by Lulu Taylor
Daisy leaned against the cool, rough stone of the monument and wondered how she was going to bear another goodbye.
From across the graveyard, she could hear the voice of the vicar intoning the last words of the funeral service. She dried her eyes, blew her nose and took a deep breath. Then she went back towards the grave to join her father.
She had almost reached him when she saw a scuffle going on at the back of the crowd. Daddy’s driver and the bodyguard were wrestling with a man in a dark suit, wrenching him forcibly out of the churchyard. Everyone was watched in stunned silence as the burly men bundled the other man away from them and out towards the lych gate.
‘Get your bloody hands off me, I’ve every right to be here!’ cried the white-haired stranger, trying to twist out of the guards’ meaty fists with no success.
Astonished, Daisy looked over at her father who had gone pale and was quivering with rage. He lifted one arm and pointed at the hapless man. ‘Get out!’ he roared, his eyes flashing. ‘You are a stranger here, do you understand? How dare you invade my family like this? Do you hear me? Get out! Never show your face round here again!’
Before the man could say another word, he was pulled from the churchyard and out of sight, his protests muffled.
Daddy closed his eyes for a moment. Then, with his composure regained, he took a deep breath and looked at the vicar. ‘You may proceed. The rubbish has been disposed of.’
As the service resumed and people pretended the odd interlude had not happened, Daisy bit her lip, more thankful than ever that Daddy had remained unaware of Will’s presence. If this was how he responded to someone turning up unexpectedly, his reaction to seeing Will was unimaginable.
18
IN THE STUDY of Thornside Manor, Daddy Dangerfield sat hunched over his desk. He looked as though he was in great pain, and his face was a dark, congested red. When he looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. On the desk in front of him lay a sheet of thick, expensive writing paper covered in neat handwriting.
‘Where did you get this?’ he rasped, his voice sounding choked. His hands were clutching the sides of the desk, knuckles yellowy-white under the force of his grip.
‘It was addressed to Daisy,’ Margaret said calmly. ‘I thought it looked as though it might be important. So I took the liberty of intercepting it.’
Daddy made a strange strangled sound in his throat. ‘How could she do this to me?’ he managed to say at last. ‘What she’s suggesting is outrageous … terrible! And she hasn’t even given a name!’
Margaret regarded him calmly, her blue eyes cool beneath their perfectly arched brows. She was not a beautiful woman but she exuded a certain stylishness that came from her immaculate grooming and subtle, tasteful wardrobe of plain but expensive clothes, along with an evidently fierce intelligence.
‘We need to be sure that she’s telling the truth,’ Margaret said in her low, measured way.
Daddy stared up at her, a flicker of something like hope in his eyes. ‘Would she lie about a thing like this?’
‘Who knows?’ Margaret responded crisply. ‘I must say, deciphering the thoughts and motives of a half-crazed depressive alcoholic is beyond me. But that hardly matters one way or the other. There are simple things we can do to discover the truth. And if she’s lying, no one but you and I need ever know about it.’
‘What things?’ Daddy frowned, puzzled.
‘Leave it to me,’ Margaret said. ‘I’ll do what’s necessary and have the results back with you in no time at all.’
‘Thank you, Margaret, thank you.’ Daddy gave her a look of gratitude that was granted to very few people in his life.
‘All part of my job,’ she said with a small smile.
‘You know I’ll show my gratitude in the usual way.’
‘Of course. I’ll see about it immediately.’
That evening, in the privacy of her office, Margaret typed a letter to the clinic explaining what her needs were. Then she put several small clear tubes of gel with what looked like mascara wands in them – these containing the samples – into a Jiffy bag along with her letter. She sealed it carefully, addressed and prepared it to be collected by a courier the following morning.
She gazed down at it. Her employer had the right to know the truth. And she would make sure that he did.
19
‘YOH! YOU OK?’
Chanelle turned round. One of the boys from the gang was sloping up quietly behind her, hands in his pockets, a baseball cap pulled low over his face.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she muttered. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘Not safe for you neither.’
