A Twist of Fate (11 page)

Brett shrugged. ‘Never heard of her,’ he said. He didn’t get out of his chair, or take his arm from around the blonde.

‘You come in here and
dare
to accuse my son—’ Storm’s voice rose in outrage.

‘He’s a liar,’ the woman snapped back. ‘An animal.’

‘And you,’ Brett said, stiffening now, his face beginning to flush, ‘should know that accusing people you don’t know, of things you know nothing about, could get you into
a whole world of trouble.’

Undeterred by the threat in his voice, the woman stepped towards him, her arm raised to strike. It was Griffin Maddox who held her back.

‘Griff!’ Storm’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my God!’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk about this downstairs,’ he told the woman, as her composure crumpled.

‘Get her out of here. Get her out,’ Storm screeched.

‘Storm, let me handle this. I’m terribly sorry,’ Griffin Maddox said icily, smiling at the guests and ushering the woman away.

Brett’s girlfriend Susie sat in the crook of his arm, her hands on her knees. She looked at the carpet as Griffin Maddox escorted the woman from the room. Thea saw that her chest had gone
dappled and her cheeks were burning.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Storm hissed at Thea, watching them go. ‘You can’t stop yourself from poisoning everything, can you?’ She could barely get the
words out, she was so angry. ‘How dare you let that woman in. How dare you ruin my party.’

Thea stared defiantly at her. So much for it being a party in Thea’s honour then. Here was the real Storm. Any doubt – any hope – that there was another Storm, a Storm who
really did care about Thea and who would treat her as an equal to her son, all that was washed away in one look.

Not only did this Storm resent her, Thea realized.
This
Storm – the real Storm – was frightened of Brett. Just as she had been on her wedding night. And she would always put
him first.

Or you’ll try
, Thea thought, as she continued to stare right back at her.
But now I know you . . . now I see you. I might find a way to stop you.

But Brett . . . Brett gave nothing away. He stretched his leg out along the large couch and shrugged.

‘She’s probably after money,’ he said, totally unfazed, popping another canapé into his mouth. He smiled widely at Storm, who smoothed down her dress as if mentally
brushing herself off.

‘Of course she was, darling. She’s not the first, and I’m sure she won’t be the last. It’s the price you pay for being rich and handsome,’ she said. Then she
clapped her hands and smiled brightly, turning to her guests. ‘Let’s have some more cocktails, everyone.’

Thea stared as Storm disappeared into the crowd, reigniting her party with another anecdote about how she’d inspired Sylvester at Crofters to make
Rocky IV
, as if its recent success
was all down to Storm herself.

‘Bad call, Thea,’ Brett said, his eyes glittering with menace. ‘Tut-tut. Rule one: you really should leave it to the staff to open the door. Unless, of course, you fancy ending
up one day as staff yourself.’

Much later Thea was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep, her mind whirring with injustice and jetlag. The party had gone from bad to worse. Storm had got drunk and had
started singing along with the pianist.

Brett had left early with Susie, thankfully, but Thea hadn’t felt able to excuse herself. Just as Brett had predicted, Griffin Maddox was furious that Thea had let the woman into the
party. Whatever Brett may or may not have done seemed to be outweighed by Thea’s own lack of judgement, in her father’s eyes. He’d been frosty and disapproving of her all evening.
Whenever she’d been in earshot he’d done nothing but trumpet Brett’s academic and sporting successes to anyone who’d listen.

As for the woman’s outburst and accusation, the whole thing had been brushed over, and Thea was left both outraged and baffled. How had her father let Brett get away with it? Where was
his
moral judgement? Why couldn’t he see that the woman had been telling the truth and that Brett was a liar?

Now Thea felt the humiliation of it all overwhelm her. She felt soiled. As if her silence had made her complicit in family secrets of which she wanted no part.

Too upset to lie in the shadows of her room, she got up and walked silently to the kitchen. She was ravenous. She’d been too nervous to eat in front of Storm. Her catty comment about
Thea’s weight had stung. So what if she’d put on a few pounds? What else did she have to do at school but eat? What other comfort
was
there?

Upstairs on the mezzanine floor, where the party had been, the blue glow of a security light made this supposed new ‘home’ feel more like a prison.

