by Lisa Gordon
Renata seemed impatient to serve the starter: Cornish crab mayonnaise with apple and celery salad, garnished with croutons and dill. It would not have been to Gaby’s liking at any social occasion and, with her stomach feeling like a twisted chamois cloth, she doubted she would keep it down. She could see by the way Meagan reluctantly raised her fork to her mouth that her sister felt the same way. Clinton ate with zeal, oblivious to the discreet looks exchanged by his sisters. Lashings of Tabasco, copious amounts of salt and frequent sips of champagne helped Gaby to digest the starter. Noticing that their champagne flutes were empty, Clinton reached for the Moët and began to refill them. Meagan was quick to place her hand over her glass. “No more for me, I’m driving.”
“Of course, how thoughtless of me.” Clinton raised himself from the table and set off to the adjoining kitchen via a heavy oak door. He returned within moments holding a bottle of peach-coloured liquid. “This is the perfect accompaniment to the meal: it’s called ‘Mampoer Cocktail’. I bought it in South Africa when I visited a friend.” Gaby’s ears immediately pricked up, but she resisted the urge to look at Meagan. Clinton explained further, “It’s indigenous to the Cape, made in the Hex River Valley, which is where some of the best fruit in the world comes from. Recipe is hundreds of years old; it’s a concentrated mixture of fruit — one could almost call it the forerunner of the smoothie.” Clinton unscrewed the lid and began to pour the amber liquid into the champagne flutes, which were still half full with the Moët. It struck Gaby as highly uncharacteristic of Clinton; usually he would regard the mixing of anything with a fine wine as vulgar. As if reading her mind, he elucidated, “Has an amazing property of bringing out the flavour of the champagne.” Gaby tried the Mampoer and found that it had a very pungent taste, but was nonetheless refreshing.
The main course arrived — roasted red-leg partridge and smoked-bacon sauce, accompanied by potatoes mashed with spring onions and wholegrain mustard, with steamed green vegetables. It was certainly flavourful but rather salty, and both Gaby and Meagan found themselves taking frequent sips of Mampoer. Renata would serve the meals and then scurry back into the kitchen. Gaby could not fathom why she did not join them. “Real soul food this,” declared Clinton as he ate heartily.
Gaby smirked inwardly, wondering what he knew about soul-anything. Gaby and Meagan were at a loss for conversation other than making various comments about the food, but Clinton was eager to encourage a more meaningful and perhaps revealing dialogue. “So, Meagan, have things in Kenya calmed down now after the riots which broke out after the election result?”
“Oh, yes, apart from sporadic outbursts, which are more to do with elements of criminality getting on the bandwagon,” she explained, adding, “The press made way too much of it; the rioting was localised to very specific areas. On the news it seemed as if there was widespread anarchy. But I guess you have to thank the press for putting the spotlight on Kenya. The squalor and the corruption, which is rife ...”
Gaby listened to Meagan. How was she able to make such mundane conversation so calmly? Gaby was silently screaming inside. She looked at the partridge and attempted another mouthful; the bacon sauce was finished and the game bird was not moist. With her mouth so dry, all she could manage was to move the food from side to side and then to swallow it with a sip of champagne. Her stomach would protest and she would have to swallow again to keep it down. Gaby had the abiding feeling that the crab was right there in her chest, ready to repeat on her at any minute. To Gaby, the huge dining room seemed small; the ceiling seemed to be sunken and the table very close to the walls. She was feeling warm, but at the same time, she did not want to take off her bolero and reveal the gooseflesh on her arms. Gaby felt that at that precise moment, she was ready to run down the street in the pouring rain, crying hysterically. She did not know what was stopping her. She looked up from her plate: before her eyes was a kaleidoscope of shattered images. Her brain was akin to an old-fashioned television set which was slightly out of tune and on which the picture was grainy and distorted. Was she staring blankly, she wondered? Was Clinton looking at her? Surely he could sense the fear, see the terror, surely. She thought of Alison, Shelleigh, Sally ... and slowly her head began to clear. She shoved some mashed potato in her mouth, thinking that she needed something she could swallow whole to dilute the champagne and the pills. My mask, my mask, she kept reminding herself.
