“Dale, I assume the prodigal has returned?”
“Not quite; he’s a no-show.”
“Humph.” Alistair spotted the beginning of greenfly on one of his grafts. “Not a good sign.” He sucked his thumb, and then ran his hand through his strawberry-blonde hair, hoping to drag his attention away from the infected rose. “Get round to his place; Francisco is not the sort to miss work.”
“On what grounds? I never go there.”
“Take him a whisky, tell him you’re having marital problems; tell him anything you like, just get around there.”
Alistair retrieved his monocle from his waistcoat pocket to inspect a rose leaf. Little green worms were crawling over it. “When two worlds collide, there is fallout.”
“Aren’t you being a little over-cautious?” Dale had promised his wife a night out at Murphy’s.
“Never, Jasmine is causing something of a furore herself. She has a rather interesting theory about the Turin Shroud. I need to know what she has told him. Get around there.”
The brownstone façade of Brooklyn Heights had a European feel. Dale liked its old world charm. His wife was a Manhattan girl. Their apartment was wall to floor windows and chrome, with industrial pipes shooting through the ceiling.
He pressed the buzzer.
“Who is it?” Francisco sounded tired.
“It’s not the mailman. Come on, buddy, open up. I’m freezing my balls off out here. I was expecting you in the office today. I’ve got fish pie and the best malt whisky this side of the Atlantic,” he yelled into the telecom, then stepped back as the door swung open.
The lift was either occupied or stuck on the top floor. He opted for the stone stairs.
Breathing heavily, he glimpsed Francisco opening his door on the next level as he reached the second floor. His hair was damp, as if he had just showered.
Dale yelled up at him as he made his way up the final flight. “I need to reactivate my gym card.”
“Either that or your heart.”
His laboured breathing made it impossible to grin back. “This is more like the exercise I need. I was worried about you dude. It’s not like you to do a no-show at the office.” He dangled the whiskey bottle in front of him as he reached the landing.
“I was travelling back from the UK.”
“Your plane landed before midday.”
“Were you spying on me?”
He grinned. “Sky tracker; a replacement for watching paint dry for the serially bored.”
Francisco studied the malt. “It had better be good; I’m whacked.”
“Ireland’s finest; we bought a few bottles when we were over there last year.”
Dale followed Francisco into the open-plan lounge-dining area. He stared at the large abstract painting hanging on the wall, next to the grand piano.
Francisco nodded towards it. “I acquired it a couple of months ago. The artist is French. She lives in Oaxaca.”
“I thought the only good thing that came out of Mexico was the margaritas.”
Francisco raised his eyebrows. “The Oaxaca school is world famous.”
“She’s good, I’ll give you that.” Dale watched as Francisco poured the whiskey.
“You want ice?”
“It ruins the taste of good malt.”
“It ruins the taste of everything.”
“Spoken like a true Arab.”
“My dad was Welsh.”
“Is your sister mescal too?”
“Half-sister; she’s English. I’m surprised you remembered that I was going to see her.”
“It’s not every day you uncover a half-sister.”
“Imagine: I’m thirty-eight years old, yet I only discovered she existed when I went through Dad’s things. Her photograph was in an old wallet. The old man was cheating on my mum.”
“Come on, Francisco, that can’t be right, your old man was nuts.”
“The affair was years ago. She was my dad’s dirty little secret. He had another life, a hidden sordid life I had no idea about.” He could almost taste the bitterness as he spat the words out.
“That sucks; at least my father kept his dirty little secrets in the closet.” Dale sniffed the peaty whisky aroma, savouring it. “So this half-sister, what is she like?”
Francisco shrugged. “A total bore; when she’s not teaching, she lives in this crap modernist apartment even you wouldn’t be seen dead in.”
He pulled a face. “Guess you won’t be seeing her again.”
“It’s not that simple. I invited her to the memorial. She is staying with my cousin and his wife in Cairo.”
Dale did a double take. “Didn’t you say she never visited him? Why go to Cairo?” He swirled the whisky in his glass.
“Guilt, she wants closure.”
“It’s a bit odd.”
“Her mother poisoned her mind, hence the reason for not seeing Dad.”
“What does her mother think now?”
“Why the sudden interest in my family?”
Dale shrugged. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry we’re not closer; you should come round, have dinner, and hang out with Salvador.”
“I haven’t seen him since the christening, when you wore that daft green suit.”
Dale remembered the suit. Joanne’s mother had made him wear it, in memory of her father who came from Limerick.
“It can’t be four years?” He laughed, then inhaled the peaty smell of the whisky. “You need to come home and reintroduce me to my family.”
Francisco grinned. “Be careful; one day you might wake up to discover your son is twenty-one. Then you will wonder where the time went.”
“It’s not like you to be so philosophical.”
“Sorry, I can’t get my head around the idea that my dad cheated on my mum.”
“It’s a train wrecker, so why go to see…?
“Jazz, her name is Jazz. I wanted to know if she was like Dad.”
“And is she?”
“She doesn’t even look like him. Once the memorial is over, that chapter of my life is closed.”
