"I know I must have scared you and I'm truly sorry. Please forgive me. It is the last thing I would have wanted."
Great, I thought to myself, not a vampire or a deranged serial killer, just a nice ordinary stalker. Some middle-aged man, past his prime, who has decided that we somehow have a connection. How wonderful, an ordinary crazy. That was all I needed.
I straightened my posture, trying to appear more imposing than my small five-foot-something frame would typically allow. I wanted him to know that I meant business and I wanted to ensure that this business got knocked on the head. I moved a little closer to him so he could see the conviction in my face.
"You stay the hell away from me," I said pressing my index finger into his chest. It felt soft.
Turning my back to him, I lifted my gym bag off the wet pavement and slung it over my shoulder. As I started to walk away, I heard his voice call after me. It was loud enough to get my attention over the rain, but still managed to sound small and abandoned.
"Please Sophie," the voice said. “You don't understand. I'm your uncle. Your father was my brother.”
Time stopped. The strap of my shoulder bag slipped off my shoulder and it landed with a thud on the ground beside me. I'm not sure how long I stood there in the rain, my right hand still gripping the bag's handle as it got increasingly wet. My hair was plastered to my face now I was stood in the open, away from the shelter of the buildings, their entrances and their surrounding covered walkways.
I knew I'd have to do something - whether it was carry on walking towards my car or back to this mystery man. Whatever I chose to do could change everything. How much drama could I possibly take? I wasn't sure I was strong enough to go back and talk to him, pick apart family history, deal with all the insecurities and issues which I'd suppressed over the years. It was a gamble - I was pretty certain that I wouldn't give two hoots about my father or his family. But what if I was wrong? It could open up all sorts of problems, and now wasn't the right time. It was all getting too much. I already felt like I was barely keeping it together some days. The alternative didn't seem better. What if I walked away and regretted it for the rest of my life? This could be the one good thing in a recent sea of utter crap-storms.
I took a deep breath and slowly turned around. The man took a step forward from the shelter of a shop's canopy and into the rain.
My heart was pounding and I had a million different thoughts running through my head.
"My name is Kurt Andersen,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. "My brother, Kasper, is your father".
I couldn't take his hand; touch him. All I could do was stare at it. I wanted to switch on a force field around me that nobody could break.
"I think we need to talk," he said.
Kurt gestured towards an old Volvo estate that was parked a few rows over in the car park. It wasn't one of the most recent models, but it was well-kept and clean.
I wouldn't normally get into a car with a stranger, but this wasn't an ordinary situation. I nodded to indicate that I understood his suggestion to go with him. “I need to drop my bag back in the car first.”
“Of course,” he said.
My well-loved VW Golf was a few metres away and I threw my soggy gym back into the boot while Kurt made his way over to his own car. I pretended to put something in the glove box too, but took my screwdriver from the door well and slipped it into the sleeve of my jacket. While my companion didn't appear threatening, he was still a stranger and I wasn't sure how much of what he said was true and to what degree he could actually be trusted.
As I walked over to his car to join him, I kept my car keys in my hand, keeping the tip of my house keys which shared the key chain, through my clenched fingers as a makeshift blade in case I needed it. I could feel the cold steel of the screwdriver up my other sleeve, tucked between my clothing and bare skin, the tip resting against my watch.
When I reached his car, he leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door for me.
"I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm just going to get in. Try anything funny and I'll knock you out. We clear?"
He nodded and pushed the car door open further to allow me to get in. There was an awkward moment when I almost sat on his hand as he moved the day's newspaper off the passenger seat. As I took my seat, he moved his arm around the back of my chair and dropped the paper into the rear passenger foot well. I ducked slightly when he moved his arm back, placing both his hands calmly on his knees.
Kurt was nervous. Every awkward tap of his fingers or adjustment of his seat was even more noticeable due to his big frame. His broad shoulders and paunch looked even bigger in the oversized raincoat. I wondered if he was this nervous all the time or whether it was just because he had almost been beaten up by a girl who was more than half his size.
It was the type of demeanour I'd witnessed in clients before when they were going in for an interview, back in Coventry when I worked in recruitment. I'd seen accomplished, grown men fall apart in the face of an interview panel. Under usual circumstances, I'd soothe his nerves with some kind words. As he was my uncle, I should have reached over and squeezed his hand in an act of comfort. In some ways, I wanted to.
