Susan and Kenneth had been trying, unsuccessfully, for a child over many years. Kenneth, as it proves, was a better man and husband than I. Despite knowing of his wife’s infidelity, he agreed to raise Gabrielle as his own. His only condition was that I had nothing to do with her. To my shame, I agreed without argument and paid a sum of money to unburden myself from the guilt. Besides the one photo (enclosed), I have never set eyes on your sister, and it pains me that I never will.
At the time, and you must believe me, Son, I thought I was doing what was best for all concerned. Time has taught me I was wrong. Sadly, there is no longer enough time for me to make amends. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me, and to seek forgiveness on my behalf. I would rest easy knowing perhaps one day, you and Gabrielle might forge the relationship I so readily gave away.
I am sorry to say I can already feel my mind fading, and I must leave now. There is so much still to say, but know that I always have, and always will be proud of you. Be strong and follow your own path, for mine is not worthy.
God bless you, Son
All my love - Father
For the third time this morning, tears well. Perhaps if this letter had reached me as a twenty-four-year-old, my life would be different now. I’ll never know.
“What’s it say, Bill?” Clement asks.
I hand the page to him. “See for yourself.”
I turn my attention back to Rosa. “Why did you keep that page? You must have known it would undermine your sister’s plot if it ever came to light?”
“Of course, which is why she threw that page in the bin. I removed it when she wasn’t around.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Rosa? Why did you keep it?”
“Because I knew Amy’s plot would never work in the long run, and I’d have to face you one day. It was all I had to prove to you I’m not her.”
“Maybe not, but you were complicit.”
“I know, and I’m not trying to shift the blame, but you have to understand Amy to appreciate how I got here.”
“I’m not sure I ever want to understand your sister. She’s pure evil.”
“She’s not evil, William — she’s a victim too.”
“Really?” I scoff. “I fail to see how.”
There’s no response but the body language suggests Rosa is holding back another revelation.
“Well?”
She squeezes her eyes shut and draws a long breath.
“Okay,” she finally sighs, opening her eyes. “Before my mother worked at Hansworth Hall, we were a normal family living a normal life, or so I thought. Turned out my father had been sexually abusing Amy for years, and one day…she just snapped. He snuck into her bedroom one evening but on that occasion, Amy was waiting for him. She hid behind the door and stabbed him in the back with a carving knife, eleven times. He died before the ambulance arrived.”
“Christ.”
“And without his income, the house was repossessed and that’s how Mum ended up caring for your father. We simply needed somewhere to live. Amy spent years undergoing treatment for her ordeal, but I guess it was too late — she was irreparably damaged. Both Mum and I learnt that life was easier if you went along with whatever Amy wanted. Sounds stupid, but we were…are, terrified of her.”
I’m truly lost for words. Clement, it seems, is not.
“That’s tragic. Fucked up, but tragic.”
“As I said,” Rosa adds. “It’s not an excuse, just an explanation. I’m not condoning what Amy did...what we did.”
Whatever sympathy I might now hold for Amy, and indeed Rosa, it isn’t enough to stifle my need for justice. If it hadn’t been for Clement’s insistence we come back to Hounslow, and perhaps my willingness to ignore his ridiculous claims, I would probably be sitting in a police cell by now.
“I’m sorry, Rosa. What you’ve all been through sounds horrific, but you do realise I can’t just ignore what’s happened?”
“I know, and once I say goodbye to Mum, I’m going to hand myself in at the police station.”
I look across at Clement and he returns a shrug.
“I’ll give you until two o’clock. If you haven’t been to the police and confessed by then, I’ll review my decision to help your mother.”
Rosa nods and gives me her word; not that it’s worth much.
“I mean it, Rosa,” I sternly warn. “I’ll be telling the police the whole sorry tale and the first thing they’ll do is come here to interview your mother. If you don’t want to put her through that, I would strongly advise you keep your word.”
“The only reason I agreed to any of this was to help Mum. I’ll keep my word if you keep yours.”
“Very well. And what about Amy?”
“I’ll call and tell her it’s over, but I can’t promise she’ll do the right thing.”
“Well, I’m sure the police will catch up with her soon enough. I’ve got enough to deal with for the moment but I will talk to them later today. It would be in everyone’s best interests if Amy also handed herself in.”
“I can’t promise she’ll listen but I’ll ask her. Thank you, William, and for what it’s worth, I truly am sorry.”
A frowning Anna suddenly appears at the end of the corridor and impatiently taps at her watch. “I said fifteen minutes. You finished now, yes?”
Clement slaps me on the back and smiles. “Yeah. We’re all done, sweetheart,” he calls back.
33.
I walked into Orchard Lodge as a condemned man.
I leave like a prisoner granted unexpected parole.
