by Laura Carter
How could my father — my dad, Roger Cross — how could he do that? “That’s why your dad hates me, us.”
“Yes. He doesn’t hate you; he hates your father, what they did to him.” He closes his eyes and starts speaking before he opens his lids. His voice is cautious. His grip on my hand tightens. Everything about the way he sits and sounds is disturbing. “Dayna, Little Princess… it wasn’t just Caspar.”
I snap my hand back. I need to breathe. I need to breathe but I can’t.
“My father…”
I hold my hands to my throat and eventually manage to drag air into my lungs. “No.” My face contorts, and Clark becomes blurred through my glazed eyes. “No.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He reaches out to my face, but I slap his hand away.
My breaths are becoming quick and shallow, not enough to feed my body with oxygen. I grab my throat tighter until it brings to my mind the image of my father’s body, hanging lifeless from the shower rail, his head drooped to one side.
“Your father and Caspar?”
I don’t know whether Clark replies, because all I hear are screams. All I see are flames as Little Princess lights up the Persian Gulf. I can smell oil, filling my nostrils and my lungs, the fuel drowning me.
“Dayna, what do you need? Breathe, baby.”
I close my eyes, hoping everything will go black and stay black forever.
“Dayna, say something. Speak to me.”
I manage to stand and move to the kitchen. I haphazardly empty a bag of fruit onto the bench and hold the brown paper over my nose and mouth, sliding down the cupboards to the floor.
“Dayna, Christ, what should I do?”
I keep breathing, inhaling as deeply as I can. My neck feels wet with tears. Clark is kneeling on the floor in front of me. When I can, I reach out to his chest, pushing him away.
“Go.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Go.” I fill my lungs, and the room comes into sharper focus. I fill the bag again. Once. Twice. “Your father is a murderer.”
He shuffles back from me, looking shocked.
“Get out. Get. Out.”
His eyes gloss and grow even redder than they were when he turned up at my door. Before he unravelled my entire life.
“I didn’t know, Dayna. I swear I didn’t know.”
My whole world begins to fall apart. Everything I ever thought I knew. Everything I believed. My mother didn’t leave; she was pushed. I had the wrong parent on a pedestal. Then I climbed into bed with the son of the man who brought SP to ruin, the man who killed my father.
All my anger, all these years, has been directed at the wrong people.
Caspar Kahn and Harold Layton were in it together. Clark’s father.
A life with Clark that I’ll never have flashes before me. Every kiss, every touch, being his for eternity, having his child. I didn’t realise how much I wanted it until now.
“I hate you.”
And I hate myself for the look on your face right now.
He stands slowly and rubs a hand roughly across his face. He doesn’t speak, he just nods, and he leaves me here, on the kitchen floor.
When I hear the door close, I wail. Endless sobs come, until I’m curled into a ball on the tiled floor, crippled by pain in every part of my body.
I start to cry so hard no noise leaves my mouth. I have no idea what I’m mourning. My idyllic perception of my father, now shattered. That I’ve spent years blaming my mother for something she didn’t cause. That I have more enemies than I realised. Or that I can never be with Clark. I can never be part of that family. “I don’t know what to do.” My words aren’t heard by anyone.
The sky is darkening by the time I pick myself up from the floor. I take two painkillers for my throbbing headache, and as I’m washing them down, my eyes bore holes in my laptop. I sit down in front of the email I saved hours ago. My alternative bid. My offer to get into bed with Bahrain, to have Caspar out to kill me, because I need that well, because I want revenge.
A shadow seems to settle over me as I read the words on the screen. Getting back at Caspar wouldn’t put an end to this now. I’d risk my life, and for what? This started with an affair. This started with my father. He’s not the man I thought he was.
I close the lid of my laptop without sending the bid.
I HAVEN’T CHANGED or washed my face as I drive towards Arthur’s home. I haven’t got my head around any of this. But Arthur should know the truth. He’s the one person who would understand.
