Wronged Sons, The (32 page)

There had been little about him she could identify with that day. From the gutlessness of his escape to the lives he’d ruined and taken away; sometimes she felt like he was reading extracts from a stranger’s diary.

But his tender description of their relationship during Luciana’s final months reminded her of who he’d been. And it made her envious because she remembered what his undivided attention felt like; she had benefited from it when she’d needed it most.

When all she’d wanted to do was run outside and scream at the thunder, he’d been the one to hold her back until the storm passed. But when she’d needed to be held like that again, he was holding someone else.

She knew it was pointless begrudging a dead woman. Luciana hadn’t fallen in love with the wrong man; it was she who had. And remarkably, she respected him for having the courage to end the life of the only thing he’d wanted to live. Maybe he knew what love was, after all.

Eventually he broke their contemplative lull.

“Are you well now?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I still have check-ups every six months, but so far, so good. Touch wood.” She tapped the dent in her head.

“Good,” he replied, “good.” He paused. “And was James a big help, what with him being away so much?”

She wondered why he’d singled out her eldest son. “Yes, he was. He often texted and phoned and came home when he could.”

However, he didn’t appear to be listening to her reply and it wasn’t the first time she’d noticed it. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, but chinks were appearing in the armour he’d arrived wearing. Granted, it had been a mentally exhausting day for both of them, but something about his ever-increasing vacantness perturbed her. The room went silent again as he stared out of the window and into the garden.

“Simon?” she asked, baffled by his stillness.

“Yes?” he said with a start.

“Are you alright? You look a little dazed.”

“Would you mind if I had a glass of water?”

She nodded and went to the kitchen, removed a jug from the fridge and poured it into a glass. When she returned, he was examining a framed platinum disc hanging on the wall that James had given her.

“James looks a lot like you,” she said, handing him the glass. “He has your eyes and your skinny legs. Sometimes I find myself staring at him because he looks like your double.”

“I know,” he replied. “I’ve met him, Catherine.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Monte Falco, Italy - One Year Earlier

January 26, 10am

I sat under the shade of a plump, lemon yellow umbrella and watched the locals go about their business from the village square.

Since Luciana’s passing, there was just too much time. My capable staff ensured the Winery ran smoothly, and the management structure she’d put into place before her death took care of our business interests. Everything had been plotted, planned for and preserved, with the sole exception of me. I took pleasure in seeing glimpses of Luciana in both Sofia and Luca, but glimpses were not enough. Inside I ached for her.

My life and our home were stark without her. I moved into a different bedroom when her citrusy perfumes that lingered on the fabrics in our room became too much to bear. I craved for her presence with such force that it disorientated me. I’d talk myself into believing her death had been an awful dream and that when I awoke I’d find her out in the garden, lost in a novel or chatting to our grape pickers. It never happened, of course; I was alone in my coma.

I found it impossible to concentrate on anything for long, and I’d have to write down my ‘to do’ lists otherwise I’d forget my chores from one hour to the next. Grief’s malevolence crippled me.

When Luca and Sofia were out of the house, I’d pass the time by walking down to the village, installing myself outside Senatori’s café and nurse a latte with cinnamon sprinkles. People watching eased the loneliness a little. I’d appraise the tourists as they passed me by and try to spot obvious signs of Britishness – notable by milky-white or sunburned skin and trainers worn for every occasion.

Every so often I pondered whether I’d recognise one of my other offspring if they stood in front of me. More than likely neither of us would ever have know we’d been in touching distance of faded flesh and blood. I remembered parts of them all, like eye shapes, hair colours and bone structures, but I couldn’t put enough pieces together to make them anything other than excerpts of children.

Luca reminded me of James, in the way the corners of their mouths hid under their cheeks when they giggled or how their ankles rested on the shins of their opposing legs as they slept.