“You really had no idea about her?”
Francisco rolled the whisky on his tongue, then grimaced as the burn hit the back of his throat. “I messed up going to England. All we have in common is a murky affair of my dad’s.”
He put the tumbler on the oak side table. “The forgery and his prison sentence are difficult to airbrush out. I always thought he was a family man. It’s like my past was ripped in half. Now I have to face her at the memorial. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“He was her father. She didn’t know about the funeral. I felt bad.”
“You can’t blame yourself. You only found out about her a couple of days ago.”
“I’m not stupid, Dale.” He pulled a face, wondering if his rebuke had been too quick. “I owed it to Dad to invite her.” He rubbed his hands together. “Who knows, with a bit of luck she might decide against a trip to Cairo.”
“When is she supposed to be going?”
“I gave her my cousin’s number. I don’t know if she rang him. The memorial is on Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“Friday is a holy day in Egypt.”
“You aren’t Muslim?”
“Neither was Dad. I want to show respect to the other side of the family; they were Coptic Christians, but Arabs first.”
“You’re brave holding something like that in Cairo after what your dad did.”
“Why?” Francisco’s eyes glazed over.
“Come on, Cisco, your old man wasn’t exactly liked there.”
He slapped his forehead in a light bulb moment that would not fool most people. “I must be stupid. I’m making everything worse. His infamy is still remembered in Cairo.”
“So why hold a memorial? You had a very quiet funeral here.”
“Dad wasn’t always a moron.” Francisco shook his head. “Who am I kidding? I can’t keep
deluding myself. He cheated on my mum. The stupid part is that the memorial is supposed to honour her. She came from a good Arab family in Cairo. When Dad was jailed, she gave up. After she died, I brought Dad here, where no one knew him. All I succeeded in doing was making the Alzheimer’s worse.” Francisco shrugged. “Who knows, he may simply have retreated into himself on purpose.”
“It’s a brain burp, but you can’t blame yourself for your dad’s Alzheimer’s.”
“My intention behind the memorial was to say sorry to Mum. People think Arabia is synonymous with Islam. It’s not true; I’m proud of my Arab heritage. I’m not sure she knew that.”
“Wow, this is deep even for a man obsessed with dark matter.” Dale grinned hoping to lighten the mood.
“If Jazz goes to the memorial, I will be dishonouring her. When she turns up there, everyone will know how awful my father really was.” Francisco swirled the golden liquid around in his tumbler.
“Can’t you tell her not to come?”
Francisco raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. When I met her, the first thing I did was tell her Dad was dead. I can’t stop her coming to the memorial.”
“Like you said, no one might turn up.”
“She will. I stupidly volunteered my cousin’s hospitality – to rub my mother’s memory in even more shame.”
He stood up. “I need to go over there. I can’t let her upset my cousins. Jazz isn’t part of my family. I have my mother’s memory to think of. Jazz can’t destroy it.”
Dale was half-looking at the painting. Its chaotic energy vibrated around the room. Joanne was into sixties retro. They had Andy Warhol prints in their living room.
“Thanks for coming over. You and the malt helped crystallise my thoughts.”
“So you won’t be at work tomorrow?” Dale had a bad feeling he was being manipulated.
“Not for a week or so; I’ll catch the first flight I can get on to Cairo.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.” Dale stood up as Francisco moved towards him.
“Thanks, buddy, it means a lot.” They patted each other on the back, then Dale picked up his brown leather jacket.
“See you in a week or so.”
Francisco watched him leave. Dale was like laser man; he was there but not there. Ostensibly, Nommo employed him to search for red dwarfs. The closest he had come was a puppet show on Coney Island. He poured himself another tumbler of whisky, then drained the glass. The words of his father echoed in his ears: “Details, son, details; they will trip up a mammoth if it’s not looking for them.”
Chapter Fourteen
Dale tugged at the collar of his jacket; even for New York it was unseasonably cold. He blew out a stream of hot air, trying to give some shape to his thoughts. Francisco never discussed his feelings; tonight he couldn’t stop. He wondered how genuine those feelings were. For once Dale was glad the call wasn’t his. He waited until he was submerged in the quagmire of the late-night subway crowd before taking out one of his mobiles. He pressed the only number in his contacts.
“Alistair?”
Alistair was sitting in front of his computer in his New York office hideaway. The long drive there was preferable to his wife’s Christmas planning in Connecticut.
“I was expecting your call, Dale. How is Francisco?”
“Not himself, that’s for sure.”
Alistair fingered a rose petal. He had cut the infected roses and brought them to New York. “Perhaps you could be a little more specific.”
“He was very talkative.”
“About his father?”
“About Jazz; I can’t see that relationship going anywhere after his father’s memorial. She may be his half-sister but her presence will tarnish his mother’s memory. He hates the idea.”
“Then why invite her?”
“Guilt?”
Alistair tried to resist the image of the greenfly flitting through his head. “He is an intelligent man, not swayed by emotion. I fear he doth protest too much. I need more information.”