A horn honks, pulling me from my trance, and I realise I’m drifting out of my lane. I straighten the car, not bothering to hold up a hand in apology to the other driver.
Why did Clark tell me? Why did his father tell him the truth? Why now?
I pull up at the driveway of Arthur’s town house. If someone were to ask me how I got here, I’d have to say I don’t know.
Exhaustion washes over me. I kill the engine and lean forwards onto the steering wheel, my head in my arms.
I have no idea how long I sit here, concentrating on keeping my mind blank. Eventually, I knock on Arthur’s front door. Evelyn answers, beaming at first, but her expression quickly turns to one of concern.
“Dayna, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I let her pull me into her chest and I rest my head on her shoulder, breathing in the coconut scent of her short black hair that I recognise so well. I cling to the back of her blouse.
“Dayna?”
I look up to see Arthur stepping out of the lounge, in chinos and a lounge jumper, looking every year of his age. There must be a thousand things I could say, but when I pull back from Evelyn and look at my father’s best friend, there’s only one thing that comes to mind.
“Did you know he had an affair?”
He needs no more explanation. It registers on his face. I look at Evelyn and realise that she knows too.
“Everyone knew except me, right?”
“Evelyn, please make us tea,” Arthur says, touching his wife’s shoulder affectionately.
She squeezes my hand, and her lips curve in sympathy I don’t want before she walks down the long corridor to the kitchen.
“Come on,” Arthur says, gesturing to the lounge.
I go with him and take a seat on the sofa, turning my head around the old-fashioned decor I’ve seen so often but that looks different somehow. The brass poker by the open fire doesn’t seem to shine. The patterned carpet looks worn. The picture frames look dated.
One picture in the bay window catches my attention. I walk over and pick it up, staring at my father and Arthur, and I ask him again, “Did you know?”
“I knew.” He sits into his high-back chair and crosses his legs.
“I didn’t bid,” I tell him.
He looks relieved. “I think that was a sensible decision.”
I set the picture back down and stare out at the front lawn where Teddy and I used to play. Where I spent so many happy hours when my father brought me to visit. “That’s not why. I didn’t bid, because my father isn’t the man I thought he was.”
Evelyn brings in tea and biscuits, before heading out of the room again.
“He had an affair, Dayna. I know how much that must disappoint you—”
“Don’t you dare defend him.” I walk to stand in front of the fire, welcoming the warmth that seeps into my cold bones as I stare him down.
“Sit down,” he says authoritatively, as if I’m still the little girl who played hopscotch with his son.
I do as he tells me, taking a cup of tea from the coffee table and wrapping my hands around it. “He lied to me all my life. He knew I hated my mother. He knew I thought it was her who had an affair, and he never admitted it. Not once. Never even suggested she was right to leave. How could he do that? How could he let me think so badly of her?” I find myself sniffing even though I have no tears left to shed.
“Dayna, look at you. It’s not worth all this. It’s not worth being this
upset.”
“How can you say that?”
He sighs, his eyes heavy. “People make mistakes. That’s life. People have made bigger mistakes than your father. You know him. He loved you.”
“He lied to me. All those years.” I think of Clark. He didn’t want to lie to me. That’s why he told me. I shake him out of my head. “Arthur, did you know how much Harold Layton hated my father?”
He sits up straighter and swallows deeply. “He was hurt; his pride was dented. Of course he disliked your father.”
There’s something about the way he sits, the way he looks at me, that troubles me.
“How did you find out about the affair?” he asks.
I watch him shuffle awkwardly in his seat. “Clark told me. And it’s not the only thing he told me.” I stare into my cup, trying to find my next words. “The explosion. It wasn’t just Caspar. It was Harold, too.”
I wait for a reaction, but it doesn’t come. And there’s only one possible explanation for why. My jaw drops open. “You knew.”
He reaches for his cup from the table and sits back, taking a sip. “I knew.”
