by JL Merrow
“What was he like?”
Mum went a bit pink. “He was nice. Very easy to talk to.”
Yeah, and apparently not that difficult to do other stuff with either. And ye gods, I did not want to be thinking about that sort of thing in connection with my mum.
“He had a lovely smile,” Mum went on. “You look a lot like him.”
I knew. I’d seen the pictures and had a certain private investigator point out all the physical similarities. “How old was he?”
Mum went a lot pink. “In his thirties, when I knew him.” Whereas she’d been in her mid-forties, having the classic midlife crisis fling. Maybe that was another reason she hadn’t been able to view him as a serious relationship prospect.
Still… Mid-thirties wasn’t so young you’d expect the bloke to have panicked on finding out he was going to be a dad. I mean, it’s not nice when any man runs out on a woman he’s got up the duff, but at least, if the bloke’s in his teens or early twenties, you can sort of understand it. When you’ve not really grown up yet yourself, the prospect of having kids of your own must be bloody terrifying.
But mid-thirties… He might have been thinking about that sort of stuff anyway. “He didn’t have a family already, did he?” I asked.
“No—well, you know. Relatives in Poland. But he wasn’t married. Or, well, with anyone. He said it was hard to meet people, working the hours he did.”
Apart, of course, from lonely housewives. “And he never got in touch again? You know, to see how I was doing and all that?”
“Mike agreed it would be best if he didn’t.”
I gave her a sharp look. “You didn’t want him hanging around? Even though he was my real dad?”
Mum wouldn’t meet my eye. “Children need stability.”
And I guessed she’d wanted Dad—Gerald—whatever the hell I was supposed to call him now—to forgive and forget about the affair, and it’d have been a bit hard with the other party popping up every weekend to take me to McDonald’s or whatever non-custodial fathers did with their kids in those days.
Well, maybe not McDonald’s, with him being a chef and all. Maybe he’d have shown me where he worked, got me helping him out in the kitchen… Nah, restaurant kitchens are manic places where tempers run hotter than the ovens. Mum wouldn’t have been chuffed if I’d come home talking like Gordon Effing Ramsay. Or with third-degree burns from accidentally getting myself flambéed.
I jumped when Mum touched my arm. “Tom?”
“Sorry, did I zone out a bit there?”
“I was just asking if you wanted another slice of tea loaf.”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” I stood up, and Mum followed suit. “I’d probably better get going, anyhow.”
It wasn’t that I’d run out of questions. There was still a shedload of stuff I wanted to ask.
I just wasn’t sure I was up to any more answers right now.
Mum nodded. “I’ll wrap up some cake for you to take with you.”
We wandered back up the garden to where Dad was still snoring in his chair beside his now-cold tea.
“Gerald? Gerald.” Mum gave him a sharp prod in the ribs. “Tom’s leaving now.”
Dad woke up with a snort and a splutter. “Who? Ah, yes.” He heaved himself to his feet despite my protests and patted me weakly on the shoulder. “It’s been good to see you, Tom.”
“Er, yeah. You too, Dad.” Was it just me seeing things, or did he startle slightly when I called him that?
Nah, it was just my imagination. I was positive it was.
Dad was smiling in that vaguely adrift way old people have, and I felt a bit bad leaving without actually talking to him at all. “You keeping all right?”
“Ah, well, you know. Can’t complain, not at my age.”
I was waiting for Mum to chip in with a mini-lecture on the terrible state of Dad’s knees, not to mention the National Health Service, but she was just hovering, looking from one to the other of us with a worried look on her face.
There was only so much of that I could take. “Yeah, well, it’s been great. You two look after yourselves, yeah? And I’ll, I’ll be around, okay. You know. Call me if you need anything.”
I gave Mum a hug and a peck on the cheek, then turned to say my usual no-touchy-no-feely good-bye to Dad, who nearly made me jump a mile when he thrust out a hand for me to shake. I swallowed, and shook it. He gave me that lost smile again, and Christ, were his eyes a bit watery?
Just how asleep had he been, while Mum and me were talking?
