Sins of the Fathers

by S Gepp

  "You looked like you actually wanted to do well, like you meant it, so I offered to help," he suggested lamely. "And then you didn't treat me like shit, like some of, well…you know, so, well, here we are." He fumbled over his words, feeling more and more embarrassed as he went on.

  "No, it was…" She kissed him again. "Thank you." She started to move away, then looked back at him, once more making sure Troy was not in her field of vision. "Oh, you decided if you're coming Saturday?"

  He smiled sadly and shook his head. "I'd love to, but I somehow don't think I'd be too welcome."

  Her eyes darted in the direction of her friends, but her body did not indicate the fact. "I understand," she said quietly. "And you will be invited to my birthday party in January, which I expect you to make an appearance at. But I still owe you."

  "Tell you what," he replied, "when we're at uni together next year, I'll let you buy the coffee."

  "It's a date," she laughed, then strode quickly away to join her companions, both Francis and Troy watching her hair swing from side to side in perfect time with her well-shaped hips.

  "So, you gonna tell me what that was all about?" Troy eventually asked.

  "I told you I've been tutoring some of our classmates," Francis replied dismissively.

  Troy dragged his attention from the girl in question. "But Chelsea Hartog? Seriously?"

  He shrugged. "So? She said she needed help. So, European history, maths, and biology, I helped her."

  "You helped her." Troy's smile became sly. "What did you really get out of it?"

  Francis faced Troy and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I got a friend," he stated simply.

  Words failed Troy, but that horrid feeling returned to the pit of his stomach. Chelsea Hartog, the girl they had perved on so often in the female toilets, the girl he had followed home too often, the girl of his dreams… the girl who had rebuffed him so crudely not long after his lottery windfall. Of course, Francis and the others knew nothing of that. And he suddenly understood that, really, her rudeness and complete disregard for him had done nothing to diminish what he felt for her. Nor diminish the intense jealousy he felt now.

  Nor lessen the fact that he still really, truly wanted her.

  And his mind turned to a century-old book sitting even now inside a hollowed-out copy of Great European Train Journeys in one of his bookcases.

  He smiled humorlessly to himself and followed Francis in silence to the car park.

  Chapter Fourteen

  2012

  Brandon handed Julian a cup of coffee and sat down opposite him, trying desperately to wake up. The clock on the microwave reminded him that it was, indeed, al-most quarter past two in the morning, but he tried unsuccessfully to think of this as just a very dark afternoon.

  "Thanks," Julian muttered, "and sorry again for waking you up."

  "No worries. I had to get up in four hours anyway," he replied deadpan, and then smiled.

  "Yeah, well, sorry." The humor didn't touch him. He sat back and gingerly rubbed his shoulder, the sling stopping the arm within it from sagging down too much. "Just so you know, I discharged myself from the hospital and came right here."

  "So, you gonna tell me what the fuck happened?" Brandon demanded, anger scarcely hiding his concern.

  "I saved Karyn. It would have got her in the side of the chest or the neck, right into her heart or lungs or jugular or something." He gazed at the coffee, at the swirling tendrils of steam reaching for him like fingers grasping at his face. To make it worse, the curling mist only served to remind him that he desperately wanted a cigarette right about now.

  Brandon looked stunned. Then: "So…hang on. You discharged yourself?" What Julian was saying was only just slowly dawning on the weary journalist.

  Julian shrugged just a little, as much as the pain would allow, then nodded.

  Brandon looked at him curiously, then made his way cautiously behind his old friend. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Julian," he groaned. The blood stain was wet and fresh, soaking through the heavy bandages and two layers of clothing, and growing larger even as he watched. "You need to…"

  "No, I…" he started, but then fell silent. His eyes rolled in their sockets, and he swayed slightly. After a few moments, he placed his palm on his forehead and rubbed it hard. "Shit," he finally murmured.

  "You need to get back to the hospital. Now." Brandon grabbed a jacket and slid it on.

