by Mary Jaine
The Court of Appeal in London had finally decided that he had committed an offence against the United States; under the USA PATRIOT Act that constituted grounds for granting the State Department's request for extradition.
The bastard was coming here, and with any luck they'd stuff him in a cell with a huge rapist where he'd spend the rest of his miserable life being Bubba's gang-bang bitch. I could hear Barbara's laughter as I watched the news segment, seeing that face I'd honestly hoped I'd never see again collapse as the judgement was given against him.
The next morning, I was woken by the sound of Ashley being noisily sick. I immediately jumped out of bed to see if she needed help, but she waved me away as she wiped her mouth and rinsed with mouthwash.
"Baby, are you Ok? What's wrong?" I asked, hovering over her.
"Nothing baby, I'm fine, everything's fine, this is normal!" she smiled.
I was still worried. "You don't sound fine, you sound terrible, healthy people don't yark like that...!"
She turned and smiled at me, then laid her head on my chest.
"Nicky, we're fine; both of us are fine, honest!"
Now I was puzzled. "What do you mean both of u...Oh, OH! Oh MY GOD! You're pregnant!"
She smiled shyly at me and nodded. I was shaking, I was going to be a father, we were having a baby, OMIGOD!
"Nicky, Nicky, NICKY!"
Eventually I calmed down enough to realise she was talking to me.
"Calm down, baby, we're not having it today, relax! Call Mom and Dad, call Judy, and then get dressed. Move, baby!"
I was floating; after the initial euphoria, all I could think was 'I'm going to be a dad; I'm going to be a dad!'
I never saw or heard of my father again. Much as I had wanted to push him off someplace high with a stout rope around his neck, I knew that was not the way to deal with someone like him; his greed, his contempt for the law, for his fellow man, and for his beautiful, wronged, wives had brought him to this, but I wouldn't rejoice in his punishment; Barbara had brought me up better than that. His punishment was just and fitting, that was good enough for me. The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small...
++++
I knelt by the grave in Stanwix Cemetery in Carlisle, on a cold late-November morning. The wind coming in from the highlands of Scotland, and frigid with the promise of early snow, blew leaf litter and small twigs around me as I finished clearing the gravesite. I dusted a few more away, and then I could finally cry.
Ashley stood back, tears sparkling in her eyes, with our little daughter held against her to keep her warm in the frigid wind, letting me have my moment alone with my mother so I could say goodbye properly. The new headstone simply said 'Barbara Davies, beloved mother, taken too soon. I love you, Mum'. We'd had the original headstone, an ornate stone slab covered in his phony, lying, un-felt messages of love, a disgusting monument to my father's hypocrisy, taken down and crushed for road-stone, and had this one put in its place. My father was currently serving a 40-year term in a federal penitentiary 3,000 miles away with no hope of parole, so I doubted he'd be objecting.
Ashley had finally convinced me to reach out to my two half-brothers, to let them know that I was back, and ask them to meet me one last time; they'd never responded, and I was in no mood to pursue them. There was no evidence they'd ever come here to see their mother, either, even though the cemetery was only half a mile from the house; the grave had been untended, neglected, and overgrown. Even now they'd elected to stay away, but I was relieved and untroubled by their absence. Whatever tenuous link we'd had was gone now, and I was free of any further encumbrance from this part of my family; with Barbara's death, all connection to these people had gone, and that was how it should be.
The baby finally squirmed out of Ashley's grip and toddled toward me, so I picked her up and showed her to her grandmother.
"Mum; this is your granddaughter, her name's Barbara! Baby, say hello to my mummy!"
My little girl dropped the flower she was carrying onto the grave, enunciating lovely little pear-shaped sounds as she grinned toothlessly at me. Ashley knelt and arranged the posy she was carrying in the little flower-holder, and with that there was no more to say or do, so we left, all three of us, to go back to our life and our loved ones; I don't think I'll ever go back; I don't need to; no-one is truly gone until you stop saying their name, and with my daughter named after her grandmother, I will never be done saying her name.
