by Graham Smith
Cameron knows he should feel guilty about arranging a meeting he’ll never attend, but he feels nothing except a burning desire to get to the dealership.
‘You haven’t once asked how I am, how my sister is, or if our mother is still alive.’
Jake’s tone holds a ferocity that rocks Cameron. He takes a look at his son’s hands and sees the white-knuckled fists; he knows what happens when the MacDonald blood gets heated.
‘I’m sorry, it’s just such a shock seeing you here.’ An idea comes into Cameron’s mind. Another pair of hands may be useful, and having the boy’s girlfriend around will certainly improve the scenery. ‘Why don’t you come with me? I can drop you at the station as I pass it.’ He hands Jake the keys to his car and the bag from his shoulder. ‘Jump in. I’ll just be a second.’
Cameron goes back into the house and into the kitchen. He turns on the gas stove, but doesn’t spark the igniter, and lays a can of gasoline on its side after removing the top. Standing behind the front door, he sparks his lighter and touches the flame to the wick of a candle. By the time the gas fumes reach the candle that one of his lady-friends brought over, he’ll be at least a mile away.
25
Now that I’ve met my birth father, all the years I’ve spent hating him seem justified. I can’t think of him as my father anymore; he may be, biologically speaking, but having experienced the offhand way he greeted me, his long-lost son, I’m beginning to think that him walking out on us was a good thing.
The moment I’ve both dreaded and rehearsed for many years has come and gone, and none of it happened how I’d imagined. Sometimes I’ve thought he’d welcome me with open arms, other times I’ve imagined him spurning me.
Disinterest wasn’t a reaction I’d anticipated, not even once.
It’s like my visit is a nuisance to him and he’ll be happy to be rid of us.
He’s asking me questions, but since I had to give him prompts, I don’t believe he’s asking out of genuine interest. Rather, I believe he’s controlling the conversation so I don’t ask him for any answers.
Finally, he asks the question I’ve been waiting for.
‘The reason I looked you up, is because my half-brother John came looking for me.’
Cameron nods. I can’t even call him Father in my head anymore. Mr MacDonald would be another option, but that term would afford him a respect he doesn’t deserve. I could call him a derogatory name, but that would indicate I care enough about him to get angry. There’s no way I’m going to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m still hurting. As far as I’m concerned, he’s Cameron.
‘It’s nice that he found you. I’ve always thought boys should have a brother.’
It takes all my self-control not to ask why he didn’t stick around to give me a brother. Instead of snarling abuse at him, I decide to use bad news as a sucker punch. ‘John needs a bone marrow transplant, otherwise he’ll die of leukaemia. He looked me up hoping I’d be a match.’
‘For his sake, I hope you are.’
‘I’m not. I was close, but not close enough.’
I fall silent and let him join the dots by himself.
His eyes close for a moment and then he swallows.
‘So, you looked me up to tell me your brother is dead?’
‘No. I looked you up to tell you my brother needs you to save his life.’
It’s Cameron’s turn to fall silent.
I let him have some thinking time. My own moral compass would never require time to consider a request such as this but, while we may have similar genetic codes, I have morals that were instilled by a strong woman with bags of determination and a good heart. Mother may be a narcissist but, regardless of how much she complains, she would always put Sharon and me first.
His behaviour promotes a different set of values that centre around the sole needs of Cameron MacDonald.
As I look out of the window at the streets of Clifton, I try and guess what brought him to live in New York’s commuter belt. Sure, there will be anonymity, but he could find that wherever he went. His house, if it is his house, looked like a good one. I’ve no idea what house prices run to around these parts, but I’m guessing it’ll be worth at least three times what I paid for my apartment.
Part of me is willing him to make the right decision; to save the life of a son he abandoned. Not just because it means my brother will get to live, but because it means that whatever relationship I have, or don’t have with Cameron in the future, I’ll know that for once in his life, he has stepped up and done the right thing for one of his children. I never had a proper father I could look up to – although Neill Boulder was everything a stepfather should be – so I would like my one association with Cameron MacDonald to be one I could think about with something akin to pride.
When he speaks, his voice wavers. ‘How urgent is it that he gets the bone marrow?’
‘He’s got another three weeks. After that, he’ll be flying back to Scotland so he can die with his wife and daughters at his bedside.’
Some people might consider mentioning John’s wife and daughters to be a low blow. They can go screw themselves. I’m trying to persuade a selfish prick to save his son’s life. I’ll hit as low as I need to.
‘You mean he’s here? In the States?’
Cameron hasn’t asked about John’s daughters, which doesn’t go unnoticed by me, but it’s hardly a surprise. If he can abandon his own four children, he’s not going to suddenly care about grandchildren he’s never met.
‘Yeah. When his rare blood type prevented any donors being found in the UK, he came looking for me and Sharon. With neither of us being a match, you’re his last chance.’
‘Jake, I want to help. Please believe me, I want to help.’
His tone is plaintive, almost pleading, I get what he’s saying. More important, I get what he’s not asking. Namely: how he can help and where he should go to give bone marrow or at least get tested.