  "Yeah, but…" He had to shake his head again. "I need your high school yearbooks," he stated quickly.

  "My what?" Pants now, pulled over his pajama bottoms uncomfortably.

  "The yearbooks. From high school." He stared at Brandon. "I think mine are at dad's place, who knows where, but I need them soon. The last two, years eleven and twelve." His eyes were clearly having trouble focusing.

  "Why didn't you just ring me?" Brandon asked. "Why couldn't this wait until morning? Why this urgency?"

  "Because I need to do this." Julian's mind was whirling; Brandon could see the confusion, but also the strange determination. Time was irrelevant; to him, this simply had to be done now. "And because you can't leave the house," he went on suddenly. "You can't leave your kids alone." He stood uneasily. "You've got more to lose than the rest of us, and you are now the only one left." Brandon couldn't help but notice that the bloodstain had left a mark on the back of the chair as well.

  Then Julian's words struck him. "You believe me about this? It being against us?" He forced himself to look his old friend in the eyes. The only one left. The phrase tried to flash in the forefront of his mind like a warning beacon, but he could not bring himself to focus on that now.

  In response to his question, Julian nodded once, slowly. "Brandon, I really need those books."

  "Why?"

  "Please, Brandon, I'll explain later when I feel…" His breath started to come in sharp, panting gasps. "I know you've got them; I don't know about the others. You're the one who's cared most about the past. You're the one who's kept tabs on us for all these years."

  "Julian…"

  "Books. Please." He paused as he carefully sat back down. "And then if you could call me a taxi. You're right. I do need to get back. I feel like shit."

  Brandon almost ran to his study. Julian had been correct—he knew exactly where everything was, and within moments he had both the thick yearbooks in his hands, as well as a towel to drape over Julian's shoulder.

  But he could not help but check in on Kristina and Allan, asleep in their respective bedrooms.

  The only one left.

  "Please, God, no," he whispered and hurriedly returned to the other end of his house and his wounded friend.

  1991

  Francis fell back, sitting heavily on the grass, out of breath, staring at the girl lying before him, still half-encased in the plastic bag, her hands now unbound, tears streaming down his face.

  Julian placed a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. "She was my friend," he whispered. "More than my friend. Why the fuck did we even think this was a good idea?"

  "The ritual says it must be a loved one," Troy stated blandly, trying to reassert control over the situation. "And she was the closest thing to someone we all…"

  "Fuck your ritual!" Francis screamed, leaping to his feet and then violently tackling Troy to the ground. "Fuck you! Fuck this power shit! She was my friend! You only chose her because your pathetic, petty jealousy couldn't let someone else be her friend!" He grabbed Troy by the collar and bounced his head off the ground. "I loved her! I really loved her! She was my best friend. My. Best. Friend." He accentuated those last words with three more head attacks on Troy.

  "Come on, get off him!" Randolph growled, pulling back on Francis.

  Francis let go of Troy and knocked Randolph's arms away. "You're just as bad!" he hissed. "I've seen the photos you've got of her. Don't tell me you don't fantasize about her as well." His lips curled into a cruel sneer. "When you found out we'd made love, you didn't talk to me for a fortnight. Think I didn't
notice, you jealous prick?"

  "Come on, man, that's not fair," Randolph whispered hoarsely, backing away.

  "And you did agree to this as well," Julian stated coldly.

  Francis glared at him but could not find any words to say. Julian was right, and even now Francis could not fathom what he had been thinking.

  Especially this afternoon when they had made their final plans.

  He turned away from them all as it finally hit him—completely, utterly, and wholly.

  This was all his fault. Dear God, it was all on him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  2012

  Julian just knew they'd be together, even at this ungodly hour of the morning, and so, after sweet-talking a nurse, including promising he would not leave again until they all thought he was ready, he was escorted to the room where Chantelle had already spent too much time.