Part of me wanted to have no reservations about this man; I wanted to be able to throw my arms around him and have a new confidante, someone I could tell all my troubles, who was old and wise and could protect me. I didn’t have Mickey after all. I wanted someone like my Granddad. Someone wise. Someone whose primary aim was to protect me. But not my Mum, no. I didn’t want her to have to deal with my burdens.
I sensed that this was a man who was troubled, but despite his overt sadness I couldn't comfort him. Although my confused heart told me that I wanted to believe whatever he said, I was going to keep my guard up. Trusting in him and potentially in the idea of a father who wasn't a complete bastard could open up a world of pain which I wasn't ready for. Better to have loved and lost? Rubbish. Better to build a life on your own and with people you could trust - not the idea of someone who could, but probably didn’t, exist.
An image of Mickey flashed across my mind. He'd just lost his brother and I was sure he would have argued that any type of family was better than none. I could feel tears starting to well up from the pit of my stomach. I wanted him with me, but my heart and head were fighting a battle where they held a foot in each camp - my heart telling me to go to him, my heart telling me to stay away to protect him; my head telling me to stay away to protect myself, my head telling me that we were stronger together.
In the quagmire of my emotional sanity, I focused on looking at the rain through the windshield and decided to let Kurt take the lead on this one.
When Kurt finally spoke, he didn't mince words. "Your father, Kasper, was an accomplished young man. Did your mother ever speak of him, or of me?"
"No."
"Although five years my junior, I admired him immensely. Our parents had struggled for many years to have a child, so when they finally had me, they were overjoyed. Our mother was almost forty by then and had almost given up entirely. It was a different time then and medical intervention wasn't as available as it is now, even in Copenhagen. Having Kasper some years later was a miracle."
"Copenhagen?" I knew that my mother had spent some time visiting Denmark in her final year of school and that this was where she had met my father. Beyond that, I knew little of the details. I wanted to know more about her time there - I knew nothing about Copenhagen or Denmark and wanted to know what it was like. What it would have been like to fall in love there? What he might be like - how different we would be, how exotic he might have appeared to my mother? It reminded me of the saying 'the devil is in the detail' - the devil being the scoundrel who had knocked my mum up.
"Yes - our family lived on the outskirts of the city. We had a smallholding about an hour's drive from the centre. It was a good home and we were a happy family. Kasper was the opposite of me, even then. I was robust and into sports, but was academically q
uite gifted. Kurt, your father, was very cool.” He chuckled. "He was a handsome young man, tall but slight. His hair was dark and longer than was fashionable. He was bright but had no interest in school - he was more of a free spirit. He loved photography and music. He was born in the sixties too and I think he must have absorbed some of its spirit in the womb, more than me."
"Doesn't he sound just peachy bloody keen.” I had spat the words out and I could see that I had hurt his feeling. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
"I don't blame you for how you must feel."
I didn't answer. I didn't know how I felt, so how could he? So many things were whirling around my head - not least the question of why he was referring to my father in the past tense. What was my father like now? Was he dead? Had he sent his brother to look for me and, if so, why? All these questions were jockeying for position in my mind with the drama of killing a vampire in my kitchen, the voicemail from Mickey saying that his brother had been killed, along with some more mundane housework tasks that were trying to sneak in to give me something less traumatic to focus on.
"Here," he said, rifling through his pockets, "I have a photo of your Mum from the time we met. Would you like to see it?"
He didn't give me a chance to answer before he started rummaging in his coat pockets. I nodded out of courtesy while he continued on his hunt for the picture, trying every pocket before he realised that he had actually put it in his wallet. He took the small, colour, three by five photo out of the worn leather wallet. The photo itself was in pristine condition; he had clearly take care with it over the years. He passed it over to me, holding the corners delicately.
There were three people in the photo. One was clearly Kurt. The other, I knew, was my mother - I recognised the dress she was wearing from a similar, candid snap that was in a family album. She had never said where the photo was taken, but I could hazard a guess it was on the same day - I recognised the garden and the posy of flowers she casually held in her hands. I didn't recognise the third person - a girl about my mum's age.