“... the West tends to regard Kenya as a success story and, yeah, while that may be true by African standards, it is no success compared to Asia. Kenya’s just falling down the list of developing nations when it comes to growth and standards. It’s very sad indeed for a country with so much potential and such capable people. It’ll take more than a change in government to turn things around though; corruption is institutionalised.” Meagan’s eyes lit up as she spoke of the subject so close to her heart.
“So why are you looking to leave? Are you giving up on the place?” asked Clinton between mouthfuls.
“On the contrary,” replied Meagan. “I feel that I have done all I can in my current capacity. I am aiming for a role in Developmental Economics at the UN in New York, but I need more financial experience. That is why I am looking for a job in London.”
“Mmm …” Clinton was pensive. “I could speak to some people. Your experience would make you a sought-after consultant on third-world investment.” Meagan made the required appreciative comments. “What about you Gaby? What kind of jobs are you looking for?” Clinton turned to regard his youngest sister with interest.
“You know, it’s hard making a total change. I wish now that I had thought more about what career I really wanted. I was so eager to impress Dad by following him into law that I never stopped to think if it was what I really wanted,” said Gaby, who, feeling more lucid, managed to answer the question with sincerity.
Clinton looked at Gaby for some time, obviously deep in thought, before he answered, “Yes, I realise now how much of my life I spent trying to please our father.” He paused for a sip of the champagne and fruit cocktail and continued to speak while looking at his now-empty plate, “In fact, my earliest memories are about trying to impress him, trying to make him proud of me.”
“But Dad was always so proud of you, Clint,” interrupted Gaby emphatically.
“Really?” Clinton looked at Gaby awry. “He never told me that. The day I qualified as a chartered financial analyst, I took my certificate past his chambers to show him and he barely looked up from his desk.” He stopped and addressed Meagan. “Guess that’s a trap you never fell into.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Trying to impress Dad.”
“No, the only person I ever aimed to impress was myself,” she answered simply.
“He was always so cold, so stern. I can remember coming home from school. I was seven and I was being bullied by some older boys; that day they had really roughed me up. All I wanted to do was tell Dad; I trusted that he would sort things out. I ran to tell him, I cried, I showed him what they had done to me; he listened and then ordered me to his office. In the office, he took out a fan belt and beat me, then he told me I was a coward and that he was ashamed of me. He forbade me to ever cry again and told me to be a man. I was sent to my room and told to stay there. Meagan was just a baby at this stage. Alison was five and she had a ballet recital that evening. They left me alone in the house and went off to Alison’s recital. When they came home, I could hear Mum and Dad praising her, saying how wonderful she had been and how proud they both were.” Clint shook his head with disgust. “And still, at the age of twenty-five, I was looking for this man’s approval. But I never did cry again, never. I was never bullied again either.”
Gaby listened, astonished. “But that sounds so unlike the Dad I knew.”
“Sounds familiar to me,” reflected Meagan.
“By the time you came along, he wasn’t working in Birmingham anymore. He was in London weekdays. You saw less of him. When we did see him, he seemed
more distant and distracted than when we were younger.” Clinton continued in reflective mode, “I used to respect and admire him, but now I don’t. I don’t care what he thinks anymore; he was never a father to me. Like Meagan, his approval means nothing to me.”