I shake my head. “H-how? How could you know? Why didn’t you tell me? When did you find out?” I stand again, pacing the floor. “You knew and you didn’t tell me? Why?”
“Dayna, I knew, and your father knew.”
My head pounds with confusion. “Why have you let me think it was Caspar?”
“It was Caspar. And there was no proof, Dayna, you know that; we’ve been over this so many times. There was no point in you knowing. There was nothing you could do to change things. If Caspar hadn’t been so proud of himself, you might never have known about his part in it either.”
I hold my hands across my mouth, staring at a man I’ve considered a friend, a father figure. A man I don’t know at all. “You wouldn’t have told me? Can you hear yourself?”
“What would have been the benefit? So you could live your life with the level of hatred you have now?”
“No, so that I didn’t think it was my father, Arthur! Everyone said he cut costs, that he got what was coming to him with that explosion. And… wait… if he knew it was Caspar and Harold, why did he…? I always thought he couldn’t stand that his mistakes killed those people. If he knew the truth…”
“Sometimes, we’re better off not knowing something that could hurt us.” His words are quietly spoken. He stands, moving close to me.
“No. I think what hurts the most is that I’ve been lied to for so long.” If someone stabbed me in the stomach and twisted the knife it would hurt less than this. “My father. My own father lied to me. You have been lying to me.”
He reaches out for my shoulders, and I take a step back. “Dayna, sweetheart, you’re upset. Calm down.”
“Of course I’m fucking upset, Arthur! I’m wondering whether my father ever loved me.”
“That’s ridiculous. He loved you more than life itself.”
“That’s bullshit! He killed himself. He left me, and I thought I understood it, but it was all a lie. If he could lie to me for so long, he couldn’t have loved me.”
“Is that how you define how much a person cares about you?”
I didn’t think I had anything left, but saltwater streaks my cheeks. “Why? Why would he kill himself if he loved me?”
“Do not doubt how much he adored you. You meant everything to him, Dayna. He killed himself because his heart was broken. He… he felt betrayed. The worst betrayal.” Arthur’s eyes glaze. “I love you like my own,” he croaks, and a sob escapes his lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Arthur?”
“He wasn’t always nice, Dayna. He was my best friend, but he could be wicked. He drank too much.”
“What are you trying to say? Say it. Say it now.”
“I wanted to retire, but I couldn’t; I had responsibilities. I didn’t know what they were going to do.”
“Who?” I start backing away from him, slowly making for the door. “What are you talking about?”
“I gave them the blueprints of the rig, Dayna. I’m sorry. So sorry. I can never forgive myself.”
I’m sobbing, my shoulders shaking. “Did he know? Did my father know?”
“It ate me up. I couldn’t stand that he thought he was to blame. He was like a brother to me. I told him everything.”
I cover my face with my hands. “It was your betrayal. That’s why he killed himself.”
Arthur falls to his knees and reaches out his hands towards me. The room spins around me and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Arthur!” Evelyn runs to his side, but he bats her away.
“He went back for you. He went back on the rig to save your life.”
“I know. Please believe I’m sorry, Dayna. Know that I’ll never forgive myself for what I did.”
I run from the house, from the man I’ve always trusted with my life, because I don’t know what else to do. I climb into my car and skid away, not thinking or seeing straight. I drive to anywhere, nowhere, because I have nowhere to go.
I’m alone.
I DON’T CONSCIOUSLY drive here, but I find myself parked at the edge of the cemetery, looking through the tall, black iron gates. He didn’t deserve it. No one on that rig deserved to suffer the explosion. Yet I’m sitting here wondering whether my father brought it all on himself, on all of us.
I rest my chin on the steering wheel, staring at the trees swaying in the wind. The sky is dark and starless, just grey-black. Clouds move slowly above the headstones, the souls laid to rest.
“Can you rest now, Dad?”