As we wander back up Adam Street, I try to process the morning’s events. A raft of wildly different thoughts and emotions battle for attention; some positive, some negative. However, the one emotion I expected to feel is not there. There is no elation at finally closing this sorry chapter of my life. A chain of events, first triggered almost two decades ago, has reached a wholly unsatisfactory conclusion.
My father’s letter, at least the concluding page, is the most unsatisfactory part. He might have hoped I connect with my estranged sister but he also inadvertently gave me good reason not to. Gabrielle is now thirty years of age and must know who her real father is, by virtue of the fact his name is on her birth certificate. Yet she has made no effort to contact me because, I suspect, she already has all the family she needs. The man who raised her deserves to be called a father and she probably doesn’t need, or want, me turning up as a reminder that Kenneth isn’t her biological parent.
No, I must accept I haven’t found a sister — I’ve found a secret I must protect, for everyone’s sake.
“Penny for them,” Clement chirps as we reach the end of Adam Street.
“Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Sure? You don’t seem pleased we’ve dealt with whatever her bleedin’ name is.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m more relieved than you’ll ever know. It’s just…I’m really back at square one. Nothing has changed.”
“Something has.”
“What?”
“Well, I can’t rib you about knobbing your sister now.”
“Every cloud, eh?” I chuckle.
We cross the road and make our way towards the train station. My thoughts turn to my companion, and the deal we struck back at the flat. After everything he’s done for me, I need to put his welfare above mine for the moment. Whatever is going on in his head, it needs fixing.
“How’s that itch of yours?” I ask.
“Scratched.”
“Really? As simple as that?”
“Yeah. The jobs done.”
“So is that it then? The voice just stops?”
“I reckon so. Can’t say for sure.”
“What will you do now?”
“Getting pissed feels appropriate.”
“No, I didn’t mean now, as in the next few hours. I mean, in the future.”
“I
ain’t got a clue. I’ll end up where I end up.”
“But you don’t know where?”
“Nope. Life’s like a road trip, mate. We get to choose the route but not where or when it ends.”
“That’s rather profound, Clement, although I’m not sure I see your point.”
“That’s a shame, seeing as you’ve been on the wrong road most of your life.”
“Wait…what? How is this suddenly about me?”
“It’s always been about you, Bill.”
“Now I’m officially confused.”
“The only reason I’m here is because you needed help. You’re part of my road trip, or I’m part of yours. Dunno for sure.”
Frustrated, I conclude my mind is already cluttered enough without attempting to decipher whatever point he’s trying to make.
“Have you ever considered a career in politics, Clement.”
“Christ, no. Why?”
“Because whenever I ask you a straight question, you’re rather adept at avoiding a straight answer, don’t you think?”
“Not every question has an answer, Bill.”
“I rest my case.”
With very little progress made on Clement’s mental health issue, we finally reach Hounslow train station. We head to the platform where our train is waiting to depart.
Once safely ensconced in our seats, I turn my attention back to my own issues; the first of which is dealing with the vast number of voicemail and text messages on my phone. I pull it out of my pocket and inwardly groan.
I decide to deal with the sixteen text messages first and scroll through them one by one.
Not unsurprisingly, there are three from Fiona Hewitt; each one conveying increasing irritation. Seeing as I assured her everything was under control during my last visit to her office, I suspect a pink fit was thrown when she woke up to that article this morning. Probably best I put her near the top of my call list.
Next up are Rupert’s four texts, all of which I delete without reading. My solicitor knows what he has to do, and he better be getting on with it.
Four texts are from journalists asking for my comment on the allegations made against me. If Rupert is doing his job, they’ll have a response via a press release within the next hour. I delete them.
There are five texts from my colleagues — four offering support, although my instinct tells me they’re just glad it’s not them in the firing line, and one from the boorish young backbencher, Adrian Lowe, which he’ll rue sending once the truth is out.
The final text is from the deviant previously known as Gabby. Sent just after nine this morning, it simply reads…
Game over brother. I win.
I allow myself a self-satisfied smile while typing a reply…
No, Amy. I know everything now, so I win. Enjoy prison.
“What’s so amusing?” Clement asks.
“I’m just replying to our little friend, Amy. She sent me a taunting message this morning.”
“What do you reckon will happen to her?”
“I don’t know, nor do I really care. I understand she didn’t have the best start in life but actions have consequences, and she has to pay for hers.”
“Pretty bleedin’ sick though, what her old man did to her?”
“Well, yes, I’m not saying it wasn’t. I suppose, in some twisted way, maybe she’ll now get the treatment she needs, albeit within the confines of a secure unit.”
Clement doesn’t reply and returns his attention to the urban scenery now zipping past the window. Perhaps I’ve touched a raw nerve with talk of treatment and secure units. Considering his propensity for extreme violence, any further discussion about his own mental wellbeing will need careful handling. A problem for another day perhaps. For now, it’s probably best to leave him and his voice to their own devices.
