Regaining some composure, Rhys noticed the piece of paper on the carpet. He bent over, picked it up and unfolded it. He was confused for a second as he stared at the Babycham label. He turned it over. On the back was written, The White Hart, Pontypridd, 1.1.1970. The memories came flooding back. Exactly ten years ago to the day, they had toasted the New Year with a glass of Babycham. Unbeknown to him, she had removed the label from the bottle and kept it. Still holding the label, Rhys doubled over in agony, the tears returning in torrents. Defiantly, he turned to his mother and vowed, ‘I won’t let her die, Mum, I won’t,’ before breaking down once more. His father heard him from the bedroom, full of pride and admiration, but he knew it was useless.
‘Hey, don’t cry. It’ll be okay,’ Rhys assured Fiona as he cradled her in his arms in the family room that served the intensive care unit. Her face was planted in Rhys’s chest, her eyes red raw and sodden with tears, her hand constantly dabbing at her nose with yet another paper handkerchief. Rhys stroked her back lightly, his parents looking on ashen-faced from their chairs beside him. ‘She’s as tough as old boots is Vicki. You watch, Fi, she’ll get through this, and the two of you’ll be playing with your new nephew or niece in no time.’
His tone was calm and exuded confidence but it only led to more sobbing and wails of anguish from Vicki’s distraught sister. Rhys stroked her back more vigorously, and then the back of her head, but to no avail. He wondered, like him, whether Fiona would ever recover from this. He could try and put on as brave a face as possible but the game was up, and everyone knew it, even if they would never admit it. Fiona’s pain was too much to bear for Rhys and his parents and succeeded only in drawing tears from their eyes also.
Without warning, the door opened and Vicki’s white-faced parents walked in. Fiona immediately extricated herself from Rhys’s arms and clasped her mother. Vicki’s father had never failed to achieve whatever he wanted in his life, but, at this particular moment, he bore the look of a beaten man.
Fiona’s grief triggered her mother and her eyes moistened. ‘It’ll be fine, Fiona, don’t you worry,’ were the only words she could muster as she patted her back. She did not believe any of them. They had just returned from spending a final few moments with Vicki before she went into theatre for the operation. In her despair, Fiona had been unable to steel herself to do the same. Rhys’s spirits slumped when he observed the suffering felt by Vicki’s family and his gut knotted at the knowledge that it was now his turn to spend a final few minutes with the girl he loved. A sad-faced nurse held open the door, waiting for Rhys to accompany her to Vicki’s bed. His legs felt so rubbery he could barely put one foot in front of the other.
During the few brief seconds it took to reach Vicki’s bedside, Rhys implored himself to stay strong and to hold himself together. He gulped down gallons of air in an effort to maintain a semblance of composure. But when he arrived at her side, he was overcome with a gut-wrenching grief so powerful he wanted no more than to climb up onto the bed and die beside her so that she would not be alone on her journey to Heaven.
Sobbing uncontrollably, Rhys held her hand and buried his head into the side of her body, gripping the blanket with his other hand so tightly the veins stood out proud. She looked dreadful and, to Rhys’s eyes, had already taken on the appearance of a corpse. Her skin was loose and sallow, her hair limp and her breathing barely discernible. Her eyes were closed and there was no strength in the fingers he stroked. Rhys had rehearsed a few words he had wanted to say but his mind was a mess. He remembered, however, to take the Babycham label out of his pocket and place it into Vicki’s hand.
‘Hey, Vick, I opened your card,’ he finally said, his voice croaking. ‘I found the label. Ten years ago today, Vicki, ten years ago today, a whole decade. That was the best day of my life.’ He had to stop to blow his nose and wipe his eyes with a tissue and it took fully a minute before he could resume. ‘I’ve put it in your hand, Vicki. Hold onto it and don’t let go.’
For the first time that morning, Vicki showed signs of life and her fingers tightened around it and, seeing her do so, Rhys put his hand over hers and held it in a fist. She was listening, she had strength, she was not lifeless. He had to encourage her to fight.
