You might question why I have never made contact to plead my case. As much as I wanted to, I feared you might befall the same fate as your mother. Life had made me a deeply suspicious man, and I’ve always had concerns that what happened to your mother wasn’t in some way connected to my actions. Perhaps it was just paranoia, but knowing Eric Birtles has ingratiated himself into your life, and the depths he has plumbed in the past, I just could not take the risk. I chose to stay away to protect you, but know you were never far from my thoughts.
I would stress that while I was not guilty of the crime for which I was convicted, your father is not an innocent man. It pains me to admit it, but I have become consumed by hatred, anger, and a thirst for revenge. With nothing else in my life, vengeance has become my only companion.
I won’t shame myself by admitting the details of my crimes but the difference between Eric and I is that my deeds have punished those deserving of punishment, and rewarded the worthy. I have tried to be a good man, and improve the lives of others. If I know anything about you, I know you will follow your instincts and draw your own conclusions.
Together with this letter you will find the photos which have helped preserve all I have of you and your mother — my memories. I treasured those four short months I had you in my life, and I cannot put into words how happy they were. I loved you from the moment I first held you, and I will love you till the moment I draw my last breath. That moment, I fear, will be soon, but know I am immensely proud of the woman you have become. Although I am your father in name alone, I pray one day you might feel inclined to learn more about the man I once was — the man who made you smile.
Whilst I cannot change the past, I hope you will allow me to make a difference to your future. Enclosed in the envelope are my solicitor’s details, and all I own is now yours. There is a not-insignificant amount of money which you may do with as you wish — invest it, spend it, give it to charity — whatever you decide, it is a fraction of what I owe you.
All that remains is for me to ask one favour of you. When my time comes, I have secured a plot in the same cemetery as your mother. That plot is opposite her grave, and although it isn’t quite where I hoped I would see out eternity, it’s close enough. I won’t ask for your forgiveness, but I would ask you to stop by one day and say goodbye. I have no right to ask, but perhaps it might help you move forward.
Look after yourself, my angel — Dad.
I want to read the letter again but I can barely see through the tears. A sadness — the like of which I’ve never felt — threatens to consume me, and I know I’m close to completely losing it. There is just one compulsion holding a total breakdown at bay: an immediate and compelling urge to visit my father’s grave.
With shaking hands, I gather the letter and the photos together and return them to the envelope. I get to my feet, and as I search my handbag for a tissue the office door opens.
“Are you okay, Emma?” Mandy asks in a gentle voice.
I bite my lip and nod.
“The envelope. Was it left there by your dad?”
I nod again.
“I miss him,” she says. “Ever so much.”
Mandy steps across the carpet and pulls me into a hug. My usual instinct would be to flinch, but on this occasion my need for comfort outweighs any social awkwardness. Never has a hug been more welcome.
“He was a good man,” she says as we finally break.
“So I’ve discovered.”
“You might be interested to know, the committee have decided to re-name the NLH Foundation.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, from next month, it will be known as the Dennis Hogan Foundation.”
“Wow, that’s … I’m sure he’d be ever so proud … as am I.”
“It’s the least we can do,” she says, perching on the edge of the desk. “His legacy will live on for generations, we hope. Not least because of the fund he set up which will ensure we can continue our work.”
“So, he ensured the charity still has sufficient funding?”
“Oh, yes. He left us several properties in his will, including this one. The rental income from those properties will more than cover our basic needs.”
“That’s good to know,” I sniffle. “I don’t suppose he ever told you how he funded his donations?”
“I did ask him once,” she smiles. “But he just laughed and said it was his ill-gotten gains. I think he was too modest to tell me the truth.”
If only you knew, Mandy. If only you knew.
“It’s good to know he had a sense of humour.”
“He certainly did, and all our volunteers loved him for it.”
I reflect on Mandy’s statement for a few seconds. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for volunteers at the moment?”
“We’re always looking for volunteers,” she chuckles. “Why? Did you have someone in mind?”
“Me, actually.”
“Oh, wow. That would be amazing. And I’m sure Dennis would be so proud you were continuing his good work.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be quite as influential, but I’m kind of lost at the moment so you’d be doing me a favour … well, two actually.”
“Two?”
“You knew my dad better than anyone. I’d love to know what he was like, as a person, so who better to ask?”
She places her hand on my arm. “It would be an honour.”
“Anyway, I’d better get going, and I’m sure you’ve got enough to be dealing with.”
“That’s for sure. The place is in a bit of a mess with the builders coming and going.”
As I make my way to the door a final question begs to be asked.
“Can I ask, Mandy: why wasn’t the damp in my dad’s office fixed when he was here?”
“He insisted we leave his office alone, but he made me promise to get it sorted as a priority should anything happen to him.”
I guess Mandy was one of the few people Dad could trust, and what better place to hide my envelope than beneath the floorboards of an office nobody knew he worked in.