It could not feel more different from Little Elms. She’d never once felt scared in the big house that had been her playground for all of her childhood. She’d never once felt spooked
out or threatened there. She remembered how, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d go down to the kitchen to find Mrs Pryor, who’d make her warm milk and fill a hot-water bottle from the
kettle.

Without turning on the lights, Thea started opening cupboards in the sterile designer kitchen, until she found the fridge and poured herself a glass of icy-cold milk.

‘You waiting up for me? How sweet.’ The voice behind her made her spill the milk over the side of the glass.

Brett staggered against the kitchen doorway. He was drunk. Thea backed away and clutched the neck of her robe.

‘I thought you were staying with Susie?’ she said.

He laughed, humourlessly. ‘Ah, Susie. Not tonight. I had to let her go.’ He shook his head, as if the letting-go to which he referred had been a battle he was glad to be out of. Thea
shuddered to think what he’d done to the poor girl, if she’d challenged him at home about the accusations made at the party.

‘I’m just going to bed,’ Thea said, trying to dodge around him.

‘Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast.’ His arm barred her exit. ‘Stay a while. Let’s catch up.’ He trailed his finger along her arm. She flinched away.

‘I don’t want to speak to you,’ she said, suddenly feeling terrified. She backed up against the sink.

‘What a perfect Christmas present,’ he said, ignoring her. He pushed off the doorframe and came towards her. ‘You’ve ripened up, just as I knew you would. You know, I
pleaded for you to come home. Christmas is a time for family, I told them,’ he went on. ‘I made them promise to stay in Manhattan. Just to get you here.’

Thea felt a sinking sense of dread as she remembered her father’s letter, clearly puppet-written by him for Storm. Thea should never have got on the plane.

‘What’s the matter?’ Brett said. ‘You still upset about that little scene earlier? You know, what that woman said. About her kid. It wasn’t rape.’ He waved
his hand, as if it were all a big fuss. ‘OK, so I did fuck her, and I guess she didn’t like it much.’ He laughed as if it were a big joke. ‘But that’s the power of
being a Maddox, I guess. You can make everything nasty go away,’ Brett said, clicking his fingers, taking the final steps so that he was right in front of Thea. ‘Just like that.
Gone.’

‘You’re not a Maddox.’ The words were out before Thea could stop herself. But they were true.

‘That’s not a very nice thing to say,’ Brett said. He picked at his tooth, and then suddenly he put his arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides.

She screwed her eyes tight shut as Brett pushed his face into her hair. He kissed her throat tenderly, making her shiver with revulsion and fear. Thea heard a whimper escape her lips.

‘Don’t,’ she managed to say.

‘But I want to.’

His breath smelt of whisky. He pushed his body up against her, so that the worktop dug hard into her spine. He gripped her jaw to stop her crying out. Then he stuffed his hand inside her robe,
lifting up her Snoopy nightshirt. ‘Oh, won’t you look at that,’ he leered, forcing her legs apart and his hand between them. ‘You’re all wet for me. Fat girls are
always so much more grateful.’

‘Don’t,’ Thea gulped, her eyes bulging with tears. ‘Please don’t.’

‘Or what? You’ll tell on me? You think they’ll believe you? The hysterical hormonal schoolgirl?’ he whispered. Then put his wet tongue in her ear.

She closed her eyes, willing this not to be happening. She felt him slide his fingers inside her. She flinched, nausea rising in her throat as he pressed against her and she felt his erection
rubbing through the thin material of his trousers up against her trembling thigh.

‘Nobody will believe you, Thea. I’m your father’s protégé. Didn’t you know that? Which means that everything with a Maddox name on it will be mine for the
taking. Even . . . ’ he said, ‘. . . you.’

October 1986

The plane’s wheels screeched as they hit the tarmac, the brakes making a furious roar, the engines, which had been so constant for so long, beginning their deafening
fight to make the plane stop. Inside the wooden crate deep in the bowels of the cargo hold Romy stiffened, her limbs mimicking the plane’s wheels, bracing against the thin wood.

She licked her dry lips and rearranged her aching body, pressing her eye against the peephole, but it was still too dark to see anything. She’d got used to the noise of the engines, but
now the sound of the plane taxiing along the runway just a few feet below her made all her nerves jangle.