Sofia was an amalgamation of the best aspects of Luciana and the worst of Doreen and that frightened me. As she grew older, she became more listless. I had admired her mother’s independent spirit but I prayed she wouldn’t follow her grandmother’s path. I wanted her to take time to smell the flowers growing beneath her feet before she trampled over them. I loved Sofia like any father loves his daughter, but slowly I began to pull away from her, knowing I’d never be able to harness her true nature.

Luca was her opposite and I admit I put more into our relationship than I did with his sister. Perhaps I tried to replicate what I’d had with my first-born with my second from a third life. I even bought him an acoustic guitar for his fifth birthday like I had with James; only he didn’t abandon it like his brother had. I smiled as I recalled how painful it was trying to teach James the three chords to ‘Mull Of Kintyre.’

As he grew older, Luca discovered rock music, and in particular, a British band having worldwide success, called Driver. I couldn’t escape his obsession with them and if their music wasn’t thundering from his bedroom stereo, then it was booming from the speakers of my car.

He was devastated when his alarm clock failed to go off the morning tickets went on sale for their Italian tour. For weeks, I watched him mope around the villa cursing it.

Suddenly a motorcycle’s engine interrupted my coffee break as it pulled up in front of the café. A courier removed his black crash helmet and spoke to me.

“Signor Marcanio?” he asked. I nodded and he handed me a brown padded envelope. I thanked him, picked myself up off the chair and began the slow walk back uphill to the house.

I hoped at least one of the children would be there to fill its hollow corridors with the life that had been sucked out of it.

April 2, 4.30pm

“How, papa?” beamed Luca when he opened the envelope to find two tickets for Driver’s concert.

“I have my ways,” I replied with a mysterious smile only fathers give when they want to prove they’re still of some value to their growing offspring. I’d actually pulled a few strings with the venue’s bar manager who I supplied wine to and then kept it a secret until a few days before we were due to fly.

“Who are these scruffy devils then?” I asked, pointing to a photograph of the group on his computer screen.

“That’s Kevin Butler the singer and bass guitarist,” he began excitedly, “and on drums Paul Goodman, on keyboards David Webb and James Nicholson on lead guitar.”

Two seconds passed before the latter’s name sank in. “James Nicholson?” I repeated.

With a click of his mouse, Luca blew up a thumbnail sized picture. Immediately I was certain I was staring at a man I’d only known as a boy. His dark brown hair was shoulder length; stubble had sprouted from his cheeks and chin and his shoulders were broader. But there was no mistaking his smile or the sparkle in his green eyes.

‘No,’ I told myself; ‘Your head’s playing tricks on you again.’

“Can you get me a bottle of water while I read up on them?” I asked Luca, trying to get a grip on my nerves.

As he bounced downstairs to the kitchen, I typed ‘James Nicholson’ into a search engine and thousands of threads appeared. I refined my search, trying ‘James Nicholson & Northampton,’ and there were plenty of mentions of the two together. I clicked on his Wikipedia page and it confirmed his date of birth as October 8.

I leaned back and felt the colour drain from my face. It was James. It was my James. I was staring at a picture of the son I had abandoned. I scrolled through online newspaper features about him. I read about his musical influences, the band’s awards, their sold-out world tours, their relationships and then an interview.

‘The eldest of four siblings, James was raised single handily by his mother when his father suddenly disappeared. “I don’t remember a whole lot about him,” James tells me, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “I do know that he loved us all, but when he disappeared, our lives changed forever.”’

I stopped and closed my eyes. The ghosts in the machine had found me.

“Nobody knows what happened to him. It was hardest on my mum though… Everyone who knew dad says it wasn’t like him to just vanish and that something must have happened. And it hurts that we’ll probably never know what. Do I still think about him? Yeah, of course. Not every day, maybe not even every week. But he’s always in the back of my mind, somewhere.”’

I was a naive idiot for not predicting how much the uncertainty might have haunted him. I glanced up at the wall in front of me to see a poster of Driver staring back. I’d walked past it dozens of times, never knowing my son was in my house.