Text messages dealt with, I call the voicemail number. I know this task will be far more unpleasant than reading text messages as I’ll have to hear the raw emotions of nine callers who, when they rang, were under the assumption I had slept with my own sister.
The first two messages are from Fiona, and contain language not becoming of her position. I delete both, and in the same instant, confirm a decision I had already half-made. There are four messages from various journalists, including the one who wrote the article, and not unsurprisingly, one from the Prime Minister’s personal secretary, suggesting I call her back as a matter of some urgency. I’ll tell her the same thing I intend to tell Fiona — that I’m resigning.
Seven down. Two to go.
The eighth message is from Rupert, simply confirming he’s spoken to the newspaper and they were currently in the process of pulling the article from various online media outlets and replacing it with a grovelling apology. Too little, too late. In their eagerness to besmirch me, they cut corners by not checking the facts thoroughly. I might have been fooled by Amy’s fake passport but they should have spotted it. They’ll pay handsomely for their tardiness, and that money will fund private care for Miss Douglas.
The last message was left at the same time Rupert called, while I was stood in the corridor at Orchard Lodge. It is from the very last person I expected to hear from…
Mr Huxley, this is Kenneth Davies. Can you call me urgently when you get this message, please.
“Good Lord,” I murmur once the message ends.
“What’s up?”
“I just received a message from Kenneth Davies.”
“The bloke who brought up your sister?”
“The very one.”
“What’s he want?”
“I don’t know. He just asked me to call him back.”
I retrieve Kenneth’s number from my list of missed calls and tap the phone icon. As it connects, I consider the possible reason for his call, and I quickly conclude he’s probably furious his daughter’s name appeared in the paper, albeit attached to a different woman.
“Hello,” a frail voice answers.
“Mr Davies, it’s William Huxley returning your call.”
“Ahh, Mr Huxley, thank God.”
“Please, call me William.”
“Yes…right…I’m calling about an article I read in the newspaper this morning.”
His voice is frantic but I don’t detect any anger.
“Oh.”
“Yes, and you should know the woman in the article — the one claiming to be Gabrielle Davies — is a fraud.”
Do I tell him I already know? Probably best to stick to the truth.
“Thank you for letting me know, Mr Davies, and I was already aware. Unfortunately, I only found out this morning so it was too late to do anything about the newspaper but they are going to print a retraction and an apology.”
“You know that woman isn’t your sister?”
“Yes. It’s a long story but that woman was pretending to be Gabrielle and blackmailing me. Up until last week, I wasn’t even aware I had a sister.”
“But now you know,” he replies in a sombre tone.
“I know everything, Mr Davies.”
The line goes quiet.
“Mr Davies?”
“Yes,” he replies in almost a whisper. “I’m still here.”
“Sorry, just out of curiosity, how did you get my phone number?”
“I got it from your website, about three years ago.”
“Right. Why three years ago?”
I can only assume he’s carefully considering his reply as the line goes quiet again.
“I had a health scare,” he eventually says.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You obviously made a recovery though.”
“A recovery of sorts, but really it was only prolonging the inevitable.”
“The inevitable?”
“Yes,” he replies after another pause. “But…oh dear…this is all a bit of a mess.”
Clearly confused, I attempt to pull his thoughts in the right direction.
“I don’t want to cause any upset, but why were you try
ing to contact me three years ago?”
Another period of silence ensues.
“Look, William,” he sighs. “This is extremely difficult for me. I don’t suppose you could come down to Surrey and we could discuss the matter face to face?”
“Of course. When did you have in mind?”
“With that newspaper article in circulation, I’d prefer it if we met sooner rather than later. Can you come down this afternoon?”
“I can be with you in an hour or two if that works?”
He agrees, and confirms the same address as the one in my father’s letter. I end the call and check the location, only to find it’s in the middle of nowhere, some forty miles south-west of London.
“Well?” Clement asks.
“He wants me to go down to Surrey and talk to him.”
“What about?”
“I’m not sure, but I get the impression he’s not a well man.”
“You’re going straight down there then?”
“Once I work out how. It doesn’t appear there’s a train station nearby.”
“Surrey ain’t far. Why not drive?”
“Because I don’t drive.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Never had any need to.”
“You want me to run you down there?”
“Are you telling me we’ve been travelling everywhere by train when you could have driven?”
“No, cos’ I ain’t got a car.”
“Good grief,” I groan. “So, besides stealing a car, how are you going to drive me to Surrey?”
“I’ll borrow Frank’s. He’s lent it to me a few times so he’ll be cool about it.”
“Oh, okay. You don’t mind?”
“One condition.”
“Not more toast?”
“Nah. When we get back, we get right royally pissed, and you’re paying.”
“You have a deal.”
34.
“What is that?”
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 27
