I want to cry then, join my tears to the wetness of the petrol soaking through my clothes. How can any man have the right to call himself a father if he treated his own flesh and blood that way? It’s not the stink of the petrol that’s threatening to make me want to be sick.
‘What did he promise you?’ Joanie demands of her son.
A voice in the doorway answers for him. ‘His rightful place. As heir of my empire.’
Dad, Frank Jordan, strides in as if he owns the place. He huffs heavily as he looks pointedly down at me. ‘This is what happens when you start interfering. You should’ve told me you were working for them. I would’ve told you to run for your life.’
Joanie surprises everyone by walking over and levelling a resounding slap across her son’s face. ‘You idiot! Frank’s a born user. That’s what he does. Did you tell him that Rachel worked here?’ When he doesn’t answer, she screams, ‘Tell. Me.’
Michael rubs the mark on his cheek. ‘Dad called after she confronted him about Uncle Danny. He said I could come work for him. He’d give me the business. I’m his first born.’ The desperation for his father’s love is blatant.
Joanie says, ‘He manipulates everyone, including his children.’
‘He manipulates everyone including his children.’
Suddenly my breath bashes against my chest, my brain ticks and ticks over the thread of events from the past. What Philip wouldn’t tell me.
My gaze slams into Dad. ‘What happened between you and Danny Hall and this business deal I keep hearing about?’
‘He stole it away from my brother!’ Joanie shouts.
Dad stares at his former lover with disdain. ‘At one time you were such a gorgeous lady. Now you’re an ugly bitter and twisted shell of a woman. In business there’s only one winner and both me and your brother had our eyes on the same prize. And in business you have to use every weapon at hand to get it.’
I get up, defying Joanie’s earlier demand. I don’t care. She can burn if she wants because I suspect what I’m going to find out next will scorch me forever.
I don’t take my flaring gaze from Dad. ‘And is that what you did? Use everything you could against Danny Hall?’
Dad tips his head arrogantly. Opens his mouth. Then his lips close tight. He sees it on my face. Sees that I’ve finally figured it out.
It’s left to me to put it in the room. ‘When I was eighteen, you deliberately sent me to work for Danny. You knew about his reputation. That he was a man who had raped women, especially young women.’ There’s a soul-piercing sound — I know it’s Joanie – her reaction to hearing, probably for the first time, what her darling brother was, but I don’t give a damn.
‘Was that the plan, Dad? That he attack me, brutalise me, and when I got home and told you about it, you get the police onto him. And there it is.’ I click my fingers. ‘As quick as that, your competition for one of the biggest contracts in your life has been eliminated.’
What Keats had told me when I embarked on this journey hits me hard: ‘The search for the truth is admirable, but it can also dig up the most unimaginable soul-destroying pain.’
My heartache stands out in my voice. ‘All these years I thought I’d let you down when in reality it was you who let me down. Placed me in the most ugly situation possible.’
Dad insists, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—’
‘But you didn’t count on Philip being there, did you?’ Then the pieces of something else click together. ‘Philip told me you visited him yesterday. It was you who ran your car into Keats.’
Dad doesn’t pretend anymore. ‘I heard her talking to him, sticking her nose where it had no right to be. So I followed her.’
Before I can process this, the tunnel outside echoes to the beat of drag, drag. Tap. Drag, drag. Tap. It gets closer and closer. There’s someone at the door. We wait. The door handle pushes down.
‘Philip,’ his mother cries with concern as she rushes over to hold him. And it’s just as well that she does because he looks terrible. The ‘tapping’ is the cane he holds to keep him upright. He is so thin, his clothes hanging off him, face drawn, his surgery and scarring prominently displayed.
He pats his mother with comfort. ‘How come no-one invited me to the family get-together?’
‘We’re like a family at my firm.’ That’s what Michael had informed me at the interview. At least that was one truth he’d told me from the start.
Philip might be slower on his feet but his eyes do a quick sweep of the scene. ‘Mummy, how many times have I told you that Rachel had nothing to do with this?’
She looks at him pleading. ‘Is it true about your Uncle Danny?’
‘That he attacked Rachel? That it isn’t the first time he’d done something like that? All sickeningly true.’ Philip leans his cane on the wall.
Joanie’s face crumples and tears stream a retched path down the taunt skin of her face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘How could I? Apart from me and Michael, your brother was the only person you had left in the world.’ He inhales deeply. On the out breath, says, ‘I didn’t mean to kill him. It was the only way to stop him. He’d already hit Rachel. She had nothing to do with me burning his body. In fact, if it hadn’t been for her dragging me out, I would have died in there too.’
A stunned silence meets the truth. It’s finally out there where it should have been years ago.
Philip informs us all, ‘I think the best thing to do is to leave this place. Now.’
He tells his mother directly. ‘I don’t like what I’m seeing here and I worry about you, so if you could give me the key for this door, which I suspect you have, it will rest my mind.’
Trembling, Joanie puts her hand in her pocket to retrieve the key and gives it to him. We leave the basement, a family that is no real family at all.
Part way through the tunnel, Philip announces, ‘I left my cane behind. Dad, would you take my arm so I can get it. I’m feeling very weak all of a sudden.’
