Wronged Sons, The (27 page)

I lit up a cigarette of my own and took a long drag. I was captivated by her words.

“As my sister Catriana and I grew up, he told himself we too would become whores like my mother,” she continued. “He was suspicious of our every move and hired guards to escort us too and from school so we would not mix with boys. Catriana and our gardener’s son Federico became close – he was probably her only friend apart from me. But when my father saw them talking together, he had Federico beaten so badly the poor boy could never work again. Catriana was inconsolable and blamed herself. She looked to the future but all she saw was more of the same and she could not live like that. She waited until my father’s birthday before she cut her wrists and died in one of his vineyards. I found her body.”

She paused and glanced down at her feet.

“Naturally my mother and I were devastated. But it was like someone flicked a switch in her head. She’d already failed one daughter and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. So with only our passports and some money our housekeeper gave us from her savings, we ran away and never saw him again.”

Luciana closed her eyes.

“The man I killed who attacked me… he was not the first to have died at my hands. My mother and I fled to London to stay with cousins and finally, life was good. It wasn’t like Italy where we lived in a gilded cage – we had nothing of material value, but we had our freedom. Then my father’s people tracked us down. A man appeared at our apartment and shot my mother’s cousin and her son through their heads. He was going to kill her too but he didn’t see me in the kitchen behind him. I took a knife and stabbed him in the neck, but not before he pulled the trigger and hit my mother in the leg. I patched her up and we fled to Mexico where my father would never think to find us. We began working here, selling our bodies to survive and over time, it became like any other job.”

“The man we buried,” I interrupted. “Did your father send him too?”

“No, he was just a monster who couldn’t recognise the monster in me. I have killed twice and I know you have killed too.” I froze.

“I saw the way you looked at me in my room that day. Most men would have run for the hills, but you stayed. You had fallen in love with me because you thought you had found a kindred spirit. I knew then that for whatever reasons, you had done something awful but necessary to protect yourself. And there is nothing more awful than taking a life. You knew me.”

I considered telling her there and then about my past, but it was her moment, not mine.

“What happened to your mother?” I asked. “Is she still in Mexico?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “She’s downstairs. And her name is Lola Marcanio.”

“Your mother is Madam Lola?” I asked, taken aback. She nodded.

“I know what you’re thinking – how could she allow her daughter to keep working as a whore? Well she has no choice! When we eventually saved enough money to buy out the previous Madam, Mama tried to persuade me to give it up and help her manage the place instead. But it’s not what I wanted. I assist her with the book-keeping but I continue to prostitute myself. Maybe I do it to spite my father, maybe I just like being in control of something when I grew up controlling nothing… I don’t know. But right or wrong, I make my own choices and my own living and this job is what I choose to do.”

Luciana stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and stared outside at the rooftops of the dimly lit town.

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.

“Only our old housekeeper knew where we were and she didn’t tell a soul. I received a letter from her this morning informing me my father was dead. So now I’m ready to go home. And you are coming with me.”

***

Northampton, Twenty Years Ago

October 22, 8.55am

The swirling ‘s’ in Nicholson gave away the name of its author before I’d opened the envelope.

I wondered why Shirley had written to me after five years of mutual silence. A white card lay inside with a photograph of Arthur attached. An added post-it note read ‘I would really appreciate it if you all could come.’

I was taken aback. Arthur and my paths hadn’t crossed since I’d barged back into his life demanding to know who Kenneth Jagger was. And it had been a long time since I’d given either of them any thought.

And now I held an order of service for his funeral in my hand.

October 25, 11.40am

“I’m convinced he died of a broken heart,” Shirley admitted quietly after Arthur’s cremation. “Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not blaming you. But after your visit, he was never the same again.”

The children, unamused at being dragged to the funeral of a grandparent they barely remembered, sat in the corner of Shirley’s lounge huddled around a bleeping Game Boy. Meanwhile, she’d ushered me into the kitchen away from a small number of mourners.