  Luke was there as well—apparently, some influence had been exerted to bend many hospital rules—and greeted him warmly; he didn't even acknowledge the sling or thickly bandaged shoulder as he led him across to the bed. "Julian, this is Chantelle," he beamed. The girl smiled weakly at him. She looked thin and pale and very ill, but she was awake and certainly looked more alive than the last time he had seen her. "Chantelle, this is another of those men I told you about, one of the Round Table—Julian, Doctor Julian Worthington."

  "Round Table; that's something I haven't heard in years," Julian mused, smiling just a little.

  "Dad told me about it a couple of days ago," piped up another voice. Julian looked over and saw Nathan on the other side of the bed in his wheelchair; influence was really bending the rules here. "But he wouldn't say why you all stopped hanging out." He smiled in such an innocent manner, but Julian could see the intelligence and genuine inquiry—and even the accusation—behind that gaze.

  "Hey, I heard you were better," Julian said to Chantelle, avoiding Nathan's subtle probing, "and I'm glad you're somehow in here as well…" He nodded at the teenaged boy. "…so I can show both of you something, something I'm pretty sure neither of you would have seen before." He pulled the pair of yearbooks out of his sling and dropped them on the bed. "The height of the Round Table," he declared proudly, tapping the book from their final year of high school, "and the year before that, just because," he went on, touching the second.

  "Dibs on the final one," Nathan smiled, snatching it quickly.

  Chantelle grinned back at him and took the other. But within moments, they were comparing photographs of their respective parents, and then the other men they had met recently. Luke pointed out the members of the Round Table they hadn't yet come across, choking a little when he indicated Troy's pictures.

  That was when Nathan started to look through the rest of the photos of the year twelve students; though black and white, each shot was a clear head-and-shoulders picture of each person, twelve to an A4 page, with a list of their achievements beneath. Some, like Randolph, simply had a list of their chosen subjects, while others, like Francis, had a long run-down of schooling achievements, club memberships, volunteer work, sports, and anything else the school felt was relevant.

  Julian leaned forward a little. This was exactly what he had been waiting for. He just hoped it was all for naught. Because anything else was…

  Nathan suddenly stopped, the smile on his face fading. "Can I…?" he sort of asked as he took the book from Chantelle's hands. He flicked through the photos of the members of their grade when they had been a year younger—just pictures with names and subjects, twenty to a page for the year elevens.

  He finally found the image he was after and held it beside the larger one taken twelve months later. Chantelle carefully maneuvered herself to look at what he was staring at, then gasped loudly and covered her mouth, jerking the needle messily out of her elbow as she did so.

  Julian was there before Luke even realized what was going on.

  "What is it?" he asked, hoping he was keeping his absolute dread successfully in check.

  Nathan pointed with some caution at one particular photograph. It stood out in stark contrast to all those surrounding it—the subject was the most beautiful girl in the book by far, her hair styled for the shot, hanging over one shoulder, so long its full length couldn't be ascertained, her visible breast clearly fully developed, her smile sweet, her eyes big and bright. In the other earlier picture, the smile and eyes were the same, the hair not as long, the physical development still growing, yet still the same person. Most definitely the same person, just shyer. The first image was not a trick; this girl was and apparently always had been just like this—gorgeous.

  Julian struggled with his emotions but managed to keep them under control. "What about her?" he asked as casually as he could.

  "She was the girl who interrupted my Skype session when I was hurt," Nathan muttered.

  "Yeah?" Chantelle croaked. "That was the face I saw when that guy…" Tears started as too many memories suddenly flooded her mind, inundating her in a tsunami of negativity. "You know," she finished lamely, letting her father wrap his arm around her trembling shoulders as he tried to have a look as well, fearing the absolute worst.

  "Are you sure?" Julian asked. "I mean, really sure?"

  "How could you forget a face like that?" Nathan laughed, but there was no joy in the sound.

  Julian glanced at Luke as he carefully moved the two books to give his old friend a better view. Luke peered uneasily at the pictures Nathan still indicated.