The problem is, there’s a but coming. I decide to wait him out; give him chance to ask how he can help.
‘I’m sorry to have to say this, Jake.’
I feel Taylor’s knee press against the back of my seat. She’s probably warning me to proceed with caution. Warnings never did go down well with me.
‘Say what? That you can’t help him? Or that you’d rather your son died, than inconvenience yourself for a couple of days?’
‘Dammit, boy. Don’t you give me any of your snash. You make out like I should just drop everything and ride to his rescue. Things aren’t that simple you know.’
The anger in his tone takes me aback for a moment, but I use the time to gather my wits and fire back at him in a low growl. ‘Growing up without a father wasn’t simple. Neither was trying not to expect him to come home at any minute. Listening to your mother cry herself to sleep every night, because your father had abandoned her, wasn’t simple. Trying to work out if you had left because you hated us, wasn’t simple.’ I rest my hand on his leg and squeeze until he bats it away. ‘My life hasn’t been simple, but I got by. Tell me, what’s so complicated that you’re prepared to let your son die?’
Cameron begins to speak. His words sound foreign to my ears. What he’s telling me, doesn’t happen to people from Glasgow. Certainly not to people like him.
The sad thing is, what he’s telling me is too far-fetched to be made up.
I turn and look at Taylor. I’m hoping for advice from her, but she stays silent. Her point is clear: the decision is mine. It’s one I’ll live and quite possibly die by.
It’s not a choice I should have to make, yet there’s no escaping the fact it is one I have been presented with.
To save my brother I have to help my father commit a crime. Not a small crime against a faceless corporation; a personal one against his employer. That there will be repercussions is a given.
The only saving grace is that his plan seems as if it will work, and it should allow him to drop off the radar.
‘I
’m in.’
A warm hand caresses my shoulder and I feel a brief squeeze of support.
I hide my sigh of relief. Apart from everything else I’m risking by agreeing to help Cameron, my relationship with Taylor may not have survived my decision.
26
I want to cross-examine Cameron about the crime he wants me to help him commit, but instead I stay quiet. Sometimes knowing everything isn’t a good idea. He’s given me the broad strokes and that’s enough.
That he is working as a double agent for two warring businessmen is all I need to know. The heist he’s been tasked with seems simple enough on the surface. While nothing ever runs according to plan, I can’t see any massive danger in what we’re about to do.
In a lot of ways this heist is quite ingenious and, while I’d be the first to confess that my only experience of crime is in the novels I read, I believe we can get away with it. Once the job is done we’ll be able to hop on a plane back to Casperton.
I want to send John a message, telling him we’ll be there in a couple of days, but something makes me hold back. If I’m honest with myself, I think it’s because I don’t trust Cameron.
It’s an odd sensation not trusting the person who sired you. I guess it’s akin to having a spouse be unfaithful, or a sibling con you out of money. It’s not a feeling I’m comfortable with, and part of me wants to point the finger of blame at myself for having unfounded suspicions.
Yes, he’s let us all down in the past, but it’s one thing walking out of your children’s lives, and another thing condemning them to death. I guess, because I share his blood, I don’t want him to be callous to the point of being uncaring.
When he opened the door, and I saw him for the first time since childhood, I got a glimpse of my future. I’ve no doubt the surprise in his eyes was reflected in mine.
On the rare occasions I’ve imagined what I’ll look like in my sixties, the images I’ve conjured have been more or less what Cameron looks like now. Perhaps a little less stressed and with more of a twinkle in my eye, but still very much like him.
All I can hope is that the only things I’ve inherited from him are the MacDonald temper and his looks. The last thing I want to be, is as selfish as he is.
There have been times in my past when Mother’s narcissistic ways have made his leaving understandable. What hasn’t been easy to comprehend, is how he could leave two children who idolised him. I guess at some point over the next few days I’ll sit down with him and pick at those scabs, but I’m determined to wait until he’s saved John, before I start asking the kind of questions that could see Cameron walk out of my life for a second time.
I turn my mind away from thoughts I’m not yet ready to give voice to, and start paying more attention to where we’re going. Or rather, where Cameron is taking us. So far as I can tell, we’ve travelled south, past the western edge of New York, and swung east. I see a sign for Staten Island, but Cameron has pulled into a lane that, according to the road markings, will take us to a place called Perth Amboy.
Cameron seems assured with his driving. He’s not bothered to set the GPS and he’s always in the right lane at the right time. It’s a sure indicator that he’s come this way on more than one occasion. This wouldn’t concern me, were it not for the constant looks at his watch.
He’s worried about the time, which means he’s worried about how long it’ll take until he can get on with his plan.
I get that a heist has to run to plan, and that timings will be a crucial part of said plan; I don’t get why he’s not driving a little faster. The traffic is light enough for us to add another five to ten mph to our speed without any trouble. He doesn’t though, which rings alarm bells. I just need to listen to those bells and interpret their tune.