We drove away, and pointed north, heading for the M6 motorway to take us back to Birmingham and our hotel for our flight from Birmingham International in the morning. I'd just taken the southbound exit for the four-hour drive from Carlisle to the airport hotel when Ashley flicked on the radio and my one-time favourite FM station, Lakeland Radio came on.
I listened to the end of an old Neil Diamond track and the DJ announced the next lunchtime request, another oldie, a special request for Nick, from Barbara. My eyes widened as the Beach Boys sang 'Little Saint Nick'. Ashley went to change stations, but I stopped her; it could have been a coincidence, but I felt somehow that it wasn't, that it was a message for me, my mother finally telling me it was over, and saying goodbye, and so I listened with tears on my cheeks as I said goodbye to her for the very last time.
I have one older brother, Nicky, but more about him later, and a younger brother, Richard, Rick, who's a year younger than me. We live in Carlisle, on the Scottish borders, in a great big, gloomy barn of a house my father had inherited from some relative or the other. When I was 17, Nicky did a bunk, I don't know where he went, for all I knew he dropped off the face of the earth, but that was just about when all our troubles began, the catalyst, as it were.
The day after he fucked off, his mother, Barbara went and hanged herself in the old Butler's Pantry, cue police, coroners, and all kinds of disruption while the rest of us tried to live our lives around it. At the time I thought it was the most inconsiderate thing I had ever heard of; why couldn't she go and do it in the public lavatory in town, or the ladies Restroom in McDonalds? Then at least we wouldn't have the Old Bill wandering through the house like they owned the place, something that particularly pissed-off my old man.
Yes, I know, I sounded like a heartless, self-involved prick just then. Well, back then, before so much changed for me, that's about all I was.
So Nicky was gone, and all was quiet for a few weeks, and then it all started to go pear-shaped; the Americans were trying to yank dad over there on what he said were trumped-up charges that he had violated one of their embargoes; this nonsense went on, and on, and on; dad spent a fortune on legal brains to clear this mess up, and when the last Extradition request was thrown out, as it should have been, we all breathed a sigh of relief; then the bloody Appeal Court got in on the act, allowed the appeal, and suddenly my dad is on a plane to stand trial in America, for doing business in Europe, with countries that had no connection to America; how did that happen?
Anyway, to cut a long story short, he was convicted of crimes against America, and sentenced to 40 years in jail with no hope of parole; basically, he was going to die in jail, they just extended the death sentence by 40 years. So now the witch-hunt started here, too.
All my dad's businesses, all his bank accounts, all his property, everything he owned, everything we owned was seized by the Serious Organised Crime Agency, leaving just this house; they even took the furniture, the TV's, and most of the crockery and silverware, because they claimed they were bought with the proceeds of crime; they'd be auctioned-off at some time in the future, but I didn't know where or when, and I didn't have the money to buy them back anyway.
I was 19, Richard was 18, and suddenly all we had was a mostly empty house, no money, and no furniture except a few battered pieces we found in the attics and basements. For various reasons we weren't entitled to any benefits; we had no income, but we owned an asset, a very valuable asset, apparently, so the only answer I got from the Benefits Agency when I asked for assistance was pr
etty straightforward; if you need money, sell your house; two teenage boys don't need to live in a six-bedroom mansion...
There was no way I was going to allow the house to be sold; it was my dad's and it was all we had, so I found a job with the City Council, mostly driving the mowing machines that cut the grass verges and public green spaces. It was long hours, at minimum wage, but I jumped at it; I wasn't actually trained to do anything, I'd always believed in my dad's money, and this was where it had brought us...
I should have followed Nick's example; he'd always wanted to be a mechanic, even though dad was dead against him being any kind of manual worker, but Nick persevered, and actually qualified, in spite of dad and his objections. Richard and I however, had no marketable skills, we'd always thought dad was going to hand his businesses to us one day, so here I was, driving the mowing machine, spending all day cutting grass verges, getting sprayed with grass clippings, dogshit, and all the other nasty debris inconsiderate slobs drop on the verges.