“He’s an amazing guitarist,” said Luca when he reappeared with my drink, oblivious to the earthquake rocking his father. “He’s been giving me advice.”

“You’ve spoken to him?” My heart beat faster than I ever thought possible. “How?”

“On Twitter. I messaged him to say how I think he’s really good and how I play the guitar too. He wrote back with advice and we’ve been Direct Messaging for a few weeks. He’s really cool.”

My two sons had been corresponding from opposite sides of Europe, neither of them knowing whom the other really was.

“That’s great,” I replied before making an excuse to retreat to my bedroom balcony for air.

In organising Luca’s tickets I had unwittingly unlocked Pandora’s box. But what scared me the most wasn’t that I was being forced to confront my past.

It was that maybe I was actually ready to.

Rome, Italy

April 7, 10.40pm

I barely noticed the moisture pouring down the walls or the ringing in my ears as my son James played an energetic guitar solo on a colossal stage in front of me. As everyone around us cheered and sang, I stood motionless in the Palalottomatica auditorium, gazing at him in awe. Luca did the same, but for very different reasons.

Goosebumps spread across my skin and made me itch, but I was unable to tear my eyes away from the boy I’d once tried to forget. I wondered how that scrawny, anxious little lad who’d urinated through his shepherd’s costume in the school nativity play had gained such confidence to enthral ten thousand strangers. I don’t think I absorbed a single lyric or was aware of how long Driver remained on stage until the houselights illuminated the room.

“Come on Papa,” yelled Luca, tugging my arm. But instead of heading for an exit sign, he dragged me against the flow of human traffic and towards the metal barriers at the side of the stage.

“This isn’t the way out,” I protested as discarded papers and plastic bottles crunched under our feet.

“I know; we’re going to meet the band!” he grinned. “I Tweeted James and told him you got us tickets so he put us on the guest list for the after-show party.”

My unprepared mind raced through a list of excuses. “We can’t, you’re only fifteen,” was all I could offer on such short notice.

“It’s cool,” he chirped, dragging me ever closer. “No-one cares.”

“Luca, no. It’s late. I’m tired. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

He stopped in his tracks and shot me the most wounded of glances. “Papa! Please,” he begged.

I desperately wanted to explain why we couldn’t meet his hero because, against all odds, they shared the same blood. Watching James perform at arm’s length was one thing, but being in the same room when he met his half-brother wasn’t something I was prepared for.

I’d promised Luciana I’d make things right with my past but it was not the right time. I cursed God for playing more of his cruel games with me.

“Luca Marcanio,” shouted my son to a balding hulk wielding a clipboard and a headset. “We’re on the list.”

The man eyed us suspiciously, checked his list, crossed our names off and directed us backstage with a grunt. My breath was shallow as we stepped into a sterile whitewashed corridor and followed the sound of distant music. Eventually, we turned a corner to find a bar and a group of young people drinking and eating exotic canapés from waitresses’ trays.

Luca grabbed two glass bottles of cola from an ice bucket and passed one to me. I clenched my mine to my wrist, hoping it would cool down my growing fever. He pointed out the other band members one by one as he scanned the room, desperate to see James.

Eventually his hero entered, clad in black jeans, a belt with a silver ram’s head buckle and a white shirt. And quick as lightning, Luca scampered towards him.

I watched intently as, out of earshot, they shook hands. They shared the same dark, wavy hair, dimpled chins and my green eyes. I wondered if I alone was struck by their similarities.

I assumed James would be polite but brief with him; instead, he reacted like they were old friends. I attempted to blend into the background until both pairs of the same eyes reached mine.

“Papa!” I pretended not to hear as my stomach dropped. “Papa!” Luca repeated, a little louder and beckoned me over. My legs threatened to give way as I joined them.

“This is James.” He smiled and held out his hand to shake mine. His fingernails were painted black and they drew me towards his cufflinks. They were ruby red with small, black squares in the centre. You’d bought them for my last birthday, the day everything changed.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Marcanio,” he began. “You have a good kid here.”