She turned back to look at the dying flowers tied to the traffic bollard near where Jamal had been knifed. The cellophane was limp now and the blooms inside faded to grey and brown. The scrawled messages – ‘RIP bruv, u’s with the angels now’, ‘Neva 2 B forgotten’, ‘Tragic loss, taken too soon, rest in peace, From all at St Stephen’s’ – were smeared by the rain.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said at last, pushing some strands of hair away from her face.
‘They know you’s his girl. They find you, they rape ya, man,’ the boy said, twitching and bouncing on the spot, unable to stay still, whether from drugs or nerves Chanelle couldn’t tell.
‘They won’t find me.’ She continued to stare bleakly at Jamal’s memorial. He’d been cremated and his ashes taken by his grieving family. They didn’t even know about Chanelle, so no one had spoken to her at the funeral and she hadn’t introduced herself. It was too late for all that now.
The police had interviewed her but she’d stuck to the code. She hadn’t seen any faces and couldn’t identify anyone. She had nothing to say beyond a basic explanation of what had happened. No one talked to the police, that was understood. Her life wouldn’t be worth much if she did. Even so, she was still in danger, she knew that.
I don’t even care, she thought hopelessly. I wish they would come and get me.
Life had lost all meaning for her since that terrible night. She’d gone in the ambulance to King’s College Hospital with Jamal, watching as the paramedics did what they could in the moving vehicle, trying to keep him with them, trying to resuscitate, but Chanelle had known it was hopeless. She’d sensed him go and knew that she was terribly, unutterably alone.
So why can’t I cry? she asked herself. There hadn’t been any tears since it happened. Just a strange and immediate shutting down, as though her heart had been switched off, leaving her body functioning but feeling nothing. She spent hours lying in her bed, staring dry-eyed into the darkness, wondering how she was going to go on in this state, feeling like a robot.
‘Who’s taken Jamal’s place?’ she asked suddenly, turning to look at the boy. It was Jackson, she realised, one of Jamal’s favourites.
‘Terence, yeah?’ he mumbled.
‘Oh.’ She turned away again. Jamal had known the other boy was a threat to his position. Terence had a violent streak more pronounced than most of the gang displayed. He didn’t care who got hurt, or even if people died. He loved the thrill of it all and was turned on by motors with blacked-out windows, and guns … the life of the big-time dealer. Things round here wouldn’t get any better with him in charge. No doubt he was planning some gruesome act of revenge for Jamal’s death right now. He wouldn’t care who was killed in the process.
‘I gotta go,’ Jackson said, cocking his head in the direction he’d be taking.
‘Yeah, sure.’
Still he lingered. ‘So … what you gonna do, Chanelle? You don’t look right.’
‘I’m leaving.’
‘Where you goin’?’
She stuffed her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket. ‘Dunno. Away from here.’
‘Leaving school?’
‘Leaving everything. There’s nothing for me. It’s all over. I gotta get away and start again.’
Jackson nodded as though he understood this. ‘You take care, yeah?’
/>
She managed a small smile. ‘Yeah. You too. Stay out of trouble, OK?’
Jackson grinned back. ‘Do my best. ’Bye then.’
‘’Bye.’ He left as quietly as he’d come while Chanelle carried on standing, staring and remembering.
20
DAISY SAT IN her room in London, turning over the pages of a guide to Europe and wondering if she and Lucy should factor Vienna into their travel itinerary. They had decided to go travelling for the remainder of the summer, to help Daisy take her mind off things and get in the mood for her move to America in the autumn. She would be glad to be away from the house: Daddy hadn’t been the same since the funeral, which was hardly surprising, but he was more prone than ever to violent rages and spent hours locked away with Margaret, working.
The telephone on her desk rang. It was a long single buzz, so it was an internal call. Going over, Daisy saw that the call was from her father’s study. She picked up the receiver.
‘Hello? Daddy?’
Instead of her father’s voice, she heard Margaret’s cool, measured tones. ‘Daisy, could you please come down?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘At once.’