She tried to imagine all the passengers on board the plane sitting above her. The holidaymakers and business people who’d boarded the short flight from West Berlin to Heathrow, never
thinking that there was a stowaway just below their feet.

Romy felt her heart pounding. If she could just survive this next part, then she’d be free.

Free.

Her throat constricted at the thought of what it would all mean. To be in London. The city of her dreams. She couldn’t wait to get out there and see the buses and the taxis, the theatres,
shops and bars.

Now that she’d come this far, failure wasn’t an option. Do that and she’d have failed Ursula, and she’d promised her friend that she’d make it.

Poor Ursula. It was probably worse for her, being left behind, Romy thought, remembering their tearful goodbye. But it had to be this way. Once Ursula was in on Romy’s secret, the clock
had been ticking. Lemcke’s net had been closing in around her. She’d been able to feel it.

It had taken serious explaining to make Ursula understand that she’d had to lie to protect them both, but after Ursula had eventually forgiven her for her deception, they’d both
agreed that Romy had to get out of East Berlin. Fast. The only problem had been, how.

They’d both known it would have been too dangerous to cross the border at any of the normal crossings. Half the border police were Stasi, and they had new body-scanning equipment and
trained sniffer dogs. There’d been constant reports about people getting caught. Or killed.

For months they’d deliberated, until, just after Christmas, Ursula had told Franz about Lemcke’s money. Once Franz had been in on the secret, he’d organized for Romy to escape
in a crate of black-market clothing from the factory.

The plan they’d formulated had been risky, but Franz’s brother had a contact at the Bulgarian crossing, who’d known how to bribe one shift of the border guards. All it would
take was money, Franz had told Romy. Most of Lemcke’s money, and precision timing. As well as one hell of a lot of luck.

The first time, in the spring, the plan had failed and they’d had to abandon all hope of Romy getting out until after the summer. But now, this time, miraculously, the plan had worked.
Once in Bulgaria, the lorry had travelled on a twelve-hour straight route into West Germany, terminating at a freight depot, where Romy’s crate had been put with the air cargo bound for
London. More palms had been greased with cash, and the crate bearing Romy had been waved through the customs check and onto the plane early this morning.

And now here she was, half-starved, parched and aching, feeling as crumpled and twisted as the rags she’d made her nest in, all that time ago in the cabin in the woods.

The plane slowed to a stop. The engines died. The moment of silence was so acute that it felt to Romy as if her ears had been boxed.

Then the cargo-hold door swung open. A thin shaft of grey light came through the peephole, illuminating the cramped living quarters in which Romy had been folded up for the last three days. She
was surrounded by the detritus of biscuit rations and water bottles, the last of which she’d finished yesterday, and a large bottle full of urine, which she’d spent half of last night
resisting the temptation to drink.

She’d trained herself to ignore the claustrophobia that had threatened to overwhelm her in the past few days by considering the alternative. But now that she was so close to escaping from
the rancid, confined space, spending even a second more in it seemed unbearable.

Footsteps came towards her. Two knocks on the top of the crate. A pause. Another. Finally, she knocked back. Her arm felt like lead as she lifted it.

A grunt. Then the splintering of wood as the crate was crow-barred open.

‘Hello?’ she heard someone whisper.

Romy stood up, gasping in pain as her spine straightened for the first time in days. She blinked into the weak light. The silhouette of a man came into focus. There behind him – a block of
thin daylight, the open cargo hatch of the plane. Beyond that a silver patch of tarmac.

Freedom.

The man’s clothing came into focus next. An insignia on his overall sleeve. A uniform.

Romy felt her heart skip a beat. Where she came from, uniforms meant imprisonment, or punishment, or death. Her hands balled automatically into fists.

Please,
she silently begged.
Please don’t send me back.

Paulo Santini stared at the girl. They were all the same, these stowaways. Scared, hungry. Ready to fight.

He never ceased to be amazed by the force of the human instinct to survive. Now his nose crinkled at the sour smell of the girl, and he wondered how long she’d been holed up in there. Not
that it mattered. All that mattered was that she’d risked everything to make it to Britain. As so many of them did, fleeing persecution and injustice. Who could blame them?