We depart with another hug and a plan for me to call Mandy in a few days’ time. I desperately need a dose of positivity in my life at the moment, and whilst investigating the Clawthorn membership is my priority, it’s hard to find much positivity amongst all the lies and corruption. Soon enough, though, that project will be complete and volunteering at the Foundation will help fill the empty days.
I make a quick detour to the adjacent street where I spotted a florist on my drive in.
Armed with a dozen white orchids, I return to the car and take a moment to get my head straight. Ironically, I find myself stood at the edge of another cliff — an emotional one this time. Visiting my dad’s grave could tip me over the edge, but I need to do this. As he said in his letter; maybe I do need to close this chapter of my life before I can truly move on.
For the first and, sadly, last time ever, I follow advice offered by my dad, and set off.
39.
My destination — Islington and St Pancras Cemetery — is a thirty minute drive away in North London. Mum grew up in Kentish Town and always said she wanted to be buried in that part of London when the time arrived. That time arrived far too soon but I did my best to honour her wishes. Having never handled funeral arrangements before, I remember, despite my constant haze, being staggered at the cost; particularly as Mum wanted to be buried rather than cremated. I was fortunate she invested in a modest life insurance policy to cover the cost.
Beyond honouring Mum’s wishes, the grave also provided a haven where I’ve been able to relinquish my grief over the ensuing months and years since she passed. I’ve spent countless hours in the cemetery chatting away to a block of polished granite. Silly, I know, but I’m not sure how I’d have coped at times without those little chats with Mum. It’s the bitterest of ironies this will be my first opportunity to chat with both my parents.
In a state of auto-pilot, I drive a little faster than us
ual and arrive at the cemetery within twenty-five minutes. I park up and, clutching the orchids, make my way through the gates. Just beyond those gates I’m greeted by two century-old oak trees either side of the path. Beneath the trees, a few dozen bright yellow daffodils bob a chirpy reminder spring is now here — a time for new beginnings, they say.
The path snakes on towards the far corner of the cemetery where Mum’s grave is located. I walk on with just the sound of my own footsteps for company. As I get within a dozen yards, I slow my pace and make for Mum’s grave.
It’s been almost a month since my last visit and the flowers I left on that occasion are a sorry sight. I squat down and replace them with six orchids.
“Sorry it’s been a while, Mum,” I whisper, getting back to my feet. “Things have been … actually, I don’t know where to begin.”
I place my hand atop the cold granite.
“I’ve found something out … about Dad.”
Pausing for a moment I try to find the right words.
“He, um, was innocent, Mum, and I feel awful … just terrible. He wanted us to be together, as a family, but that chance was …”
I choke back the lump in my throat. What I want to say goes against everything I’ve thought to be true, but there is nothing else I can say.
“If there really is a heaven, it would mean so much to think you’re with Dad again, and you’re happy. He left me some photos, of you both, and you looked so happy together … so in love. There were a few other photos too: of me as a baby. They kinda broke my heart but tell Dad he did make me smile again — he’ll know what I mean.”
I use my coat sleeve to wipe a tear from my cheek.
“Anyway I’d better go say hello to him. I’ll be back soon.”
I scan the area for a new gravestone and spot a simple wooden cross marking the slight hump of freshly turned earth.
Steeling myself I cross the grass and kneel down. There is a small brass plaque fixed to the front of the cross etched with just a name — Dennis Seamus Hogan.
The guilt I’ve been carrying for the last two weeks peaks as I recall my conversation with Penny at the second-hand clothes store. I used my dad’s headstone as a bargaining tool, and concluded I would rather dance on Dennis Hogan’s grave than mark it with a granite tribute. Here now — knelt in front of this token timber cross — I would give anything to take back those words.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I murmur. “And I promise I’ll sort you out with a proper headstone soon.”
I carefully lay the remaining orchids in front of the cross. “I’m not sure if you like orchids but Mum did. Actually, she loved flowers of every kind, but I guess you already know that.”
It would be madness to expect anything other than silence in reply, but still, it pains me when that’s all I get.
“There so much I want to say to you. I wish you could hear me.”
Almost on cue, the sun escapes from behind a drifting cloud, warming my back while casting a shadow across the grass. It’s a shadow too long to be mine.
I turn my head, and squint at a silhouetted figure on the path.
That figure then speaks. “You’d be amazed what dead men can hear.”
Much like when Eric Birtles reappeared in Dorset, reason takes up battle with my senses — the voice is too distinctive to be anyone else, but … no … it can’t be.
If this is a cruel dream, it feels too real. How can I possibly feel the warmth of the sun on my face, or smell the slight scent of freshly cut orchids?
I slowly stand up whilst focusing on the dull ache in my lower back to determine if this is, as I fear, just a scene being played out in my troubled mind.
The sun slips behind another cloud, and the silhouette is no more.
“Oh … my God.”
My mind erupts into pandemonium as it tries, and fails, to deal with the barrage of emotions.