‘Never let go of it, Vicki,’ Rhys implored. ‘It’s to let you know I’m with you all the way in this. You’ve got everything to live for, Vicki, everything, but you’ve got to fight, Vicki, fight, and never give up. Your family needs you, I need you and our baby needs you. In a few weeks, we’ll be married with a child, everything you and me have always wanted. Don’t give up, Vicki, please, I beg you.’
Rhys buried his head once more in her side and placed his hand on her stomach, on their child. He remained in the same position for fully two minutes, his tears dripping onto Vicki’s bare arm. He would have stayed there forever but for the gentle hand of the consultant on his shoulder indicating it was time for the operation.
‘DON’T DIE ON ME, VICKI!’ Rhys yelled, ‘DON’T DIE ON ME! OUR BABY NEEDS YOU. FIGHT! VICKI, FIGHT!’ And with that, Rhys ran from the ward and out into the reception where, leaning against a wall, he cried his heart out.
Sister McLaughlin, who had been tending to Vicki, was an experienced nurse and accustomed to grief. It came with the territory and she was hardened to it. But never had she witnessed such anguish and suffering in her life and, for the first time in her long career as a nurse, she could not prevent tears from rolling uncontrollably down her cheeks.
CHAPTER 25
The view was truly inspiring, Tommy Slater reflected, as he marvelled at the majestic cupola and spire atop St Paul’s Cathedral. It was one of the reasons he had bought the apartment in the first place. Not far beyond St Paul’s was the East End, his turf, and fond memories of his time growing up in Hackney flashed across his mind. They were the best days of his life, he concluded with a poignant smile, unlike the past few which had undoubtedly been the worst. It was New Year’s Day and, unbeknown to him as he scanned the horizon, Vicki was being wheeled into the operating theatre at that precise moment, though he was aware that her condition was critical and that she was unlikely to recover.
Freddie Butcher was in custody and as good as his word to Tommy. He had not implicated him in the slightest, even though it was Tommy who had put him up to it. He was not a grass, Butcher reflected with pride, sitting in his cell, knowing that Tommy would take care of his family financially. He had done the crime and he would do the time, that’s all there was to it. He had fucked up and got caught. No one else was to blame.
‘He’s a good mate is Freddie,’ Tommy said softly to himself, full of respect. But despite his best friend’s loyalty, Tommy knew he was in deep trouble and shook his head in a sad, resigned manner. The net was closing in, the Fat Lady warming up her tonsils.
Turning on his heel, he paced to another vantage point in profound contemplation, his eye falling on the almost complete National Westminster Tower. He could hardly miss it for it was already the tallest building in the country and a symbol of the financial might of the City of London.
The media was all over the story, full of conjecture as to why his best friend would want to murder his ex-wife. But even more worryingly, so were the police, who had called on him twice already and clearly suspicious of the part he had played in the affair. He had tried to brazen it out, knowing that if Freddie kept schtum, there was a good chance he could stay in the clear. But the telephone call he had taken just before midnight was a devastating one and Tommy knew it was only a matter of time before his involvement became obvious.
The call had been made by Bill Smith, who told Tommy that The Mirror would be splashing next morning on how a Sun employee had been following Vicki’s movements for nigh on two years and reporting them to him. Tim, the stupid fucking idiot, had not been able to keep his mouth shut in the pubs around Fleet Street, though, in his defence, he could never have foreseen that his actions would have played a part in the attack on Vicki.
The
bemused editor of The Sun had asked the young reporter for an explanation for he’d had no knowledge of what he’d been up to. Tim had admitted to Bill Smith’s involvement and, in his vein-bursting fury, the editor had fired them both. There was no way he was going to allow his newspaper to be implicated in an attempted murder. The telephone call had begun in 1979 and ended in 1980. With heavy irony, they had both wished each other a happy New Year.
Tommy had not gone to bed after the call. He had sat up all night drinking whisky after whisky, thinking, and when morning had broken, he had not gone out to buy a copy of The Mirror. It had not been necessary. The story was all over the radio news and the ringing of his telephone and buzzing of his apartment was incessant. The heavy knock on the door of a burly Old Bill or two could not be far away.