I didn’t even know, I realised, if he’d always known I wasn’t his—or if he’d spent the first few years in presumably blissful ignorance. I’d always assumed, from what Cherry told me about the kerfuffle when I was four, that that was when he found out. Had he known all along? Had he suspected?
I felt like a total selfish bastard. All this time, ever since I’d found Auntie Lol’s secret letter stash, all I’d been worrying about was what it meant for me. I’d barely spared a thought for what Dad must be going through. Must have been going through my entire life.
“Tom?” Mum’s voice cut in on the self-flagellation. “Are you all right?”
“Er, yeah. Sorry.” Oops. Maybe I ought to try to make sure I was on my own for the next emotional revelation, at least until I’d learned to multitask while it was going on. “Right. Just on my way. You take care, okay?”
I thought sod it, and pulled Dad in for a hug.
He went a bit red and muttered “Steady on,” but I think he was chuffed, really. Mum looked like she was going to cry.
I legged it, before it could all turn into an episode of Jeremy Kyle.
Mum and Dad hated all that emotional stuff.
Chapter Twenty-One
I drove home feeling…weird. Sort of like someone had offered me a seat, and then whipped the rug out from under it, leaving me hanging on for dear life as the chair teetered on one leg.
I hadn’t realised, before I spoke to Mum, just how much the prospect had been weighing on my mind all these months. I mean, if anyone had asked me a couple of days ago if I was even planning to talk to her about it, I’d have asked them if they were having a laugh. Now I’d done it, though, I realised I’d always known I couldn’t just let it rest. And now I’d done it, it was like I’d finally put down a whole rucksack full of baggage I’d been carrying around with me.
On the other hand, though… Fuck me.
Another thing I hadn’t realised was that part of me had just been hoping Mum would turn around and say don’t be silly, dear, of course Dad’s your father. Because that was what mothers did, wasn’t it? Stick a plaster on it, give the kid a kiss, and everything would be all better.
Apparently they didn’t make Band-Aids this big.
And then there was the Polish thing. Someone up there was definitely having a good old snigger at my expense. Couldn’t he—my real father, and bloody hell, just thinking about that was tying my guts up in knots—have been Romanian or Slovenian or something? I mean, Jesus, there had been a time when I’d been a nipper when I’d seriously thought the family surname, in its full version, was Paretski-But-We’re-Not-Polish. Suddenly finding out that was only fifty per cent true in my particular case was… Well. Doing my head in.
Back home, I was just leaning back on the sofa, trying to ease the headache that’d set in, when there was a knock on the front door.
I heaved myself up to answer it.
And stared in surprise. It was Phil, smelling of posh shampoo and looking fresh and fucking wholesome in a plain white T-shirt and cargo shorts. “What happened—lose your key?” It came out a bit more of a challenge than I meant it to.
He smoothed a hand over his hair, which was curling a bit where it was damp at the ends. The action showed off his triceps nicely, not that I was looking. “Didn’t feel right, just walking in.
But we need to talk.”
“Sure that’s a good idea? Didn’t seem to go all that well last time we tried it.” I was already standing back to let him in, though. Apparently it wasn’t my brain my body was taking orders from right now.
“I meant about the case,” he said, walking on past me and into the living room. The cats went wild to see him—well, maybe not wild, but even Arthur deigned to jump off the sofa cushion and pad over to decorate his trousers with a bit of cat hair.
I was feeling a lot less enthusiastic myself now I knew he’d come on business. “What case?” I countered. “Harry hired you to find a way of getting Carey out of her and Marianne’s hair. I’d say that job’s pretty much done.”
Phil’s expression turned ugly, and I took a step back from him before I’d even consciously noticed his hand had clenched into a fist. “That’s what you think, is it?”
“For fuck’s sake, I didn’t say I thought you’d bloody offed him!” I stared at him, knocked right off kilter by his overreaction. Examined more closely—and with a bit more attention to detail above the neck—he wasn’t looking quite so fresh. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and a tense line to his jaw. And he’d missed a bit when he’d shaved. “Phil—”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He leaned back against the wall and rubbed both hands over his face. Merlin milled around his ankles and miaowed in concern. “Don’t do this to me. Not you as well.”
