait for the blow.
The flat was dark. Emily had left a message that shed be at her sisters and return late. He went to his office, closed the door, and sat at his desk.
He took the envelope from the drawer, placed it next to his phone, opened his laptop, typed the accountants name into a search engine. Old debt registers, jobseeker adverts, a few newspaper notices about a man whod vanished from the accounting world. A parallel life that had run alongside his own.
He felt the urge to justify himselfto say everyone did it, the times were different, hed taken risks too. The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
The phone rang. The caller ID showed his partners name.
Yes? Andrew answered, keeping his tone even.
Good news from the bank. Theyre ready to sign, but they want you there tomorrow. And you seemed a bit off today. Everything alright?
Andrew glanced at the envelope.
Everythings fine, he said. Just a bit tired.
Alright. Rest up. Tomorrows an important day.
The call ended. Two voices now wrestled inside him. One whispered that a payment could buy time, that perhaps the accountant would lose interest. The other warned that the thread was already pulled and the truth would surface inevitably.
He imagined telling Emily. She would listen, her face tight with that same morning tension. He pictured his partner, the one who trusted his decisions, hearing the truth. Their worlds would never be the same.
He rose, paced the room, looked out the window. Across the street the café glowed, its patrons unchanged by the decades of contracts signed in a forgotten office.
He returned to the desk, lifted the envelope, ran his fingers along its slightly rough edge. That simple piece of paper now stood between two livesthe before and the after.
He didnt know how it would end. His partner might explode, his wife might retreat, the accountant might still call, even if he kept his promise. No guarantees existed in this world.
One thing was clear: the past could no longer be hidden. It sat on his desk, roamed his flat, watched from the café window opposite.
He slid the envelope back into the drawer, leaving it unlocked. He sank into his chair, closed his eyes.
A lock clicked in the hallway. Someone entered, set their keys on a shelf. Footsteps approached.
Andrew opened his eyes, turned toward the door, and listened to the coming steps, knowing the conversation about to begin would never let him return to the comfortable silence he once knew.