But despite the storm that was raging around him, Tommy’s main concern was not the heavy hand of the law but the terrible injury that had been inflicted on Vicki. Turning his gaze back upon St Paul’s, he lowered his head in shame at what he had instigated. Her blood was on his hands right up to his elbows. He knew he was not perfect. He had his faults, terrible faults, he now accepted; jealousy, arrogance, selfishness, spite, pride, possessiveness. But he loved Vicki and ultimately could not bear what he had done to her and her unborn child. His eyes moistened at the knowledge that he had acted like a monster. She did not deserve to die and he deserved every drop of vitriol and opprobrium that was going to come his way.
‘I’ve fucked up big time,’ Tommy admitted. ‘It’s all over. I’ll never get out of this.’ They were the same sentiments he had expressed during the night. ‘Look at me; a has-been footballer on the slide who murdered the love of his life. I’ve got no wife, no kids, no family of my own. All I’ve got is a few quid and some respect. But what’s the point of money when you’re doing twenty years inside? And respect? Well, you can kick that into touch for starters.’ He shook his head, desolate.
It’s a chilly start to the year, he thought, as a freezing wind whistled around his ears. He looked up instinctively, observing the monochrome sky, and felt a spot of rain on his forehead, cold, heavy, on the cusp of sleet. He had chosen well to put on his overcoat, he nodded, looking back down and across the rooftops of London once more. How St Paul’s had survived the Blitz that had so devastated his family and the families of his friends in the East End during the war remained one of life’s great mysteries, he pondered incongruously at that moment.
Yes, it had been a great decision to buy the apartment, he reflected, for he so loved the views … as he did so now, but this time from the flat roof of Cromwell Tower, all forty-two floors of it, high above his home. Coolly and calmly, and with his head held high, like all the times he had walked up to the penalty spot to slot home a goal, he took a few paces to the edge of the roof with that characteristic straight-backed posture of his, jumped up onto a concrete block and looked over the side. Once there, for he knew it was the only realistic option open to him, he stepped over a metal rail and, without the slightest hesitation, threw himself off.
Two Decades Later
CHAPTER 26
No, the singing was not like how it used to be in the good old days, Rhys pondered, as he sat high up in the West Stand of the newly completed Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, awaiting the start of the Wales versus France rugby international. He did not care much for the stadium, either, if truth be told. Yes, it was impressive to the eye and packed with every modern facility under the sun but it lacked the heart and soul of the old Arms Park he loved so much. A bit like New Labour and Tony Blair when compared to the old Labour Party and Harold Wilson, he mused disapprovingly, as he wiped a smudge mark away from his spectacles with a handkerchief. Who could you rely on today to look after the interests of the working class? he asked himself. Ruefully, he shook his head. There was no one. The world had changed beyond recognition, and not all of it for the better.
With his father nudging him out of his reverie of remembrance, he scolded himself for turning into a grumpy old man. He had certainly aged, he conceded, with his hair thin and peppery and forehead lined, but he took immense satisfaction in his trim waistline. Buying that bicycle all those years ago had certainly paid dividends. His mother was sitting the other side of his father, both of them complaining how smoking was forbidden in the new stadium. They would have to wait another two hours for a cigarette. Other than when they were asleep, they did not think they had ever gone so long without a drag.
Sitting next to them were Vicki’s mother and father, resplendent in their Burberry and Barbour coats respectively. Nothing gladdened Rhys’s heart more than how close he and his parents had become to them over the years. Fiona had not been able to attend as she was living in Frankfurt with her banker husband, her third marriage. Or was it her fourth? Rhys wondered. It was hard to keep up with her anymore.
On his other side, Ian and Karen were taking swigs of lager from their floppy, plastic glasses, as was their daughter, Madonna, and her friend, Eleanor. The two girls were barely sixteen, but, as Rhys gazed in their direction, he realised that at least one thing had never changed over the years; underage drinking. He just hoped they would not get involved in drugs, which were much more prevalent among teenagers today than during his time. Rhys never asked Ian or Karen whether they regretted naming their daughter after the pop sensation of the time, and this time for that matter, but he sensed that they did. Rhys got on well with Madonna for he amused her with tales about her parents. When he had shown her photographs of her punk rocker mother, Madonna had doubled over in stitches of laughter and, borrowing them from Rhys, could not wait to show them to her friends at school.