So everything was my fault, was it? Anger buzzed through me. “What the fuck have I done?”
“I just spent five hours with your mate Dave and his chums putting on the thumbscrews, all right? Only got out of there half an hour ago.” He looked up. “And before you ask what they were after, they weren’t fussy, all right? They want me to either tell ’em I did it, or drop Harry in it. So you can get off your fucking high horse, all right?”
Shit. He looked… Well. Pretty much how you’d expect him to look after that. There was a painful tightness in the region of my chest, which may or may not have been where my conscience was hanging out these days. “You want a beer?” I asked. Seeing as I was fresh out of actual olive branches.
Phil sort of huffed, almost a laugh. It didn’t sound very happy, though. “Yeah.”
I grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge, opened them and brought them back into the living room. Phil was slumped on the sofa, Merlin already occupying the prime real estate of his lap.
“Cheers,” I said, handing him a bottle.
He nodded his thanks and took a long draught of beer. “Christ, I needed that.”
I could tell that just by looking at him. I was definitely starting to feel ashamed of myself for getting the hump with him like that. “You eaten?”
Phil blinked at me, his eyes a lot less focussed than they usually were. “Had a sandwich at the nick.”
“Yeah? How long ago?”
“God knows. Tasted like cardboard.”
I nodded. “Egg on toast? Bit of bacon as well?”
Phil’s eyes closed, and he smiled. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I plodded into the kitchen and lit the hob. When I opened the fridge, the usual furry strike team didn’t materialise, and I was left to bung the bacon under the grill in peace. It seemed the cats really had missed Phil.
And, yeah, all right, if I was held at knifepoint and forced to be honest, they weren’t the only ones. Lucky there were no cutlery-wielding inquisitors around here.
Whistling a bit to break the silence while I flipped hot butter over the eggs in the pan—there’s nothing worse than runny bits of uncooked egg white on top of your fried egg—I almost jumped out of my skin when Phil slid his arms around me from behind. “Oi, careful! You nearly made me break a yolk.”
“God, I’ve missed you,” was all he said, his voice a low rumble in my ear that seemed to vibrate right through me, like laid-back thunder over distant mountains.
I swallowed. “Thought this visit was purely business?”
Shit. Not a good thing to say. I chanced a glance at Phil’s expression, and the storm was definitely nearer now.
“You’re fucking joking, right?”
No, but I was willing to pretend if it’d get me off the hook. I was glad when a loud miaow made me look round again. Phil had brought a couple of furry minders in here with him, and now they wanted feeding too. “Should’ve known that was too good to last.”
Phil backed off a step. “Meaning?”
Okay, now it looked like I was in imminent danger of lightning strike. And I didn’t even know why.
“Meaning I was enjoying getting to cook for once without being pestered for food by a couple of moggy muggers. That a problem for you?”
“Shit. Sorry.” Phil sighed. “Fuck it, I ought to go.”
He looked tireder than ever.
“No, you ought to rescue that bread from the toaster before it turns to charcoal, and bung on a bit of butter while I get on with not burning the bacon. Then you ought to sit down and eat, all right?”
I made a couple of mugs of tea and carried everything out to the living room. Phil sank down on the sofa, leaned back and closed his eyes for so long I thought he’d fallen asleep. I was just wondering if I should prod him and remind him the food was getting cold, or if I should just scoff it myself—I hadn’t been hungry when I’d started cooking, but there’s something about the smell of eggs and bacon that just flips the appetite switch—when he opened his eyes again, leaned forward and set to like he’d been starving for a week.
I slurped my tea and told my stomach not to rumble.
We didn’t talk while he ate, and after around five minutes or so, Phil pushed his empty plate away, drank the last of his tea, and turned to face me with a serious expression. “Look, all that stuff about me leaving the force. If I explain how it was, are you going to listen?”