27
The dealer is all smiles for Cameron as he rounds his art-deco desk. The rest of his office is styled the same way and, just like the dealer, it lacks any real personality beyond that necessary to make the sale.
‘You have the deeds?’
‘But of course. Can I get you anything: a coffee, something stronger?’
‘Just the deeds, thank you.’
The dealer lifts a folder from his desk, opens it and hands the papers inside it to Cameron.
An old hand at legal documents, Cameron only takes a moment to pick out the salient points.
Number one: the deeds are in the name of the shell corporation he’d told the dealer to register his ownership in.
Number two: neither his real name nor the one he’s been using in the US are on the documents.
Number three: the documents are a perfect match for the uncompleted ones in the briefcase resting in the trunk of his car.
‘Very good.’ Cameron gives a curt nod and makes for the door. ‘Shall we?’
When he emerges, he sees Jake and the girl standing by his car. Jake looks pensive while the girl has a red tinge to her cheeks that he puts down to excitement. He guesses she’s never so much as jaywalked before, so this experience will be a new one for her.
He might not know his son, but he’s always been a good judge of character. What’s more, Cameron is self-aware enough to see his own faults being reflected at him. He figures the girl may well be trying life with a bad boy.
If he can avoid Jake’s notice for a while, maybe he’ll see if the girl would like to try upgrading to a bad man.
Cameron resists the urge to keep checking his watch, as the dealer insists on showing them around the motorised yacht.
The two crew members he’s hired are busy loading the yacht with the provisions from the trunk of his car.
His crew aren’t the professional sailors you would normally find on a seven million dollar yacht, but they’ll do for the short time he needs their services.
Cameron manages to get the dealer off the yacht, and is on the harbour wall helping to cast off the mooring ropes, when he hears a name he was planning to leave behind. His head snaps up and he sees three of his employer’s enforcers.
They’re not the top enforcers, but they are still vicious thugs who’re surrounding him. Once upon a time, he’d have been confident against any two of them. Now, he’s too old, too slow and too out of practice to make more than a token gesture of defence.
28
I see the three men surrounding Cameron and know at once that something is wrong. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting trouble; instinct made sure the first thing I did when I got on the yacht was to find a vantage point where I could keep an eye on Cameron.
I dash towards the gangplank and run across it, trying not to picture myself falling into the water.
There’s a definite menace about the men, so I slow to a brisk walk as I approach the nearest of them. He’s got slicked-back hair, tied in a ponytail, and looks as if he should be directing bad porn movies. When he turns, he suggests I go away and multiply with myself.
He’s trying to keep things private, but I see one of his buddies reaching into his suit jacket.
I decide to err on the side of caution and presume he’s not going to pull out a pen and ask for my autograph.
He sees me halt, and draws his hand back a couple of inches. It’s all the advantage I need.
By the time I’ve dashed the six paces between us, his hand has just got inside his jacket. To keep his gun away from me, I thrust my shoulder against his arm and barge him towards the water.
I drop to my knees at the last second and let him topple the twelve feet into the harbour.
As I spring to my feet, I hear the thud of knuckles on flesh behind me.
The wannabe porn director has a broken nose, but the other guy is raining blows towards Cameron. As he’s the biggest threat, I go for him first.
I use the distraction of him beating on Cameron, to get behind him where I can bury a fist into each of his kidneys. First right, then left.
He drops to one knee and gasps in pain. Long term, repeated blows to the kidneys can cause damage but, after a few days of pissing b
lood, this guy will recover.
His buddy pulls a knife and uses the back of his free hand to wipe away the blood that’s dripping from his chin.
I step between him and Cameron.
‘Get the yacht ready; now!’ I push Cameron towards the gangplank while keeping my eyes on the guy with the knife.
He’s twisting his arm at the wrist as he waves the knife around. His grip is assured and his eyes are filled with confidence.
‘Leave now, buddy, and you won’t get hurt.’
I shake my head. ‘That’s not gonna happen. Why don’t you leave? I’ve already taken care of your friends. That knife isn’t going to stop me taking care of you.’
He lunges forward. Fast.
The knife flashes across where my stomach had been a second earlier, then he follows up the move with a backhand slash towards my head.
His eyes gave away his intentions, but it’s still too close for comfort. I don’t even have time to counterpunch.
He smiles at me and reveals a missing tooth. He’s confident that he’s got the better of me.
I feint a step forward and dance back as he repeats his earlier move.
When his knife arm passes me on his backhand stroke, I pounce.
My left hand grabs his right wrist, preventing him from using the knife on me, as I use my right hand to grab his collar and drag his face towards my thrusting forehead. If his nose wasn’t already broken by Cameron’s punch, it will be now.
I lift a knee to his groin and give a vicious twist on his knife arm. In his beat-up state he drops the knife.
A blow to the temple drops him.
Five seconds later his knife plops into the dark harbour water, and I’m yelling at Cameron to set sail.
29
Cameron watches as Jake bounds up the gangplank. As soon as his son’s feet hit the deck, he barges the crew member away from the controls and rams the throttle against its stops.