When the grass stopped growing as the year turned, they moved me to pushing a street sweeping machine, which was even worse; I had to buy my own masks, as the ones supplied were worse than useless, and again, the days were long, cold, smelly, and poorly paid.
Richard couldn't find a job for love nor money, so he used to spend his days either watching the small second-hand TV I'd bought or going through dad's papers, the stuff that had been returned as being 'of no evidential value', and seemed to have found something of interest in there; he tried to tell me about it, but I was usually too buggered after a long day being back-sprayed with filth from the street-sweeper to pay any real attention, or even care, so I guess after a while he gave up trying.
And then one day, just after his 19th birthday, he was gone. I had a tin under my bed with an emergency fund, almost £200, and that was gone as well. There was nothing I could do about it; he had no mobile phone, we couldn't afford them, and so I just had to accept that he was gone, and my bill-paying fund was gone with him.
So there I was; haunting an empty house, earning just enough to keep me off the breadline, but not enough to actually make a difference or make life any easier, with no friends, no-one to turn to, as dad, in his wisdom, had kept us apart from other kids when we were small, even down to having us home-schooled; at least Nick got to go to secondary school, and then college, his mother made sure of that, but she never lifted a finger for Rick and me; I guess her own son came first, no surprises there, from what dad had told us about her.
Funny thing is, I never really questioned how, if Nicky was older than us, and if Barbara was his mother, how did we come along? When did our mother come on the scene, and where did she go? Somehow, dad managed to always deflect that question when it arose, and Rick and I never really thought about it; if we had, then maybe things might have been so different...
My job sucked, but I stuck with it; millions of people had no job; at least I had daily employment and a payslip at the end of the week, and with Rick gone, there was enough money for the occasional treat. I remember the first time I bought a real pizza, from the Domino's in town, I was actually drooling by the time I got home, it had been so long since I'd had one; my occasional treat was the 'Saver' version from the local supermarket own-brand range, and the taste of the real thing was out of this world; I had to discipline myself to just eat a couple of slices and save some to last for the next few days; that week was bills week, so no treats until the following month. After putting aside enough to pay the gas bill, the electric bill, and the Council Tax, there was precious little for food, so I quickly had to learn how to eke out what food I could afford as best I could.
And so it went on; work, no real prospects, no friends or confidantes, loneliness and anger; at dad, for letting them railroad him and stripping us of everything, at Nick and his mother for abandoning us, at Rick for leaving me alone, and at myself for landing myself square in the poverty trap. I wanted out of here, I wanted my life back, I wanted my dad back, and I wanted to see that smug scumbag Nicky strapped to the railway lines for what I was sure he'd done; I'd come to believe that Nick had somehow set in motion everything that had happened since he left, and I wanted my hands around his neck so I could choke the life out of him for being what he was; the sly, spoiled little bastard who destroyed my life.
Rick had been gone for almost two years, and I'd become so used to being alone that I hardly ever even thought about him anymore, when that all changed. I came home from work on a cold and windy November evening, badly in need of a shower, as usual, to find the front door open; I was immediately on my guard; there was nothing here worth stealing, the Crime Agency had already stripped us of everything of any value, but there were always junkies who'd steal anything they could sell for a fix, and vagrants looking for a warm squat to doss in, so I quietly eased the door open and slipped inside.
I immediately smelled something cooking, something spicy, warm, inviting, and my stomach rumbled; it was late in the week, and my budget was stretched to breaking point, so I had baked beans on toast planned for dinner; this smelled a lot better. I heard voices, and realised it was Rick. Rick! After two years, what was he doing here, and what gave him the right to just waltz back in after taking all the money I had and doing a disappearing act?
I pushed the door open, and there he was, looking the same, reading something and talking over his shoulder to someone in the kitchen, someone female, by the sound of it, a voice with a distinct London accent; so, he'd waltzed back in here and brought his girlfriend too, had he? I'd soon put him straight about that! You leave, you're gone, it's as simple as that; sneaking-off like that had taken away any right he had to be here, as far as I was concerned.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I demanded, watching in satisfaction as he jumped, spinning round, to smile at me, a big, wide, cheesy, 'Hi, howya doing!' kind of smile, but I wasn't having any of it; he'd stolen my money, what little I had, disappeared, and never so much a note in almost two years to say where he was, to say sorry, nothing.