“He’s alive isn’t he?” she asked solemnly and looking me straight in the eye. “I mean Simon; he’s alive.”

I hesitated; reluctant to re-open a can of worms I’d struggled to keep a lid on. But secretly, I’d longed to tell someone. She poured herself a glass of wine and offered me one, but I shook my head.

“A few days after you last saw Arthur, he told me you’d been to the house to ask about Kenneth,” she continued. “Then he told me the story about him being Simon’s real father. Well, I hadn’t had a clue but I could understand why he’d not said anything because he loved Simon like he was his own. It hurt him having to rake it all up.”

“I’m sorry but I had no-one else to ask,” I replied, wondering if I’d done the right thing dragging up his painful past.

“He knew you must have asked for a reason, so he contacted Roger for help in finding Kenneth. I think he told him he was an old school friend or some fib like that. To cut a long story short, Arthur was put in touch with the prison who told him what they’d told you - that after Simon went missing he’d turned up there.”

“I haven’t told the kids,” I replied defensively. “I don’t think they should know.”

“I wouldn’t have either,” said Shirley firmly. “It would only cause more damage. I saw what it did to Arthur. He couldn’t understand what he’d done to make Doreen and his only child abandon him. Try as I might, I couldn’t convince him it wasn’t his fault. He did his best to put a brave face on it, but he became very depressed. He knew deep down Simon wouldn’t be coming home and eventually his heart became too heavy for him. He just gave up.”

No matter what I’d thought of Arthur in the past, he’d always tried to do his best for you, but it wasn’t enough.

“Do you still not have any idea why he left?”

“I don’t know, Shirley. I just don’t know.”

“This is long over-due, but I’m sorry,” she added, grasping both my hands. “On behalf of both of us, I’m sorry we didn’t give you the support we should have, and I’m sorry for the accusations. We were awful to you.”

“Thank you,” I replied. I knew she meant it. And now I knew she and Arthur were two more of your casualties, all those years of bitterness between us began to drain away. I would not let you destroy anyone else.

Shirley smiled appreciatively, took her glass and made her way back into the lounge.

“Do you have any plans for Saturday night?” I asked. She shook her head.

“Come to ours around six for something to eat so you can meet your grandchildren properly.”

She gave a grateful nod and a new chapter in our relationship began.

***

Today, 5.50pm

It began as a smirk, but it wasn’t long before she was unable to mask it, even by pretending to cough.

“I’m sorry,” she said, placing a hand over her mouth to stem a fit of giggles. He glared at her, spooked by her reactions. He’d witnessed a range of them throughout the day, but none that resembled amusement.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she continued, “I really don’t; but how am I supposed to react when you tell me you fell in love with a prostitute?”

She removed a paper tissue from under her sleeve and dabbed her eyes, still chuckling at the absurdity of it. She wouldn’t have believed it if someone had told her yesterday that her missing husband was about to reappear and explain how he’d been on a twenty-five year, round-the-world jaunt.

Oh, and along the way, he’d murdered one of her best friends and given his heart to a whore, who, like him, had no qualms about killing people.

As her laughter faded, she wondered if she’d ever be able to completely get to grips with all he’d said and done. Every time she tried to get her head around a new revelation, along came another that dwarfed the last. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts, alone.

She said nothing when she left the lounge and headed towards the garden. Once outside, she didn’t know what to do with herself, so she unpegged the clothes from the washing line and put to good use the breathing techniques she’d learned in her Pilates classes.

He remained in the lounge, thinking about Arthur. For so long, memories of his father had been attached to unhappy ones of Doreen. He’d failed to appreciate the man behind the mother; the man who’d loved him as his own.

Neither of his parents had gone to their graves knowing what had happened to their son. Only Kenneth had matters resolved and he’d been the one who’d least deserved it.

“Sorry Dad,” he whispered and wiped the corners of his eyes with his hand.