I took a deep breath. “All right. Want another beer before we start?” Because I bloody well did.
Phil nodded, and I headed back into the kitchen with the empty mugs and grabbed a couple more bottles out of the fridge. They were the last two, so I shoved a couple more in from the cupboard, then bunged the cups in the dishwasher.
That done, there really wasn’t any excuse to delay going back to Phil any longer.
Phil nodded his thanks when I handed him his beer. He put it down on the coffee table but didn’t speak immediately, just looked at me a moment longer.
I took a swig of beer and waited.
“It was a bad time for me, all right?” Phil said eventually. “Mark had just died, and the bastard whose fault it was didn’t even get charged with reckless driving. Insufficient fucking evidence. I was sick to bloody death of people shoving two fingers up at the justice system already, and when it happened again with this domestic case…”
He’d lost it. “So you thought you’d go all vigilante? With your fists?” Anger had flared again, and I couldn’t seem to keep it out of my voice.
“Tom. Listen to me. Please.” Phil breathed deeply. “You didn’t see her. The wife. He broke her fucking jaw. She was a fucking mess, all right? And there he was, giving us the whole wide-eyed innocent act. No, officer, course I’d never hit my wife, all that shit. Just like every other bastard we dragged in for domestics. She’ll back me up, she just fell down the stairs. Had a couple of glasses of wine too many, you know what women are like. And sure enough, next thing I know she comes in, jaw wired up and her face so swollen she can only see out of one eye, and she’s telling us it’s all a big misunderstanding. Nothing to do with him at all. All her own fault. So we had to let him go.”
He paused.
“Then what happened?” I tried not to make it sound like a challenge. Wasn’t sure I succeeded.
“I lost it, didn’t I? There he was, sauntering off home with the missus like he hadn’t got a care in the world, and he turns and says somethi
ng to her. Didn’t catch what he said, but I saw her flinch. And I lost it.” Phil stood up jerkily, nearly making me spill my beer.
I put the bottle down on the table, next to his, and rested my elbows on my knees. “That’s not what Dave said. He reckoned you followed the bloke home. Went round his house and beat him up.” Ding dong, assault-and-battery calling. And yeah, it definitely came out sounding like a challenge this time.
“What? Bollocks.” Phil paced the room, his hands clenched into fists and his face twisted in a snarl. If he was trying to convince me he was harmless, he was doing a piss-poor job of it. I just about managed not to jump when he wheeled suddenly to face me. “That’s not how it was, all right? Yeah, I followed him out the station and grabbed him in the street. For fuck’s sake, we were only a couple of yards away. It wasn’t… Jesus, it wasn’t fucking premeditated. I swear it wasn’t.”
He sank down on one knee in front of me, his hands grabbing mine. His touch was so gentle it hurt. “I didn’t set out to do it, all right? It just happened. Tom. It just happened. Don’t leave me over this. For fuck’s sake, don’t leave me.”
I couldn’t take it. Not anymore.
Couldn’t look into his eyes and still keep my distance. And yeah, I knew nothing much had changed. I knew he’d beaten this bloke up—he’d admitted that, and all the rest was just one person’s word against another. He’d—well, if not lied, he’d kept secrets from me. Secrets I might have been expected to want to know, seeing as how I’d been under the distinct impression he’d left all the bullying crap behind him when he’d left school.
It hurt. But I’d missed him so fucking much.
“I’m not leaving you,” I said, my voice rough. And then we were kissing, and I was so hard all I could think of was him, the way he tasted of the food I’d cooked him. The way he’d taken the time, shattered as he was, to have a shower and change before he’d come round. God, the feel of him against me, on top of me. My T-shirt was bunched up under my armpits, and his had disappeared entirely, God knows when. Our skin burned where it touched.
“Christ,” Phil grunted, his fingers fumbling to get my jeans open. When he finally succeeded, I yanked them off so bloody fast it was a miracle I didn’t do myself a mischief. I got his shorts undone and shoved my hand in his underwear. His prick was like a white-hot iron bar in there. I needed it like air.