"Bobby, God, it's good to see you!" he exclaimed, and I had to grin at the sheer barefaced gall he had to think I was going to welcome him back, just like that...
"Where the hell have you been, and who said you could come in here? This is my home now, you left, so get out, and take whoever the hell that is with you! Get out, both of you, before I throw you both out by the scruff of your necks!"
The girl in the kitchen had come to the doorway, and stood staring at me in what looked like fascination, no trace of fear or apprehension on her face, just interest. I glanced at her, and then took a second, longer look. Whatever my problem with him, I had to admit Rick had good taste; she was exquisite! Tall, slender, possibly late teens or early twenties, olive-skinned, with long, glossy, mahogany-red hair, startling green-hazel eyes, and full red lips that seemed naturally red, rather than through any cosmetic help. She was dressed in a tight Tee-shirt that outlined and emphasised her small, firm breasts rather well, and skinny jeans that she managed to fill most enticingly; she was completely stunning, and I found my gaze being drawn to her even as my anger at Rick bubbled up.
"What do you want here? You take all my money, you disappear for damn near two years, and then you just roll in here expecting a warm welcome? Get out, now, and take her with you!"
I turned away in disgust, weary, angry, hungry, and just too worn-out to say any more. I'd rehearsed this meeting in my mind many times, and all the biting things I'd wanted to say hovered below the surface of my mind, but I just couldn't say them; all I wanted was him gone, and his girlfriend with him.
"Bobby, we need to talk, all of us, now..." said Rick, and I turned to him, anger threatening to spill over into something physical; couldn't he understand plain English? Why would I want to stand here and bandy words with him; I thought I'd made myself perfectly clear.
"Get out Rick, I told you twice now, are you deaf? Go, before I hurt you!"
"And will you hurt your little sister too?" h
e asked me, and my head snapped around.
"What did you say?" I croaked, and he nodded slowly.
"Bobby, this is Yasmin, Yaz for short; she's our younger sister, and that's her big sister, our big sister, Shereen over there!"
I looked around in a kind of daze, and there was another girl, almost the double of Yasmin, but even prettier, if that were possible. This girl had paler, creamier skin, and dove-grey eyes, but the same rich mahogany hair, and she was maybe a couple of years older than Yasmin, maybe my age, but the same height as Yasmin, a similar slender, willowy build, and a figure just as tight and alluring as her sister.
"Hi Bobby, I've heard a lot about you!" she smiled, and I sat down before I fell down.
"How...when...did...when...? I managed, and both girls grinned at me.
"Don't worry, Bobby, when Rick turned up at our doorstep, we had pretty much the same reaction!" smiled Yasmin.
My head was spinning; these two gorgeous girls were my sisters? How? When did this all happen?
Shereen patted my knee.
"Go and have a shower and get changed, and we'll talk after dinner; hurry up, dinner's almost ready!"
I suddenly realised what I must look and smell like, and hurriedly excused myself, taking the stairs two at a time in my haste to get cleaned up and get back to that wonderful smelling food and those beautiful girls! I had a hot shower; I normally had cold showers, to minimise my use of gas; I needed that for when winter really began to bite, when I had no option but to heat the room I lived in, and having a hot shower was a luxury in my circumstances, but I thought the fact that I had company justified it, just this once.
Dinner was incredible; the girls were amazing cooks, and they'd put together a wonderful Madras chicken curry, tangy, hot, and spicy, fragrant basmati rice, sweet and fruity Kashmiri naan breads stuffed with almond paste, coconut, sultanas and honey, and flavoured with cardamoms and other, more exotic spices, and a cool cucumber, sour cream and onion raita. For someone whose meals usually consisted of soup, and beans on toast, it was a banquet I never seriously thought I'd ever get to eat, and I pitched in happily. Conversation was limited as we ate, Rick and the girls watching me as I stuffed my face. I stopped when I saw them eyeing me, and Shereen reached out to put her hand on mine.