Any further reminiscing was cut short by a buzzing sound coming from the sideboard. “My mobile,” explained Clinton. He reached over for the vibrating phone and flipped open the lid. “It’s set to receive alerts when there are significant movements in the Dow Jones and Nasdaq. Seems the S&P 500 has risen sharply in the last five minutes. Please excuse me; I must go and check the share indexes.” He immediately rose and left the dining room. Gaby and Meagan almost instantly set their knives and forks together and placed their napkins at the side of their plates indicating they were finished. The ensuing silence was only punctuated by the rain beating down chillingly on the window and the approaching claps of thunder. Shortly after, Renata popped in to remove the plates and to announce that dessert would be served next. Only moments had elapsed when Renata re-entered the room with two generous slices of tiramisu and a jug of double cream. Gaby’s heart sank; how much more food would she have to force down. Meagan poured the cream over her dessert, noticing that Renata, unlike the previous occasions, had decided to hover in the dining room instead of returning to the kitchen. She looked over at Renata questioningly.
“You like?” enquired Renata, nervously playing with her nails.
“Lovely,” answered Gaby, politely turning around to acknowledge Renata. “What did you put in it?”
“I soak the one layer of sponge in espresso. One I soak in Amaretto, one in vanilla, then I sprinkle cocoa on.” Both sisters nodded with approval. Renata continued to linger for a while before asking, “Some coffee?”
“Yes, perfect. You are an excellent cook, Renata,” complimented Meagan.
Gaby’s head shot towards Meagan immediately Renata left the room, whispering, “Thank God she went to get coffee. I can’t eat this.”
“It’s sickening,” agreed Meagan. Thinking quickly, Meagan reached for her handbag, inside which was a Boots bag. She removed the bottle of eye-make-up remover and suggested they place the tiramisu in there. “Quickly,” urged Meagan.
They had finished their mugs of cappuccino by the time Clinton arrived back. They immediately noticed that he looked different: more ruffled, his hair was slightly damp and he smelled of soap. Gaby guessed that perhaps things had not been sagaciating well with his portfolios. His composure was still intact, however, and he resumed conversation, this time steering matters towards his training for the New York marathon.
The time had reached ten thirty and it seemed an opportune time to make their excuses. Gaby and Meagan made their way to the hallway and Renata appeared to give them their jackets. Clinton disappeared for a few moments before returning with Gaby’s car keys and reminding them that the car was in the garage. He directed them through the kitchen to the door that connected the house to the garage. Gaby’s VW was parked neatly next to Clinton’s dark navy-blue Kompressor. The intensity of the downpour could well be appreciated as they stood in the garage.
“Still chucking it down,” remarked Clint. “You drive carefully now. If I were you, I’d take a left at the end of my street into London Road, head towards the leisure centre and join the dual carriageway. Three miles on, there’s a roundabout where you can join the motorway. I’d say that’s the safest way in this weather.” Gaby embraced Clint and Renata and thanked them once again for their hospitality; Meagan headed for the driver’s door and started the ignition.
The windscreen wipers worked at a vivace pace, struggling to sweep the driving rain away. Following Clinton’s advice, they turned left.
“Should we go the way he suggested?” asked Meagan.
“Yes, best to stick to the main routes which are well lit in this weather,” advised Gaby offhandedly, before changing the subject. “It’s really weird, Meagan, but at times tonight I almost felt I was talking to Clinton, my brother, rather than Clinton, the monster. The image of him as a killer seemed surreally far away at times, then at other times, the sheer horror of it nearly overwhelmed me.”
“Maybe it’s not so weird. ‘The Killer’ is part of his personality, not all of it. The image of loving big brother is just as much a card in his deck.”
“Did you notice me acting weird at any stage?”
“You looked a little peaky at one point, but you held it together well. I just can’t wait to get home to yours, Gaby. I have this irrational need to bolt the door and hide under the bed. I was that close to cracking ... that close. What a night.” Meagan drew to a jerky halt at the junction with London Road. “I can’t get used to your pedals Gaby. Is it just me or are they very stiff?”
Gaby shook her head, without any sign of concern. “I haven’t noticed that. Maybe I’m used to them.”
“A little symbol thingie — like a spanner — flashed up on the display when I started the car. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to look in the manual tomorrow,” answered Gaby vaguely.