  He swallowed hard, and on instinct, he held Chantelle closer to him in his sudden shock. "But…but that's impossible," he whispered.

  Julian just returned his gaze to the image.

  The photograph of Chelsea Hartog from more than twenty years before stared back at them with the sweetest of smiles on her innocent, beautiful, near-perfect face.

  1991

  To Francis's amazement, his former high school classmates who would not have given him the time of day before Christmas now, in January, at Chelsea's home, treated him as they did any other person at the party. He drank beer, shared jokes, and just talked. Only once, when a group laughed at his story of what had happened to the disliked Father O'Connor on one of the student retreats, did he wonder what the rest of the Round Table would think if they saw him right now. Suddenly accepting this invitation after avoiding two other post-exam gatherings was the best idea he'd had in years.

  "Franky," whispered a voice in his ear, "can I see you?" He turned from the rest of the group listening to the former captain of the football team regale them all with his talks of personal heroism on the playing field and smiled at Chelsea.

  "Sure," he replied, following her through the large house to the room where everyone had placed their birthday gifts for her. The pile was high beneath a hand-made sign that read, "Happy 18th Chelsea!," which was decorated with photographs from the girl's life, showing more than anything else that she had always been physically attractive. "An adult," he smirked.

  "Yeah, but my twenty-first will be better," she replied.

  "Why?"

  "Twenty-one is my lucky number," she said with the slightest of grins as she moved him into the room. She closed the door behind them, and Francis turned to face her, unsure of what was going on here. She looked at him for a brief moment and then grabbed his face with both hands and crushed her lips against his. For a few seconds, he just stood there, stunned, and then he dared to wrap his arms around her waist and draw her in closer. She came unhesitatingly into his embrace and shifted her hands to the back of his neck.

  Mouths parted slightly. Eyes closed. Heads tilted. Tongues touched, lips pushed hard. For what seemed to Francis to be not nearly long enough, they kissed.

  Francis felt the whole world disappear; all that existed was Chelsea; all that mattered was the two of them.

  They parted reluctantly, and Francis could not stop grinning even as he caught his breath. "Uhh, what…?" he started, but could not let the words come out without sounding downright rude or, even
worse, stupid.

  She smiled oh so sweetly and kindly at him. "I told you I'd thank you properly for all you did for me," she whispered.

  "Come on, I just gave you a hand with…"

  "No," she interrupted firmly. "No. You—you—taught me how to study. You made sure I passed those history and math exams. You helped me with those bits of math and biology when the teachers couldn't be bothered. And you listened to me." Her face fell a little. "You probably know more about me than any of my friends out there." She kissed his cheek. "I just wish…" She let the comment hang in the air.

  But Francis understood. This was it, one time, thank you, then continue their holiday break until university started, and from then on they'd "enjoy" a passing acquaintance. He reached across and risked kissing her again. She let it go for a few brief seconds before breaking it off; Francis did not fail to notice that she was still smiling. "I do owe you for something else, by the way," she breathed.

  He looked at her with some confusion. She reached behind her and pulled a plain-wrapped gift from the pile, one Francis recognized straight away. "I snuck a look at most of them," she laughed. "And I reckon this one could well be my favorite."

  Francis felt his smile return. "Really? Seriously?"

  "I said you knew me better than any of my other friends," she said as a single tear—of joy? of sadness? He wasn't sure—ran down her cheek. He touched it, and she covered his hand with hers. "They gave me clothes and make-up and jewelry and videos and CDs and stuff like that." She held his gift up. "You treated me like an intelligent person. This shows you know what's important to me, where my head's at. You know me."

  Francis took the three book set out of her hands and placed it back on the pile, then slowly approached her. She did not wait; she grabbed him again, and this time, there was more to the kiss than a mere thank you. He entwined his hands in her hair, and she responded in kind. She tasted a little like a wine cooler, but that didn't matter. He had hardly ever dared to dream this might happen, and yet here he was, living it…