Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  This is typical of her. She does things her own way and is happy to fly in the face of convention. Anyone foolish enough to think she’d slept her way to the top would learn of their mistake when confronted with her sharp mind and instinctive cunning.

  The clack of her heels can be heard over the rumble of the plane’s idling engines as she marches towards us. Her expression is business-like, but I can see a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek and offers her hand to Cameron.

  He smiles what appears to be a genuine smile and introduces himself.

  ‘I know who you are, Mr MacDonald. Alfonse filled me in on the need to rush you back to Casperton. I think it’s very noble of you to help your son in this way.’

  ‘I insisted on helping as soon as I heard about my poor boy.’

  It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Alfonse has given Claire a potted version of the truth. To me it sounds like he’s omitted all the unsavoury details and has pitched our need for transport as a mercy dash, rather than the hot extraction it is.

  What he’s said to enlist her help doesn’t bother me. Desperate times call for desperate measures; without her aid there’s little chance of me getting Cameron to John’s bedside.

  The thing that bothers me most is the charm that Cameron’s displaying. As soon as he heard Claire suggest he was doing an honourable thing, he twisted the dial to maximum. Within seconds he was all smiles as he offered Claire his arm for the walk to the plane.

  The fact that my father is an instinctive player shouldn’t have surprised me. I was one until I fell for Taylor. I had to inherit the trait from somewhere, and I’d much prefer it to come from an absent father than a narcissistic mother.

  I buckle my seatbelt and watch as Claire takes the seat beside Cameron.

  The jet engines roar as we hurtle down the tiny runway. I don’t know a lot about aeronautics, but to me, the runway seems too short for the jet to build up enough speed to take off.

  Claire’s pilot must know better. He lifts the nose of the plane and we soar into the sky.

  I’m tempted to look out of the window to see how much we clear the trees, but sometimes it’s better not to know.

  Once the plane levels out, I unclip my seatbelt and take a few paces up and down the aisle to stretch my legs.

  I make sure, when I sit back down, that I can establish eye contact with both Claire and Cameron. She might be doing us a huge favour, but she’s a sexual predator who’s sitting next to a slippery liar who’ll do and say whatever he thinks will earn him any kind of reward.

  Claire is a big girl and I know she can take care of herself, it’s Cameron I’m blocking. My girlfriend died because of his selfishness and cowardice; there’s no way I’m going to stand by and allow him to seduce a woman young enough to be his daughter.

  I don’t particularly want to tell Claire what he’s really like yet. It’s bad enough that she’s been spun a line to help us, telling her while we’re mid-air will only lead to a frosty atmosphere for the rest of the journey.

  I couldn’t give two hoots about having a pleasant atmosphere; however, I do want time and peace to think.

  Getting Cameron to Casperton is only part of what I have to plan.

  48

  I look out of the window as the plane taxies towards the low building that is Casperton Airport’s terminal. I can see Alfonse’s car and I know he’ll have followed my instructions regardless of his own feelings.

  Casperton Airport might not be much, but compared to Hopedale’s tree-flanked runway its wide, open space makes it feel like JFK or LAX in size, if not in volume of traffic.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder once the plane has stopped near the terminal. There are no elevated walkways here, just flat tarmac and a building that houses the requisite amount of security guards, a fast-food outlet, and a car hire firm.

  The air is hot and dry as we walk across the tarmac.

  As we exit the terminal, Cameron freezes.

  I know the cause of his sudden reluctance to move. To a certain degree I can understand why he doesn’t want to go any further.

  Tough. He’s the man who walked out on my mother, my sister and me. He’s the man whose actions caused the death of my girlfriend.

  ‘Why did you have to bring her here?’ Cameron looks at me with panic on his face. ‘Jesus, Jake. You’re ripping the piss here.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you recognise her after all these years.’ I raise an eyebrow at him. If my face is giving away any of my thoughts, he’ll know to shut his mouth. ‘She’s going to look after you. Make sure you’re comfortable. You’ll be able to catch up on old times.’

  The one word he gives voice to has seven letters.

  My reply doubles him over.

  I’ve been called a lot worse, but when a father uses a term that implies illegitimacy to his son, I figure the only fitting response is violence.

  I’ve thrown harder punches and, if he’s mixed up with the people he says he is, it’s a fair bet that at some point in his life he’ll have been hit with a lot more intent. All I did was remind him to watch his manners around me.

  Alfonse looks grave standing beside Mother. Compared to her though, he’s wearing the expression of someone who’s just checked their lottery numbers and found out they’ve won the jackpot. I’d expected to see a wateriness to her eyes, or a tremble in her jaw. Neither are evident.

  Thirty years of hate now have a legitimate target.

  None of us speak, but the look I get from Mother is sharp enough to eviscerate a concrete elephant. She’s gone beyond grief and self-pity. She’s now in the land of controlled fury. I swear, if she was holding a gun, she’d put it to Cameron’s head and pull the trigger without hesitation.

  I slump down in the back of Alfonse’s car and keep my face turned away from the window. It’s only a matter of time before my name is connected to Taylor’s death. Her bag is still on the yacht and will contain enough details to identify her.