It was some time before Meagan was able to turn into London Road. The road was busy and in the pouring rain, the oncoming lights appeared to approach with speed. The lights of the cars and the buildings were reflected in the multifarious puddles which had formed, creating a landscape of glistening golds, ambers and reds. The beating sound of the incessant rain on their car cut off all other sounds, and the rivulets of water pouring down the windows made sure that visibility was restricted. The effect was to create a surreal feeling of sanctuary, of isolation.
“What do you think about the things he said about Dad? Could that be what sparked his compulsion to kill?” questioned Gaby solemnly.
Meagan sighed before answering, “I saw that side of Dad, so I believe what he says. I know that you never really saw Dad in that way, perhaps because you were the youngest, who knows? The way Dad behaved toward him could easily have triggered something ... something nefarious with his personality.” Meagan continued to analyse as she slowed down at the onramp to the dual carriageway, “Some people can drink socially, yet never become alcoholics; others can take a punt on the races every week yet never become gamblers. Another person in Clinton’s position would have dealt with things differently. The seed was there; Dad made sure it grew.”
There was no more opportunity to dissect Clinton’s personality as the traffic on the dual carriageway was busy and aggressive despite the conditions. They sped along, keeping up with the flow of vehicles towards the highway. Gaby pointed out the road sign depicting the upcoming roundabout and suggested they get in the middle lane. The road ahead was suddenly clear and they reached the roundabout quickly, very quickly.
“Gaby!” shrieked Meagan in shock, “no brakes, no bloody brakes; cable’s slack.”
“Emergency brake, try it!” shouted Gaby as the car motored forward. The next few terrifying seconds revealed that the emergency brake had been ineffectual. The roundabout was yards away and, with no brakes, they would sail straight into the stream of oncoming traffic. “Shit! Put it in second, then try get into first …”
Meagan was already shifting down, her eyes locked on the cars approaching from the right ahead on the roundabout, her right hand white as she gripped the steering wheel. There was momentary relief as they spotted a gap in the oncoming stream of cars. Their car hurtled on to the roundabout, Meagan managing to steer them expertly into the gap while reducing their speed with her clutch control. Relieved, Gaby hit the hazard lights and looked for the first exit, hoping they could drive on to the verge and get out to safety. Suddenly, the dazzling headlights of a large vehicle approaching from the right filled their car. There was no time for horror or fear. In one stretched-out second, the screeching sound of rubber on tarmac along with the blaring of horns filled their minds, their consciousness. Then there was the impact: a massive, massive impact. Then darkness. Then nothing.
PART TWO
Chapter Ten
“Hello, Jo Pardini British Airways Administration Area Six. How can I help you?” The tone of her voice conveyed automation with enthusiasm.
“Hi there Miss 747.”
“Robbie!” she exclaimed with glee. “Where’ve you been?”
“Grafting Stateside. Insurance fraud,” he answered with no intention of elaborating.
“No, I mean where’ve you been?” she repeated in a seductive tone.
“Just take a look at the third finger of your left hand; there’s a clue there.”
“Oh rubbish. Don’t be so old-fashioned; Carlos and I are in an open twenty-first-century relationship.”
“And what does Carlos’s Mass-attending mama think of that?” enquired Robbie sarcastically.
“Any communication with his folks is strictly N2K: Need To Know. And they don’t,” insisted Jo.
“So how is life at Speedbird House?” asked Robbie changing the subject.
“Life, did you call it?” her voice was mocking. “Nothing compares to flying. Not that it was the flying per se which attracted me to the job, it was the destinations. Those were the days: barmy nights out with the crew at Bangkok’s most happening night clubs; shopping for imitation designer goodies in the back streets of Beijing. God I miss it.” She sighed with regret.
“C’mon, you had enough fake designer kit to accessorise every chav in Britain,” reminded Robbie.
“Robbie, my doll, when you are tired of fake designer, you are tired of life.” She continued immediately, in a more serious tone, “So why did you call, actually?”