The events around Christmas and New Year twenty years ago were never far from his mind, however. How could they not be? No human being should be made to endure the anguish of those desperate times. It was the people sitting next to him now who had helped him get through those agonising days just as he had helped them.
Since then, life had been good to Rhys. He was now the proud owner of three restaurants in London and one in Cardiff, though he loved nothing better than to go back to the Supreme for a coffee and a natter with Mario to whom he had sold it. He was also now living in a beautiful, five-storey, Victorian townhouse overlooking Clapham Common, the first day he walked through the front door being one of the happiest of his life. He also owned a beautiful villa in Cyprus next to Christos and Eleni and looked forward to every winter and summer when he would spend a few days in their company. He owed them so much. More than anyone, they had made him change his life and become the success he now was. Yes, he reflected, as he looked down at his gleaming Church brogues and pulled up the collar of his dark navy Crombie overcoat, life had been good to him these past two decades.
The atmosphere was building in the stadium and Rhys fretted when, looking at his Patek Philippe wristwatch, he realised that the players would soon be emerging for the kick-off. He glanced upwards towards the entrance to the stand, but, after a few seconds, and with a frown, he looked away. Wondering what to do, Rhys considered using the new mobile phone he had taken ownership of and which rested like a dead weight in his coat pocket. He had not managed to programme in any numbers as yet; it all seemed so terribly complicated to him. But he did have the number scribbled on a piece of paper in his wallet, lying next to the folded Babycham label. Vicki’s consultant had given it to him all those years ago and it had never left his person since. When the consultant had done so, Rhys had sunk to his knees, crying Niagara-like torrents of tears … but they were tears of overwhelming relief and happiness. It was the sign that Vicki had pulled through and was out of danger. She had held onto it for days on end and the consultant had told Rhys it had kept her alive.
‘Here she comes, Dad,’ an equally fretful Eleanor shouted over to Rhys as she caught sight of her mother, wearing a tightly-belted, beige Aquascutum raincoat, bounding down the steps before edging her way to the empty seat next to her husband. Vicki was as beautiful as ever, her hair, long
, straight and auburn in colour, pushed back behind her ears to show off that unblemished, golden-brown skin of hers and sparkling pale blue oval eyes. She did not have a line on her face and could easily have been mistaken for Eleanor’s elder sister.
‘Women!’ Rhys muttered sotto voce, relieved that Vicki would be in time for the start of the match. As she settled in her seat, Rhys asked her in an exasperated tone where she had been.
‘Men! When will you ever understand that when we go to the toilet we have to wait for a cubicle to become free? We can’t just stand up in front of a wall with our willies in our hand like you can.’
Rhys laughed and squeezed her thigh. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes and kissed quickly on the lips, after which President Mitchell rested her head on his shoulder, the two of them smiling and waiting for the players to run out onto the field, the greenness of which reminded Rhys of Central Park and Washington Square Gardens in New York where he had fulfilled his ambition of walking with Vicki on several occasions. They were in love with each other as much as the first day they met.
‘Here they come!’ an excited Eleanor yelled.
After the French team had made its entrance, the noise in the stadium reached fever pitch before the crowd erupted at the sight of their heroes in red.
“Wales, Wales, Wales, Wales …”
‘There he is!’ Eleanor yelled out once more.
And there he was, the Welsh outside-half wearing the fabled number ten shirt running out to represent his country for the very first time. In his heart of hearts, Rhys could not bring himself to believe he was as good as Barry John, for no one in his eyes ever would be, but he was pretty damn close. More importantly, however, he was their son, Christopher, who Vicki had fought against all the odds to bring into the world and, on seeing him enter the field, Rhys and Vicki were transformed into the two proudest people on earth.
Decade Page 30