The Lamborghini glinted golden in the afternoon sun’s rays as it ran over the broken asphalt. Whatever sparse vegetation present was scorched a perpetual tawny. With a slight jolt, the car tilted upwards, starting its ascent along the winding road up the mountain. From inside the car, Herbert felt the air gradually lighten, and saw the mountain path widen, with streets branching off like so many broad tributaries. Through the windscreen, he watched the clouds phase through sundry tints, rose to gold to lilac.

On the horizon, stood a number of poplars densely placed enough to seem inky-black, obelisks pointing to the deep sky above. In their shadow, a house - so familiar - burned alive, its lit windows speaking of a warm welcome amidst that desolate plain. Its cupola exuded a bright iridescent glow in the silver light of the crescent moon and twinkling stars. He paused a moment, digesting the sudden vertigo-inducing rush of memory his mind presented to him, a flood of memory at its oldest of a decade past.

A flight of birds woke Herbert from his reverie. One screeched, and the entire flock took wing, before he had directed more than a couple of steps in their direction. The silence that followed the fading rustle of the birds’ wings was absolute. No breath of wind stirred a single leaf. Drought had browned the grass, and through this mass of brown bush fires had cut irregular dark red patches. Everything around him spoke of death, drought, and desolation, save for the lit windows, and even those in the heavy gloom started to seem more like burning fires, out to add a splash of red to the monotonous dead ochre-brown.

A fidgeting fish broke the silence that now seemed all-pervasive. And there can be only one source of water around this burnt waste, thought Herbert, shuffling towards the direction of the sound. His memory did not fail him. There, reflecting the dark indigo of the skies above, almost entirely blended in with the dark all around him, was the pond. He had lost count eons ago, Herbert reflected, of the number of tantrums he had thrown at being prematurely pulled out of a bath in the pond, due to his parents’ insistence that he would catch a chill.

Herbert tried to picture his parents gaping in astonishment when he announced himself at the door, as he trudged towards the low building. HERBERT’S PLACE, the sign over the door would proclaim to anyone who happened to be passing by. Not that many came out here to the middle of this barren plain to read it. Herbert sighed when he reached the door, partly from weariness, and partly from relief at beholding the same placard that still sat atop the door. He was tempted to throw the door wide open, and make a theatrical entrance, but he could not resist a peek through the penny-sized keyhole. His reconnaissance did not yield much result however, except for yet another flash of dark, so he rang the bell, steeling himself to keep a straight face while presenting himself to his family. How astonished and delighted they would be.

His preparation, as it turned out, was quite needless, for it was a willowy brunette in a scanty blouse and skimpy skirt who came to the door in place of his mother. Herbert’s confusion was great enough to make him not so much as spare a second glance at the provocative assistant, which he involuntarily assumed she was.

“Are you here for the rent-a-room advertisement?” inquired the temptress in question with a winning smile, ruby eyes taking in his luggage. Herbert, quite unable to make out the meaning of this, automatically gave an absent nod. He looked over his shoulder to see if he could catch sight of his parents.

When the brunette opened the door to let him in, his confusion turned initially to astonishment, then horror. Nothing remained of the past. Where was the – no wait, an imitation of something did seem to remain, for he was looking straight at a wrinkled thing of skin and bone impersonating his mother.

This last thought sounded quite silly to Herbert, and coupled with the shocks of the past few minutes, it made him burst into a naughty schoolboy giggle. His mother exchanged a heavy look with Melinda, which apparently was what the brunette went by, judging by his mom’s question as to the visitor.

“Come in, sir,” said Mrs. Herbert – and her voice meant it was indeed she, Matthew Herbert’s mother – after a few seconds of awkward silence, with every appearance of a warm welcome.

Her apathy astounded her son. How could she be so calm upon beholding him after ever so long? He rubbed his eyes, as if his mother would be waiting with outstretched arms when he stopped. That unfortunately did not happen. With a raised eyebrow, Herbert opened his mouth to complain at this less-than-enthusiastic-long-gone-son-welcome, but decided against it. He would save it for the grand reveal, along with his other surprises.

“Please come in, sir. Don’t hesitate to ask after any necessity you might have,” Mrs. Herbert reiterated. He replied with another nod, walking over the red unfamiliar carpet, not trusting himself to speak, thinking what a fuss mother would make when father saw him and cried out “Son!” Most things in the room besides the carpet he also failed to recognize, but then he reasoned, if his mother failed to recognize him …

Sitting at a sofa he had been most graciously conducted to by Melinda, he came face to face with an old man who looked at least a hundred. His skin was alabaster, his eyes were deep resigned pools, his frame emaciated and covered in sores. The thatch of white hair and the many wrinkles at first sight made him seem a stranger. At second glance however, Matthew Herbert could make out certain resemblances in the shape of the eyes, the structure of the jaws, that made it quite probable that the old man was in truth Herbert Sr.

Herbert Sr. looked up at his son with a puzzled frown. Matthew waited with bated breath …

“It must be that I saw you somewhere before. Have we met before, my boy?”

This utterance from the old man entirely threw Matthew off. Had college changed him that much? True, he was quite a successful entrepreneur now, much more so than anyone could ever have hoped for, but surely, surely, he was still the same person, wasn’t he?

“No, I, I don’t think so sir,” Matthew managed to stutter. He tried a smile, which resulted in something resembling a pained grimace.