*

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t plan to fall in love again,” came his voice from behind, startling her.

She stood in the kitchen with a red tea towel in her hands, like a matador in a bullring. The more she asked herself how a whore could give him a better life than she had, the more she wound herself up.

“How much did she charge you?” she snapped. “Fifty pounds? A hundred? Or did you get a discount for being a regular customer?”

He didn’t respond because it was clear anger was bringing out a petty side to her. He weighed up whether it was worth trying to explain it to her again, or if she was only going to hear what she wanted to hear.

“Well you sound like a perfect match,” she continued. “I mean, you’re both able to murder at the drop of a hat. At least you buried that body and didn’t just leave it in the middle of the street like you did with Caroline. Actually, is that why you’re here? Is the tart back on the streets so now you’ve come home?”

“No, Catherine,” he replied wearily. “I promised Luciana I’d put things right with you before it was too late.”

“You can never put right what you did to me. And I don’t need a prostitute’s pity.”

A wall next to the pantry filled with ornate carved wooden picture frames she’d bought in Bali distracted him. He got distracted a lot these days. They contained photographs of their children. The snapshots of life without him panned two decades and he couldn’t help but wonder what might have been.

“Is this Robbie?” he asked, pointing to a boy standing by a blue Ford Fiesta. She nodded.

“He looks so much like Luca.”

“Who’s that?”

“My son,” he replied. “I have a daughter too.”

Her jaw dropped. But before she had the chance to fly off the handle again, they were stopped in their tracks by the sound of the front door opening. Time froze until Emily breezed into the kitchen.

“Mum, did I leave my purse in…” she began, before noticing her mother had company.

“Oh sorry,” she added, oblivious to the panic spreading across her mother’s face. Her parents glared at each other like a clandestine affair had been interrupted.

‘Mum,’ he silently repeated to himself. He recognised her as the girl who passed him as he arrived at the cottage. For a moment he forgot about his pounding headache as he lost himself in the daughter he’d last seen as a toddler. How much he had missed out on, he thought.

Her brain went into slow motion; unable to muster a word or offer an explanation as to whom the stranger was before them. She was petrified when he opened his mouth to speak.

“Hello,” he began, “I’m Darren.” He smiled politely and held his hand out towards hers. It was the first name that sprang to mind. Old habits die hard.

“Hi,” she replied, shaking it and still unsure who the dapper gentleman with such warm hands was.

“I’m an old school friend of your mother’s,” he replied, sensing her confusion.

“Really?” asked Emily, enthusiastically. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yes and you. I’ve not seen Catherine for many years and I was passing through so I thought I’d drop in on the off-chance she still lived here.”

He was a convincing liar, Catherine conceded, but then he’d had so much practice. She felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights as father and daughter conversed; not knowing how to bring herself out of their glare.

“I’m her daughter, Emily,” she offered. “So what was my mum like at school then? I bet she was a real goody two shoes.”

He laughed. “You could say that. She was a bright thing; always destined to do well.”

“Has she told you about her shops?” she asked, proud of her mother’s achievements. “She’s got eight now… even one on the Kings Road in London.”

“Yes, she’s done very well for herself,” he smiled.

“Anyway, Mum, did I leave my purse here?”

“I’m… I’m not sure,” she stuttered.

“I’ll have a look,” replied Emily as she headed back towards the lounge. In her absence, they glared at each other; him delighted to have met Emily and her grateful he’d not revealed his identity. They remained silent until she returned with her purse.

“Found it. Do you still want to come round for dinner tonight Mum?” she asked. “Olivia’s been asking to see her granny but if you’re busy with your friend, we can do it another night?”

She guessed what he was thinking and became irritated he was learning things about her family he had no right to know.

“Can I come tomorrow instead?” she asked, her voice close to breaking. She willed her daughter to leave.

“Of course,” Emily replied, and reached the door, then turned around.

“Darren, if you went to school with my mum, you must have known my dad, Simon?”