His best friend betrayed him. He left me. He deceived people: me, my mother.
“How could you do that to us?”
How must she have felt? He cheated on her, his wife, the mother of his only child.
I pull my jumper sleeve down over my cold hand and wipe my nose.
Is this how Clark feels, too? Does he feel worse, knowing Harold Layton is an evil, murderous bastard?
Clark’s family took everything from me. I can’t defend the part of my father I didn’t know, but his act could never justify murder. It could never pardon Arthur’s deception.
Hatred burns through my veins with each breath I take.
In this moment, I despise my father.
I hate Arthur.
And I want to see the Laytons burn in hell with Caspar Kahn.
“I can’t see you,” I whisper, hoping the wind will carry my words to my father’s grave.
I shift the car into reverse and pull back onto the main road, this time knowing exactly where I’m going.
My tyres crunch on the gravel as I drive up to my mother’s house.
I kill the engine, pull my sleeves over my hands and walk the path I rarely take. I consider the handle of the door then knock.
The shock on my stepsister’s face when she opens the door makes me feel guilty and confirms that I look like absolute shit all at once.
“Hi Anna. Is Mum home?”
“Ah, yeah, sure. Come in. You don’t have to knock, Dayna.”
The house is warm, a stark contrast to my body, and makes me shiver. I stand in the lamp-lit hallway, not knowing what to do or how to behave.
“We’re in the kitchen,” Anna says, leading me along the wood floor towards the smell of something delicious, homey. My stomach churns, and I can’t tell if it’s because I haven’t eaten all day or if it’s because I’m about to come face to face with the past.
“Mum, Pops, Dayna’s here.”
Chantelle, the housemaid, is plating up dinner. My mother is pouring red wine into three glasses and almost drops the bottle when she sees me.
“Hi,” I say, trying a smile, not sure if I manage.
We stand in awkward silence until Richard clears his throat and says, “Dayna, we’re just about to eat. Would you join us?”
I look at the table, set for three, then to Anna and my mum. “I don’t want to intrude.”
My mother crosses th
e kitchen, looking beautiful in her blouse and tapered trousers. How could he have cheated on her? She lifts my head to face her, and my chin quivers.
She didn’t just leave me. All these years…
“You are never intruding. This is your home whenever you want to be here. Anna, get a placemat, please, darling.”
I smile meekly in thanks at Anna and take a seat next to Richard at the table. I glance around the farmhouse-style kitchen and wonder if I should have been here all my life.
“You look like you could use wine,” Richard says.
I laugh, a short-lived break. “You have no idea.”
We eat spaghetti bolognaise with salad and garlic bread, and I listen to the easy conversation around the table, joining in occasionally. I catch my mother staring at me more than once, but no one mentions my swollen eyes, my bed hair, my lazy clothes or my red nose. They just eat, like a family. A family I never had. A family my father took from me.
Richard tops up my glass, and as much as I want it, I tell him, “I’m driving.”
“You’ll stay the night,” my mother says, not meeting my eye, giving me no opportunity to argue.
Richard finishes topping up the glass, and I lift it to my lips, acquiescing to my mother’s instruction because wine is exactly what I feel like having.
After dinner, Anna excuses herself to Skype her new boyfriend, kissing our mother on the cheek and Richard on the scalp.
“Goodnight, Dayna.”
“Sleep well, Anna.”
Richard makes a sharp exit next, saying he has business to check up on, despite the fact it’s Friday night.
“Let’s go to the lounge,” my mother says, already out of her chair and leading the way.
The log fire is roaring in the sitting room. Chantelle must have kept the logs topped up while we were having dinner. She appears from nowhere with another bottle of the same red wine and sets it on a coffee table. My mother sits in the corner of the sofa closest to the fire. She pats the cushion next to her, and as I sit beside her with my glass of wine, she pulls me into her side. I breathe her in — cooking, wine, her perfume — and rest my head on her shoulder.