  Once Taylor’s parents have learned of her death, they’ll tell the police she was with me when they last saw her.

  This is not the first situation I have been in where people have died, so my name will be at the top of what I don’t expect to be a long list of suspects.

  As soon as I get Cameron to the hospital to be tested, and deposited at my apartment with Mother as his guard, I’m going back to New York.

  Claire Knight is returning there at midnight and I’ve managed to talk my way onto the plane for a second time.

  Mother doesn’t know about my plans, but Alfonse does. He’s tried without success to dissuade me.

  Before I go, I need to have a brief talk with Cameron. At least I hope it will be a talk. If he listens to me, and trusts me enough to share what he knows, it’ll be a conversation.

  Should he have other ideas, I may have to persuade him the same way as I did Donny. I don’t like the idea of using torture, or even threats of it, with Cameron. When all is said and done, I still have his blood running through my veins.

  On the other hand, I’m not going to let my respect for the status of fatherhood stand in the way of what needs to be done to avenge Taylor.

  My trip to New York has another purpose. It’s one thing delivering vengeance, but for justice to be done I need to make sure that my innocence in Taylor’s death is proven beyond doubt.

  Even if I die in my attempts, I don’t want my name to be associated with a murder I’m innocent of.

  Alfonse parks a hundred yards from the hospital’s main entrance.

  I stare at Cameron and wait until he looks at me before speaking.

  ‘Are you going to man up and walk in there like a proper father, or do I have to lay you out and carry you in?’ I give a nonchalant shrug to emphasise my point. ‘You don’t need to be conscious for them to test your bone marrow.’

  Cameron scowls and makes a growling noise.

  I lift an eyebrow and point to the hospital. He may
be the parent, and I the child, but we both know, in our relationship, that the young bull has superseded the old one.

  As soon as he opens his door, I open mine. Alfonse follows suit, but Mother sits with her arms folded. This isn’t something she wants to be part of.

  We leave her to intimidate the cars in the parking lot and escort Cameron into the hospital.

  49

  Cameron settles himself on the bed and looks around the room. It’s spartan to say the least. There’s a bed, a boarded-up window, and an ensuite bathroom. A series of indentations in the carpet show where furniture usually stands.

  His stomach still aches from Jake’s punch, and there’s a residual numbness in his pelvis where the bone marrow sample was taken. As the numbness is wearing off, a dull throbbing is settling in.

  With everything that has happened today, he’s shattered, and welcomes the bed with its clean sheets and plump pillows.

  Seeing Ivy again was something of a shock, but he should have guessed she’d need to be involved.

  The room he’s in is his son’s. Before he was ushered in here, Jake had sat him down, outlined a wild plan, and asked one question after another.

  Cameron had thought for a minute or two as Jake had talked, and had decided he had nothing to lose by giving honest answers to Jake’s questions.

  If Jake’s plan works, his name will be cleared as his bosses will be either imprisoned or dead. This means he can live the rest of his life with considerably fewer looks over his shoulder.

  Should Jake fail, he will die, and his death will attract all the attention, thereby giving Cameron a better chance at starting a new life. Plus, without Jake’s brawn, he can easily get away from Ivy and the puny guy who’d done the driving. Noble as it would be to save a life, Cameron’s priority is preserving his own.

  The only way things could go bad for him, is if Jake falls into the hands of his former bosses. Jake may be tough, but Cameron doubts he’s tough enough to withstand the torture he’d be sure to face.

  Cameron doesn’t believe his son will triumph. Jake might be a good bar room brawler, but he’ll be going up against professional hoods and hitmen. They’ll have guns and experience; he’ll have anger and fists.

  Cameron has seen enough fights to know that the man who keeps a cool head will, more often than not, beat the guy who throws wild punches and doesn’t worry about defence.

  All he has to do is wait to see who opens the door. If it’s Ivy, he’s home free. If it’s Jake, he’ll have to wait around to help John before he can get on with rebuilding his life.

  ‘You make sure you get a good night’s sleep, Cameron. Because tomorrow, starting at six, I’m going to read you the diaries I kept after you broke the hearts of a good woman and two innocent bairns.’

  It isn’t tiredness that closes Cameron’s eyes.

  50

  I head into my bathroom and grab a quick shower. I don’t bother shaving. The clothes I put on afterwards are clean, comfortable, and importantly, if things go the way I expect them to, disposable.

  I pick up my wallet, a cheap cell, and the backpack containing Ms Rosenberg’s evidence.

  The contents of the backpack will be handed to Alfonse, so he can assimilate all the information, scan it onto memory sticks and distribute it to all the major news channels and law enforcement agencies.

  Rather than take my own cell I have bought a new one – so I can use Google and other services. No numbers will be stored in it lest it falls into the wrong hands and paints a target on the back of someone I care about.

  I open my wallet – my Glasgow roots don’t let me think of it as a billfold – and remove all the cards and licences from it.

  Alfonse has advised me to have the back up of a credit card, but I don’t think running out of money is going to be the biggest issue I have.