“I … how?” I gasp. “I … I thought …”
Clement steps onto the grass but I remain frozen on the spot.
“Alright, doll.”
Belatedly, my leg muscles engage and I virtually throw myself at Clement. I bury my head in his chest gripping him tightly for fear he’ll slip away again.
“Shh. It’s okay,” he says softly.
Seconds turn to minutes as I cling to my saviour, and joy eventually edges out the fear. I take a step back but keep my hands locked around his waist.
“I thought I’d lost you,” I just about manage to whimper.
“Told you, didn’t I? Miracles happen sometimes.”
“But … the cliff. How on earth …?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I guess … how did you know I’d be here?”
“Just a hunch you’d wanna come and see your old man’s grave at some point, so I’ve been hanging around here every day for the last two weeks.”
“Every day?”
“Yeah.”
I fall into his arms again, and wallow in his musky scent. With every breath, the loneliness and the emptiness gradually ebb away. My future no longer looks quite so bleak.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I think so. I’m just hoping this isn’t a dream.”
“It’s no dream, doll.”
I look up at him just to be sure he isn’t a figment of my imagination. Not trusting my eyes alone I gently place my hand on his face.
“It’s really you,” I choke. “You’ve come back to me.”
He takes my hand in his, and plants a kiss on my forehead. “I have, and I ain’t going nowhere ever again.”
As I lose myself in his eyes the world feels an immeasurably brighter place. Ever since that night in Dorset, I’ve been haunted by a vision of this same face but, the last time I saw it, it certainly wasn’t etched with a warm, contented smile. To rid myself of that memory is a blessing in itself.
This face, in this moment, could not be more perfect.
A realisation jars.
I continue to study his perfect face — not a single scratch or bruise. How could anyone fall from a cliff so high, onto jagged rocks, and walk away without so much as a graze? I try to shake off the question but it won’t leave peacefully.
Inadvertently, my question prompts another memory — the scene beyond that cliff edge is not one I’m ever likely to forget. Reluctantly, I drag that image from the back of my mind to confirm what I already know.
I take a step back.
“What happened?”
“Eh?”
“That night?”
“Dunno what you mean.”
I catch myself just before I quiz him further. I’m being ridiculous — surely all that matters is he’s alive?
“I’m being silly. Forget it.”
His smile returns as he squeezes my hand. I look down and can’t help but check his hand for evidence of the fall. Lots of old scars but not even a broken fingernail.
I should be ecstatic to see Clement again, and I am, but recent events have added a sceptical, suspicious edge to my curious nature. Such is the gnawing doubt I begin to question my own memories. Have they somehow become corrupted by the grief I’ve suffered of late?
A few seconds thought, and I conclude it’s not a hazy memory undermining my reunion with Clement. I’ve awoken my curiosity and it won’t settle until it’s been fed.
“Um, how come there’s not a mark on you?”
“Must have just got lucky.”
Containing my incredulity is not easy, but I bury it beneath a concerned expression.
“Have you been to hospital?”
“Why would I go to the hospital?”
“Well, you fell from a ninety foot cliff onto jagged rocks, and then somehow managed to swim several hundred yards in a stormy sea. And that’s before you factor in the temperature of the water — I know you said you don’t feel the cold, but you’re not immune to hypothermia.”
“As I said: must have just been lucky.”
“And as I asked: have you b
een to the hospital?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I know, and that’s what I don’t understand. Two men fell from a cliff, and one of them died instantly. The other turns up two weeks later without so much as a scratch on him. Would you not be mildly curious how that happened if the roles were reversed?”
“Thought you’d be pleased to see me,” he frowns.
“What? No … of course I am. It’s just …”
“Knew this was a bad idea,” he grunts. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Of course you should have. I’m just a bit shocked; that’s all.”
I try to shake off the tethers which are currently holding me back from what should be a joyous reunion. As much as I try, something doesn’t feel right, and Clement can clearly sense my indecision.
“Sorry. I gotta go.”
He turns and walks away. Coupled with his lack of an explanation for the supposed miracle his abrupt departure only fuels my suspicion that I’m not in full possession of the facts.
“Wait,” I call out. He ignores me.
I gather up all my doubts and scuttle after him; covering a dozen yards of path before I draw level.
“How did you know my dad was buried here?” I ask.
“Just leave it,” he replies, without breaking stride.
Frustrated, I throw him another question.
“What happened that evening? I saw Eric drag you over the cliff and I spent … I don’t know … twenty minutes scouring the sea just in case you somehow survived the fall. But … you weren’t there.”
No reply.
“Clement, please. I just want some answers.”
He comes to an abrupt halt and looks skyward. His pained expression slowly fades before he looks down at me.
“You really wanna know the truth?”
Whatever his truth is, I can tell from the tone of his voice I probably don’t want to hear it any more than he wants to say it. Nevertheless, I nod.
“Come with me,” he says, taking my hand.
He leads me further along the path towards the cemetery gates.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 35