Dad looks as if he’s going to tell him to piss off. Then, grudgingly he does what his son asks him to do. We wait in an awkward silence as they head back.
Then Joanie, in a choked voice tells me, ‘I didn’t realise, Rachel. I really thought—’
‘I’m not going to say I’m not hurt because I am. What you – both of you – put me through was bad. Horrible. However, grief can take us to the most miserable of places.’
Up ahead there’s a click-click noise. Then through the basement door, we hear Dad yell, ‘Open this door!’
What the hell’s going on?
Now it’s Philip’s voice. ‘No, I won’t. Your nasty fingerprints are over all of this. Setting Rachel up at Danny’s, which I figured out years ago. I suspect turning my brother against the only parent who has loved him. Treating my mother like she’s shit instead of the beautiful giving person she is. Turfing us out of our home a week before Christmas. When we were growing up, Mum having to fight you for every penny to clothe and feed us. We’re all collateral damage in the service of your greed.’
‘I said open this fucking door.’
There’s a thumping sound and a shout of pain from Philip.
Joanie steam rollers forward. Tries to open the door. It won’t move. She bangs furiously on it. ‘What are you doing to my son? Leave him alone. If you touch him I’m going to bloody rip you to shreds.’
Michael and I are soon at the door too. More screams of pain.
Philip: ‘Do your worst, it doesn’t matter. I’m a dead man walking.’
That’s when I figure out with sickening realisation what Philip’s doing. He’s sacrificing himself for me all over again. No, I won’t allow that to happen again. Ever.
I bang on the door. ‘Don’t do this, Philip. Please, I beg you.’
I suck in my breath at what I’m sure is the brutal sound of a kick. ‘Open this door, boy,’ Dad roars.
Philip: ‘I won’t allow you to hurt anyone anymore. Rachel, c
an you hear me? Grab life with both hands and love it.’
Then there’s a monstrous yell from Dad. ‘What are you doing? Let me out of here.’ The handle of the door jerks and jerks down.
Then I understand why Dad is so frantic – Philip has set the basement on fire. No way out. We all bang our fists against the door. Over and over. Smoke seeps under the door.
Philip’s voice comes as a light in that terrible moment, quoting from his funeral programme: ‘“Yet death is never a wholly welcome guest.”’
The heat inside sears into the steel of the door so we can no longer touch it. Then the screams come. And come.
Joanie’s feet go from under her. Michael takes her in his arms, whispering, ‘I’m sorry, Mummy, so sorry.’
I tell them both, ‘We need to call the emergency services. If we don’t…’
The horrific screams inside the basement follow us out of the tunnel and through the trap door.
Joanie’s face is wiped clean of emotion as she shivers with a blanket about her shoulders next to me, given to her by the paramedics team. Michael’s on the floor at her feet, rocking. We watch as the fire brigade battle with the fire that claims the building. Then the rear of the former sweatshop that never had the history of a fire, collapses inwards and upwards in a fountain of flames, sparks, rubble, dust and billowing, billowing smoke.
Philip is forever gone this time. I know that. I felt his spirit leave this world. A hyper warm sensation, so tender, bloomed within me, holding me tight. So tight. Then it was gone, leaving me drenched in a dreadful cold, a hollow emptiness. That’s how I should’ve figured out he never died all those years ago. I didn’t feel his spirit vanish from this world.
Why is it that the best of us has to die first?
Joanie falls against me, sobbing. I understand now that the weeping I heard from her when I lived in the storeroom was real. Tears for her son. Now she cries for him because she knows she’ll never see him alive again. I place my gentle arms around her. I don’t cry for my father. It wasn’t Joanie who was ever really the ultimate threat to me. It was always my dad, Frank Jordan, the true monster.
Forty-Nine
Three days later
Keats is sitting up in bed with her shades on. After being knocked down by a car, unconscious for hours, the first thing she tells me in a thin croaking voice is, ‘I put my bandana on and one of the nurses ran for her life like Frankenstein was on her tail.’
Typical Keats. And I’m glad for it. I do something next that she won’t like – take her into a soft embrace and hold on, my eyes squeezed as tight as I’d like my arms to be but I don’t want to hurt her. She surprises me by sinking into it without a word of fuss.
After that, I get comfy on the side of the bed. ‘How are you bearing up?’
I sense her eye roll behind her sunglasses. ‘Apparently I’ve been lucky, just cuts and some very painful bruises. I’m very hard-headed, so no serious damage to that.’
It’s my turn to be embraced but by guilt clutching me tight. ‘I’m so sorry—’
‘It isn’t your fault your dad’s a psycho wanker—’
‘Was.’ I swallow hard. ‘He’s dead.’
I tell her what happened at the Victorian building. Keats doesn’t say she’s sorry about my dad, which I’m glad of because I’m still sorting through what I feel for him now he’s gone. You don’t just switch off the tap on your love for someone because they did terrible things. I wish I could; I’d do it in a heartbeat.
Now it’s all over, I understand myself a little better. ‘I hated that trap door at our so-called job at first. But do you know what I’ve realised? What happened ten years ago meant I’ve been living with my own mental trap door for way too long. Keeping bad things locked inside creates a poison that will only keep growing.’