***

The petite Melinda came in some time later, to show him the way to his room. She carried his luggage for him, though he insisted he himself was quite capable. His old room was now the guest room, he reflected, finding it the same as it ever was.

“Always at your service, sir,” said the competent Melinda, turning on her heels and scurrying out of the room.

Slowly, Matthew undressed, depositing his tux unceremoniously on one of his bags, and pulling on a nightgown. He wasn’t this disorganized, mostly, but after all, he could hardly be blamed if he had been unnerved by this encounter. His parents almost looked as strange to him as he must have looked to them.

I've changed a lot, I know, he mused, three years after all – but, surely, surely, not time enough for his parents to forget him? Of course, his current predicament meant he was living in much more luxury than most, and that was sure to change him but still … he picked up his felt pen, and began to write.

Matthew’s overburdened physique and mental disorientation meant he fell asleep almost as soon as he put his back to his bed, but not before the same thoughts had stung him countless times like hornets. Their sting was acid enough that he failed to appreciate that his mother had kept her little boy’s room the same as she always had, always ready to receive him.

***

The crisp autumn breeze swooped through the window. It was a beautiful night, considering the stuffiness of the preceding day and eve, but Mathew was too soundly asleep to feel it. Mrs. Herbert, on the other hand, his mother, was far from sleeping. She was anxiously waiting for the guest to sleep, thinking it wouldn’t be long, going by his tired countenance. She could no longer hear any movement, so she judged she was right in her conjecture. Cautiously, she tiptoed into the room.

Mrs. Herbert tiptoed into the room not in order to look upon a face that seemed familiar, hauntingly so – why those eyes, surely those were her eyes in that face – though she might well have, but with a dagger in hand. A dagger long enough for a small stiletto blade, entirely straight and with the keenest of edges.

She stifled her conscience as she had stifled it many times before – all for Matthew, all for her little boy, she thought desperately, drawing the strength to do what was necessary, this man who must be allowed to die, for her little boy, this man who had the eyes of her little boy, her eyes, and his – she sliced through the air, hacking the head cleanly off, before her scruples overcame her, before she faltered. It rolled off and fell with a soft gurgle, and that was all. He never screamed once, just like the others, he never even knew, he died in peace – which was just as well, thought Mrs. Herbert, for if his eyes had opened, she knew what she would have seen, she would have seen not a stranger’s face, but Matthew’s accusing eyes, and that would never do, she must remain strong until Matthew received the money …

Minutes later, Mrs. Herbert knelt over Matthew’s open suitcase, rifling through its contents, searching for something, anything, that would be of enough value to cover the remaining amount of her son’s college costs. She hurried, becoming increasingly desperate – her conscience would never let her sleep easy if the murder had been for nothing, though she doubted she would ever sleep easy in any case – until she came across a diamond, of great beauty and luster. Mrs. Herbert sat, and stared. Then she whooped with joy, and then started to cry, wringing her hands.

“God help me, God have mercy, but it is over, over, my little Matt can finish college now.”

After sobering up a little, and coming to grips with reality again, she noticed an open book that lay face down beside the suitcase. It seemed to have fallen from the man’s bed, during his death throes. She picked it up gingerly, acutely aware of her sins, but yet steeling herself with the reassurance that it was all for Matthew, who need never know … and even if he did, he would be free to make his own future by then, he had told her, he wouldn’t need any more help from them, he would be rich enough he had said, the clever, clever dear … and all honest money too! She could pay for her sins, along with her lifelong partner, who would have gladly wielded the knife in her place had his frailty permitted it, spend the rest of her life in penance or go hang, but Matthew, clever, honest, prosperous Matthew, would be quite happy … just one last year, one last hurdle to overtake, and now it was done …

It was not a book, but a diary, a journal of the unfortunate man’s memories and his life. Mrs. Herbert had no need to go through it, but she thought she would all the same, to remind herself that the man once had a life, a family of his own, which she took away … to remember that she never ever must let herself bury this behind her, but face and live with her sins, though no others need necessarily know, because then Matthew would be so unhappy …

She started at the start of the open page.

… as if I were a complete stranger (the journal went) now that is shock more than I can bear. So many surprises I had planned, and they didn’t even know it was me – a big surprise for me I must admit, though not very pleasant. Well, what will you? I suppose this is the toll of a transition from meager provisions to luxurious abodes. I must check my old albums, and compare against the mirror. Oh well, I’ll tell them well enough tomorrow at breakfast. They don’t know about my second deal that came off so unexpectedly and now I’m riding around in Lamborghinis. Really my prototype system seems to have caught on so well, and I should think so too – three attempts on my safe, two by competitors’ hired muscle and one by a plain old thief, and not one went out again except to the station, most ingenious that detection system. If only I could make a smaller portable version, then I – but I digress. Main point is, I’ll tell them all about it tomorrow, and won’t mom make ever so much of a fuss and dad stand up and say “Matthew Herbert, I am proud to call you my son –

The diary dropped from Mrs. Herbert’s numb hands. She stood stock still. Then she screamed.

***

Days later, on an anonymous tip, the police came to the house under the poplars. Herbert’s Place, the sign informed them. No more, thought they. For in a small bedroom with an east-facing window, lay the torso and legs of Matthew Herbert, his head cleanly taken off, and at the bottom of the pond a short walk off the house, were the drowned corpses of the elder Herberts. No word was heard again in those parts of the gregarious brunette Melinda, for she had fled as soon as she could after the tragedy, pausing only to make sure the bodies would be found in due course.