  I pull out the handful of receipts in the back of my wallet and flick idly through them. There’s a receipt for a meal Taylor and I had enjoyed, and one for a film we hadn’t.

  The next receipt I look at isn’t one I recognise, so I look at it a bit closer. It’s dated two days ago, and when I see what it’s for, my breathing stops.

  Somehow I manage to wobble my way to a chair and sit.

  I breathe again and it feels ragged and uncomfortable. However, compared to the sudden and debilitating ache in my heart, it is painless.

  Mother looks at me with concern.

  I shake my head and hope I’m wrong.

  On my last night with Taylor, I’d told her I loved her.

  It wasn’t a sudden thing; I’d just gotten myself drunk enough to realise it.

  ‘What is it, Jake? What’s wrong?’

  I open my mouth, but words don’t come out.

  I try again but still have no success.

  I give up trying to speak, and hand Mother the receipt.

  She holds it at arm’s length and squints at it.

  Her mouth twists as she battles her emotions. Strength in the face of adversity, beats complete meltdown by the tiniest fraction.

  She walks across, lays a weathered hand on my arm and looks deep into my eyes. ‘Oh, Jake. I’m so sorry.’

  We sit together in silence for a while then Mother leaves me to manage my grief alone. I want to scream to express my feelings, but I don’t. Neither do I lash out and punch the walls or a door. There will be plenty of opportunity to release my emotions when I get to New York; hurting my hands now will achieve nothing bar shortening my odds of success.

  My anger needs a temporary outlet, so I pick myself up, change into running sweats and go out for a run. I have an hour before Alfonse picks me up and takes me to the airport.

  Taylor told me that a drunk man speaks the truth.

  I’d spoken the truth to her and my actions had spoken louder to me.

  When I close the door behind me, the receipt for the deposit I’d put down on an engagement ring is clasped between my fingers.

  51

  I part company with Claire Knight outside the arrivals lounge. A town car and driver awaits her; I hail a cab and ask the driver to take me to Queens.

  First on my to-do list is to get some weapons. After that, I need to hole up somewhere until it’s evening.

  As we drive through the streets the cab driver regales me with his opinions on the mayoral election.

  It’s tempting to inform him how crooked his preferred choice is, but I keep my mouth shut. When Alfonse gets the word out, the last thing I want is some random cabbie going to the press with tales of a passenger who’d told him everything they’d printed before they got the information. I have enough potential threats to my life without going public and giving people a trail to follow.

  I suffer his forthright views without comment and pay him what he asks, with a tip, when he drops me off on Metropolitan Avenue.

  There are a multitude of shops here, and while travelling in the cab I saw a few where I could begin to build my arsenal.

  The first store I enter is an everyday convenience store. It has the usual aisles lined with food, and people shopping for groceries. A young mum pushes a trolley in which a toddler is screaming for attention while she focuses on her cell phone.

  I make my way to the back of the store and check out their cookware range. Were it not for the rage inside me, I’d give a smile of triumph.

  I select four knives of various sizes from the range that have stainless steel handles. I also pick up one of those little blowtorches. Next, is a ten-inch sharpening steel. Not only will it sharpen knives, it’ll work as a club and is compact enough to slide inside a sleeve.

  The guy who takes my money looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than working in a convenience store. I’m all for free expression when it comes to piercings and tattoos, but with the amount this guy has on his face and hands, I guess this may well be the best job he’ll ever have.

  With my purchases in my backpack I start to walk along the street. There are still a number of items I need, and the n
ewspaper I buy will help me identify the best place to complete my list of weapons.

  Knives are a good weapon for a close up fight, but guns have range and a far greater threat level.

  If I buy a gun from a shop, there is bound to be a registration process. The last thing I want to do is put my name against a weapon that will be used in a murder.

  Only the most stupid of gun shop owners would fail to have a CCTV camera watching over their store. This means my new unshaven look will be connected with me from the word go, should the authorities trace the gun I plan to use.

  To counteract this, I plan to get a gun another way. Hence the newspaper. There are some things you just can’t Google.

  52

  The list of businesses I got from Cameron is extensive, and I make sure I take a walk past as many of them as I can.

  They are all typical looking businesses. None are remarkable in any way other than their ownership and randomness.

  My walk takes me past auto repair shops, hotels, bars, a convenience store, and many other seemingly unconnected businesses.

  Cameron’s employer owns a wide cross-section of companies to give a legitimate front to their crime empire. He didn’t say as much, but I’m ninety per cent sure that Cameron was involved in laundering money through these businesses. They are too eclectic to be anything other than laundromats for money generated from prostitution, drug dealing and other illegal activities.

  I spy a traditional barbershop and walk through its door.

  There’s a scuffed leather bench where a row of guys are waiting their turn. A melancholic blues track is playing in the background and there’s a whiff of grooming products in the air.

  Four barbers are snipping, styling and shaving away at their customers.

  My turn comes and I take a seat in front of the mirror. The barber I get is an old man with steady hands and bright eyes.