Keats surprises me by picking up her mobile. She fiddles with it as the stare she gives me becomes grave. ‘Philip sent me something—’
‘What?’ I can’t hold back the shock.
‘When I visited him I gave him my e-mail because he wanted me to finish his funeral programme. Firstly, he instructed me not to have the word ‘funeral’ on it. Instead he wanted me to use the word ‘celebration’. A celebration of the life of Philip Barrington.’ Keats paused, taking a deep breath. ‘And he wanted this photo to be on the front cover.’
She passes me her phone and I stare down at the photo. It’s a selfie Philip took of us with Ray snuggled between us at the gazebo in Danny’s garden during that summer. Our first paid job as adults. Our smiles are jokey and bright, the setting around us appearing to be the most innocent place in the world. I run my finger with love and devotion over his face on the phone screen as the tears sting my eyes.
‘Don’t do it,’ Keats commands with a harsh softness.
‘Do what?’
‘Cry.’ She makes the word sound like a curse. ‘No more tears, Rachel. That’s not how Philip wants to be remembered. He wants you to hang on to the great times you had.’
Keats is so right. Philip will always be my brother and I will lock him away in the good place in my heart.
‘What are your future plans?’ she asks as I pass back her phone.
I mull it over. ‘I haven’t had time to think things through. I’ve made a kinda peace with Michael. Joanie too. I suspect what’ll happen is Michael will become co-owner of Dad’s business and I’ll leave the everyday running of things to him. As for the rest,’ I shrug lightly, ‘who knows.’
Keats’s chin pushes down. Her lips silently move together as she talks to herself, which leaves me puzzled. Not for long though as she informs me, ‘I’m planning on stopping being freelance and setting up my own company. Maybe go into the gaming market too. I’ve got enough money to set up in a good part of town, although I’m wondering if it might be better to be based in my duplex.’
My brows shoot up. ‘You’ve got a duplex?’
She looks pleased with herself. ‘Yeah. By the river in Wapping. A view of Tower Bridge to die for.’ Abruptly she stops and mutters again for her ears only. I figure out she’s working through what she wants to tell me, which means it must be something she’s dreading. ‘I’ll pay good money—’
‘Good money? For what?’
‘I know you’re loaded now, but would you be my assistant cum PA cum…’ She bites her bottom lip. Then coughs that sounds like she’s being strangled. ‘Friend?’
I smile properly for the first time in a long time, the same real smile I gave Philip years ago the first day I met him. ‘You’ve got a deal.’
Epilogue
Six weeks later
We all stand in a circle around a newly planted olive tree in the garden of Joanie’s house. Me, Keats and Michael. And Joanie of course. I’ve made my peace with my half-brother and his mother. It hasn’t been easy but the world doesn’t need more ugliness after what we’ve all been through. I don’t think me and Joanie will ever be great friends but I respect her as Philip’s mother.
Philip’s remains were found in the fire, but Dad’s weren’t. Still, I had a burial for him at a church near where he lived. With the police involved, news had leaked out about what had gone on, so many of his business associates decided to stay away. I refused to bury him near Mum. She deserves to rest in an eternal peace she didn’t find in her marriage.
We’ve just got back from the church where Joanie laid her son to rest. The celebration service he’d prepared had guided the proceedings. Joanie had invited a few of us back to her home for the last simple request Philip made in his celebration programme. To plant an olive tree so that his mother could still see him grow. There are the stains of long-dead tears on Joanie’s face now but there’s a ghost of a smile too as she stares lovingly at the small tree. Ray is lying near the tree, his tail wagging but he makes no sound. Maybe he senses what the olive tree represents.
Now for the final part of the ceremony. I wave my hand for Jed and his band who stand at a respectful distance in the corner of the gar
den. They play Eighteen and we all sing with our best voices to Philip’s song.
Also by Dreda Say Mitchell
International number one bestseller, Spare Room
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‘The scariest, creepiest and best psychological suspense you’ll read this year.’ - Lee Child
Acknowledgments
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About the author
All About Dreda
I wrote five books before partnering up with Tony Mason to continue my writing career. I scooped the CWA’s John Creasey Dagger Award for best first time crime novel in 2004, the first time a black British author has received this honour. Since then I have written twelve crime novels.
I grew up on a working class housing estate in the East End of London and was a chambermaid and waitress before realising my dream of becoming a teacher. I am a passionate campaigner and speaker on social issues and the arts.
I have appeared on television, including Celebrity Pointless, Celebrity Eggheads, BBC 1 Breakfast and Sunday Morning Live and Newsnight, The Review Show and Front Row Late on BBC 2. I have been a guest on BBC Radio 3 and 4 and presented Radio 4’s flagship books programme, Open Book and written in a number of leading newspapers including The Guardian. I also review the newspapers every Friday night on BBC Radio 5 Live’s Stephen Nolan Show. I was named one of Britain’s 50 Remarkable Women by Lady Geek in association with Nokia, and am an Ambassador for The Reading Agency. Some of our books are currently in development as TV and film adaptations.
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