The phone went dead. Daisy looked at it, frowning. Margaret’s loyalties lay completely with Daddy, but she had always acted respectfully towards Daisy in the past.
She put down her travel guide, checked the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair. She looked fine in a smart dark pencil skirt and a draped olive green cardigan. As she made her way downstairs, she wondered why Daddy wanted to see her. Perhaps it was something about Brown University. After all, her move to the States was imminent. Margaret was making all the arrangements – maybe they’d finalised the house Daddy was buying her in Providence, Rhode Island. Even though she’d be living on the campus, it had been decided that Daisy should have a bolthole, somewhere to retreat to if she needed privacy and where she could spend some of the vacation if she didn’t want to come home. They’d found a beautiful white clapboard Colonial-style house in extensive grounds. There was even a cottage nearby for her guards to stay in: Daddy insisted on maximum security when Daisy was out of his sight.
Crossing the chequered marble floor of the hall, she felt a flicker of nervousness. Things hadn’t been the same lately. Daddy had been in a dark mood, the kind she feared most because it usually heralded a massive explosion after which there were always casualties. Drake the butler had been the latest – fired by Daddy in a screaming fit when supper wasn’t served at eight o’clock precisely. Margaret had made sure Drake was out that same night, and a new butler was attending to the breakfast table by morning. There was, Daisy realised, no one else left now for his anger to land upon – only herself.
But Daddy has no reason to be cross with me. I’ve never done anything wrong.
He was always delighted with her, particularly as the shoe line had been successful in the Florey and new boutiques had been opened in some of the other Dangerfield hotels and resorts. Daisy had been wondering about the possibility of designing a line of jewellery as well. She’d always been drawn to the glitter of fine stones and interesting designs, ever since Daddy had given her that diamond brooch years before.
Besides, he wanted to prepare her for taking on the company. Once she was properly educated, she was going to be inducted into the reality of what the family owned and where. Very few people were privileged enough to understand the full extent of the Dangerfield wealth, but she was going to be one of them.
She reached the heavy oak door to her father’s study. He had a study in every one of their properties, each devoted to a different theme. His London one celebrated fox hunting, the walls covered with old hunting prints and etchings. On top of the bookshelves was a selection of antique velvet-covered riding hats, and cabinets displayed brass hunting horns, and a collection of hip flasks. On the wall was a framed display of stock pins and lapel badges, while over the fireplace three stuffed and mounted fox masks bared their sharp teeth and stared glassily out over the room.
Daisy knocked on the door, two sharp raps, and waited.
‘Come in!’ It was Margaret’s voice, faint through the thick oak panels.
Daisy pushed open the door and went in. Daddy was standing behind his desk with his back to her, gazing out of the window that gave over the garden below. Just outside, its branches pendulous with cushions of pink blossom, a tree swayed gently in the fresh morning breeze. Something about the way her father’s hands were clasped behind his back and the rigid set of his shoulders made Daisy worry.
Margaret gave her a thin smile and ushered her towards the desk. As usual Daddy’s assistant seemed almost invisible herself in a plain grey suit and without make-up.
Daisy stepped forward on to the antique Persian rug before her father’s huge desk.
‘Daddy?’ she ventured. ‘You wanted to see me?’
There was a long pause, then her father turned round. She could barely restrain a gasp of fear: the expression on his face was something she had never seen before. He looked ill, his skin yellow and waxy, his face haggard. Great dark circles bagged out under his bloodshot eyes. Within their depths was a coldness Daisy had never known to be turned on her.
He fixed her with that cold, cold stare.
Ruthless. The word slipped unprompted into her mind.
Then he spoke in a voice like ice. ‘Never call me that again.’
‘Wh-wh-what do you mean?’ she stammered.
‘You heard me. You have no right to call me that.’
She shook her head, confused. ‘But Daddy—’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he shrieked, and slammed his hand down on the desk with terrifying force. ‘I’m not your daddy.’ He spat out the word with terrible bitterness.
