RING OF POWER

Chapter 5 The Photograph

His phone buzzed at 6:47 AM with a payment reminder from the hospital.

Alphonsus opened his eyes on the apartment couch, still wearing yesterday's clothes.

For three seconds, before full consciousness returned, the panic of the previous night felt like a dream.

Then he checked his bank balance and understood that it was all real.

A hundred and forty pounds.

His mom's next treatment cycle was due in five days.

His rent was due in seven days. He got up and showered in the dark, not wanting to see his reflection.

By 7:30 AM, he was at a warehouse on Fifth Street, filling out an application despite the fact that Marcus Webb had already terminated him.

This was a different warehouse. The manager who accepted his application didn't even look at his face.

"You quit your last warehouse position?" the man asked, reading the form.

"I was terminated," Alphonsus replied.

The manager's expression hardened. "Why?"

"It's complicated."

"Not interested in complicated things."

He dropped the application into a trash bin beside his desk. Not on top of the trash. Inside it. The message was clear.

By mid-afternoon, Alphonsus had been turned away from four more places. At the grocery chain, the hiring manager said they could only employ him if he had a reason for leaving his previous job that "looked good on paper."

At the temp agency, the recruiter kept him longer, at least. She scrolled through her computer and asked about references, his availability and whether he could start immediately. He said yes to everything. She promised to call when something opened up. The way she said it made clear that call would never come.

At a gas station on the corner, he asked if they were hiring. The clerk didn't even bother to check.

"Nah."

Alphonsus kept moving, but there were fewer places left to try.

At 3:47 PM, the hospital sent another reminder:

"Payment due by 5:00 PM close of business today or treatment will be suspended."

He looked at his bank balance again.

£127.

He had started the day with £140, but the day's small expenses had already reduced what little he had left.

He needed at least £800 to prevent his mom's treatment from being suspended. Her next treatment cycle was due in five days, and now even keeping the current treatment arrangement going was becoming a struggle.

He had no one to ask and no one left to call. The feeling of being completely alone settled over him.

By 4 PM, he had run out of new places to try. He checked job sites on his phone between stops, but every listing required experience, references or a start date two weeks away. Nothing could solve his problem today.

He drove to the hospital.

Cindy, his sister, was sitting in a plastic chair in the hallway outside their mom's room, her textbooks spread across her lap. She looked up when he came through the doors, and her expression shifted from focused to worried in half a second.

"Hey," she said, closing her textbook. "You're here early. Isn't it your shift at the warehouse?"

Alphonsus didn't answer that. "How is Mom?"

"Better. The doctor says the new medication is working." She studied his face the way their mom did. "Something happened. What happened?"

He should have lied. He should have said work had finished early or found some other way to avoid the question.

Instead, he said, "Vivian left me. We're getting divorced."

Cindy's face fell. The textbook slipped from her lap.

"What? When? Alphonsus..."

"Yesterday. It's done." He moved towards the door to their mom's room. "I need to see her."

"Wait, you can't just..." She stopped, understanding from his expression that he needed to be alone with their mom.

She gathered her books without arguing.

"I'm going to get something to eat. You're staying?"

"Yes."

She left, and he went inside.

His mom was awake, sitting up more than she had been before. Her face was thin, her complexion gray from the illness, but her eyes were alert. She watched him approach the bed, and something in her expression changed. It was as though she recognised something beyond his physical presence.

"Sit," she said, reaching for his hand before he could speak.

He pulled the chair closer. Her grip was weak, but her attention was complete.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Tell me the truth, Alphonsus. Not the version you think I need to hear."

He looked down at their joined hands.

"I lost my job. My wife left me. I don't have money for your treatment today."

His mom closed her eyes. For a long moment, she didn't open them. When she finally did, she looked at him with something resembling relief, which made no sense to him.

"There are things I should have told you," she said quietly.

Alphonsus felt his shoulders tense.

His father had died when he was five. His mom rarely spoke about him, and when she did, it was always in vague terms: a good man, a hard worker, a man who loved him. The kind of things people said about the dead when they didn't want to say anything more.

"Mom, you're tired. You need to rest."

"Listen to me." Her grip tightened despite her weakness. "I kept you away from certain people. I told you things that weren't true. I did it to protect you, but I'm running out of time."

"Protect me from what?"

Instead of answering, she reached towards the small drawer in the bedside table. It took her three attempts to open it. Inside was a yellow envelope, old and worn around the edges. She took out a single photograph.

It showed a man in an expensive suit standing in front of a building with tall windows and carved stone. The man had Alphonsus's jawline, his eyes and his height. But his expression was different: commanding, cold, the face of someone accustomed to authority.

"Your father," she said.

Alphonsus stared at the photograph. He had seen pictures of his father before, small photographs his mom kept in a drawer somewhere. But this was different. This was a man he didn't recognise, standing in front of a place that looked important.

"I don't understand," Alphonsus said. "You've shown me pictures before."

"Not like this," his mom replied quietly. "Not of him like this."

She looked at the photograph in his hand, and her jaw tightened.

"There are people who would want to know you exist," she said. "People who would want things from you. People who might hurt you to get them."

"What people? What are you talking about?"

His mom closed her eyes.

"I can't tell you. Not yet. Not here. But you need to know that your life, everything you believe about where you came from, might not be what you think it is."

Before he could ask what she meant, there was a knock at the door.

A billing representative stood in the doorway with a clipboard, her expression professionally sympathetic.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said. "But we need payment authorization for today's treatment. The pharmacy is holding the medication pending confirmation of payment."

Alphonsus looked from the woman to his mom's face.

"I'll be right there," he said.

But he didn't move. He remained seated, holding the photograph of a man he'd never met and his mom's trembling hand, realising that every answer he'd ever received from her might have been incomplete.

His mom squeezed his hand once, and he turned back to look at her.

"Keep that photograph safe," she whispered. "Don't show it to anyone. And Alphonsus..."

She paused.

"If anyone ever asks you about your father, about your family, you tell me first. Before you answer anyone. Do you understand?"

"No," he said. "I don't understand any of this."

"I know," she replied. "But you will. I promise you will."

The billing representative cleared her throat, waiting.

Alphonsus stood, the photograph still in his hand, feeling as though the ground had shifted beneath him without making a sound.