Dale caught the menace in Alistair’s tone. Alistair was notorious for destroying every obstruction in his path. He glanced at the late-night commuters, wishing he had their easy lives. He had to pull something out of the bag, otherwise he was finished. He coughed. “Francisco never talks about his personal life. He’s mentioned his father’s Alzheimer’s in passing, along with an occasional reference to a girlfriend, but he’s never talked about his feelings until now.”
“Thank you, Dale, that will be all.” Alistair clicked off. It was always good to eliminate vermin; loose ends were never a good thing.
Chapter Fifteen
Thursday lunchtime, 28th March, Cairo
Jazz’s ears popped as the plane dipped, descending steeply into the urban sprawl of Cairo. She swallowed hard and, then pinched her nose, holding her breath. It relieved the pressure on her ears, but she could do nothing about her feelings. Her freshly-kindled guilt, courtesy of Francisco, had ripped apart a past she had believed was hers.
“Put the blind up for landing and ensure your seat is in the upright position.” The stewardess offered a bored smile as she pointed to the window.
Jazz raised the blind, then grimaced. The fast-approaching modernist concrete jungle was not the homage to antiquity she had imagined.
Suddenly she felt an urge to connect with someone outside of her thoughts. She turned her attention to the man next to her. His dark trousers, white shirt, short tie and black felt hat were striking. “Are you going on holiday?”
He rolled back his head and laughed, somehow managing to keep his hat on. “Cairo is an unusual holiday destination for a Jew.”
“Sorry, it was a stupid question. I did wonder why…”
“Why I am heading for Cairo, the heartland of Arabia? Who knows, perhaps even the fading heart of the Arab Spring?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Not at all, my dear; my name is Abe. I am always happy to discuss my work. Our foundation is helping a farming project to improve their irrigation methods. They are based just outside of the city.” He tugged at his jacket. “We are a Hebrew charity. In the current climate it is important that people know who we are. The West Bank situation has left our faith a pariah in our home town, Jerusalem – religion is never kind to those it hates.
The clothes distinguish us from our Arab neighbours. What was it John Lennon said? ‘Give peace a chance’?” He chuckled as he continued. “The truth is we look so alike without the clothes, they might not tell me apart. We are brothers in genes, not religion. Our forefather was Abraham. We can both trace our genealogy back to him, even if we are still feuding like Cain and Abel.”
His words still resonated as she cleared immigration. It was true: the Jewish, Christian and Islamic religions all had Abraham as their founding father. Looking around, it occurred to her that most of his offspring were in the arrivals hall.
Hassid watched the thin young woman prance through the crowd. Her white skin was ghost-like. Francisco had invested a lot of faith in her. How would she cope with discovering the truth about her father?
He pasted a reassuring grin on his face as he waved.
Catching the sudden movement, Jazz studied the man coming towards her and offered a tentative wave. He was smaller than Francisco, and a little stockier. His vacuous eyes were brown, not blue.
“It is so nice to meet you, Jazz. Your father talked a lot about you.”
He gave her a casual hug, then pulled away as she fought off a spasm of guilt. He knew so much about her. She knew nothing about him.
To avoid the awkward silence, he took her bag and smiled. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Cara has prepared a late lunch. I hope you aren’t starving.”
Jazz threw him a puzzled look as he laughed. “We live in one of Cairo’s leafy suburbs, an oasis of calm compared to this place, but unfortunately you have to drive through hell to get there. It will take us at least an hour.”
>
She followed as he pushed his way through the crowds. Einstein’s theory of gravity attracting matter was working. There was no space for dark energy.
Outside, the cacophony of sound bursting from the cars and buses made it impossible to talk. He pointed to the car park and headed towards it.
Hassid stopped outside a battered Land Rover. He opened the passenger door.
As Jazz clambered in, he ran to the other side and threw her red case on the back seat, before jumping into the driver’s seat.
“Open your window. The air conditioning packed in a few months ago. I haven’t quite got around to fixing it.”
She wound it down as he turned on the engine hoping the exhaust fumes from the traffic wouldn’t kill her.
He grinned encouragement, as a battered old van darted in front of them. “Cairo drivers don’t drive, they hunt for space. If you care about your mental health I suggest you close your eyes and try to sleep.”
There were so many things she wanted to ask, but, as another battered car zipped alongside them, she closed her eyes.
Almost two hours later, the Land Rover crunched to a halt at the end of a gravel driveway.
She rubbed her eyes. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep; how rude.”
Hassid grinned as he jumped out of the car. She used the brief interlude to inspect the garden. The surprisingly green lawn was lined with mature conifers, reminiscent of sky rockets reaching for the heavens. To her right, olive trees backed on to a two-storey house. The stucco façade was washed in a soft pink. She felt a long way from Newcastle.
As Hassid held the car door for her, a woman in her late twenties unlocked the front door and ran to meet them. A mane of black hair cascaded behind her, reminding Jazz of a wild stallion.
“I hope Hass didn’t scare you too much. He drives like a maniac. I’m Cara.” Her English accent was manufactured in the States, East Coast, just like Francisco’s.
The Ghost Reapers Page 8