Daisy’s mouth dropped open and she felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. All the breath seemed to leave her body.
‘That’s right,’ he hissed, eyes now burning with icy fire. ‘You’re not my daughter. That bitch of a mother of yours was unfaithful. There’s no way you’re a Dangerfield. Look!’ He picked up a letter and tossed it towards her. ‘That’s the lab report. Your sample and mine were analysed. There’s no chance in hell that you are my daughter.’
Daisy fought for calm despite the panic that was building inside her. She stepped forward and picked up the paper. It was headed with the name of a laboratory and there was a line that read ‘DNA testing reference’ and a string of numbers. Her eyes dropped to the line at the bottom: ‘Statistically impossible that Subject A is the daughter of Subject B’. She felt dazed. ‘But … but …’
‘She couldn’t keep a secret.’ Daddy’s voice had dropped to a menacingly quiet tone. ‘Even from beyond the grave. She punished me all those years with her drinking, and now she has to destroy the one thing she gave me as well.’ He pointed at another letter lying on his desk. Daisy recognised her mother’s handwriting sloping across the page, but she couldn’t make out any words or see to whom it was addressed. ‘The bitch had to make sure I suffered. This letter explains that you’re not my child.’ He looked as though he wanted to spit on the paper to show his contempt for the woman who had been his wife. ‘She meant it for you, so that you could go on posing as my daughter.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Daisy said, fighting to keep control. Mummy left me a letter and they took it? She feared that tears might come and she knew how much Daddy hated them, but then, quite suddenly, she was certain that she wasn’t going to cry. Survival instinct kicked in. She felt a strange serenity along with a heightened awareness: her skin seemed to prickle with a sudden alertness to everything around her. She felt as if she could see every hair on Daddy’s knuckles, every pore on his great nose; she felt as if she could see Margaret quite plainly as she stared impassively at the scene before her, even though the woman was standing behind Daisy. You must handle this very carefully, a little voice seemed to whisper inside her head. What happens in the next few moments will decide the future co
urse of your life. She wanted to ask who her father was, but something told her this was unwise. I must act as though this changes nothing.
She forced herself to smile at her father. ‘Oh, D—’ She caught herself just in time. There was no point in antagonising him. ‘You poor darling, what a horrible, horrible shock. How could Mummy do that to you?’
Daddy looked faintly startled, then his eyes narrowed and hardened again. ‘Yes. Yes, it is a terrible shock. I feel utterly betrayed.’
‘But this needn’t change things between us, surely,’ Daisy said. Despite her desperate desire to stay calm, she could feel herself begin to tremble. Her stomach churned with horrible nausea. ‘You’re my father in every possible way. You’ve brought me up to be like you, to think like you and understand things like you. That’s the important thing, isn’t it? And perhaps she made a mistake. Perhaps you are my father.’
There was a pause while Daddy seemed to consider this. For a moment, she thought she saw a softening of his expression.
‘To me, you’re my father,’ she said gently, with a sudden hope that everything was going to be all right. ‘I love you. I’d do anything for you. Can’t we go on as we are?’
His face was instantly stony. ‘No!’ he rapped out. ‘No. I don’t know who you are … whose spawn you are. You could be anything! I’m not passing off some other man’s bastard as my own. The lab results can’t be wrong!’ His face began to darken as the blood rushed to his cheeks. He banged both palms on the desk and leaned towards her. ‘Don’t you understand what being a Dangerfield means? It means sharing blood with him.’ He cocked his head towards the photograph of his father that was displayed in an ornate silver frame on the sideboard. ‘It means belonging to our family, our tribe, our clan. You are a pretender. An imposter.’ Fury seemed to grip him then and he began to snarl at her. ‘You’re a bastard, I tell you! The fruit of some disgusting liaison with God knows who … that whore of a mother of yours, opening her legs for anyone! How could she, how could she? The brazen slut! And you … the sight of you makes me sick.’ He gathered a wad of saliva in his mouth and spat it towards her.