"Who is the girl with you?"
"That would be Birgitte"
"Birgitte?"
"Your mother's friend."
Kurt sounded a bit surprised that I didn't recognise her and then I saw it dawn on him that I genuinely might not know anything at all about my parents meeting or her time in Denmark. "From what I remember, she had visited the UK on a student exchange and stayed with your mother and her family for a short time. To repay the hospitality, her parents invited your mother to visit. That's how you mother came to meet my brother, during her visit."
I carefully handed back the photo to him. I felt utterly foolish about how little I knew; more so when I recalled my mother mentioning something about a friend called Birgitte, many Christmases ago, when she was looking for her new address to send a greeting card. It had never crossed my mind she was a friend from so long ago, a friend from overseas, perhaps the friend responsible for introducing my parents. I wondered how many other important details I'd forgotten or dismissed over the years - how many questions I hadn't asked which, if I had, would have unfolded a map to my past before my eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asked. I couldn't imagine what he was reading in my face, but given the way I was feeling, it obviously suggested that he should express concern for my welfare.
"Sorry,” I pulled myself back to the present. “I was away with the fairies." He raised his eyebrows with a quizzical look - this was obviously a saying he wasn't familiar with yet. I wondered how long he had been in the UK and whether I'd said any particular Welsh-isms that he had been too polite to query. "Just ignore me; this is a lot to take in.”
He gave me a few moments to gather my thoughts, perhaps to allow me time to ask a question or pass comment. I didn't. I was still down on the side of saying nothing at this point than saying something I would regret later. Instead, I chose to hand the photo back to him. He seemed to study it for a moment before he carefully placed it back in his wallet. It was difficult to understand what the flicker of emotion that passed across his eyes meant. He breathed out deeply, almost sighing, as he turned his face towards the door window and away from me, out towards the falling rain.
"Your mother spent many happy days at our family home. She was only in Copenhagen for a few weeks, four or five if I recall correctly, but she spent the last few with Kasper and me. I had rooms in Copenhagen while I prepared my doctoral thesis, but chose to spend much of time at home as the company was so good. We were all sad when it came to an end and your mother returned home."
"So sad, he never came and bloody visited!" I said, my cheeks hot with anger. I knew it wasn't this man's fault that my father had not been involved in my life in any way, but I wasn't prepared to sit and listen to some story which sounded like it was inevitably going to end in an attempt to vindicate my father, or romanticise a relationship which broke my mother's heart and made her miserable.
A tirade of verbal missiles launched from my lips. A lifetime of repressed feelings came forth - everything from my father being some an oversexed user who took advantage of a vulnerable teenager, to the gall of a total stranger who had decided that he wanted to play happily families after more than twenty three years.
Kurt sat quietly in his seat, submitting to every verbal battery without even wincing. He didn't say one solitary word; he just sat there and took it all. I eventually ran out of steam and, while I felt relieved, I felt drained too. I also felt a little cruel at directing all my vitriol at this hapless middle-aged man who had done nothing but quietly sit there like a human emotional punching bag.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" These were not the words that I had expected.
"What?" I was bemused. I considered where we were parked. I couldn't see where he was possibly suggesting that we get a coffee from. The gym had a small juice bar, but he wouldn't have known that. Apart from a fried chicken outlet across the road, there was nothing nearby but a couple of small retail units - a chain of stores that sold car accessories and an office supplies shop.
He reached behind my passenger seat, lifted the newspaper and retrieved a thermos flask which had been laying on the floor. I hadn't noticed it before. Holding the flask between his knees, he unscrewed the cap and lifted off the top which doubled as a cup. There was a smaller beaker like cup stored inside it which he then methodically removed. After pouring two cups, he handed me one. The coffee didn't contain milk, or sugar, but I thought the chances of him having both were slim. I thought the chances also slim that the drink might magically transform into a cup of tea, so I didn't mention that either.
As I took the cup from him, he smiled. I expect he thought that he had actually done something right. I took a sip and found that while it was strong, it was better than most coffees I had tried. I could just about be persuaded with a latte or the type of milky coffee that my grandmother had made.
"Feel better after that?”. He didn't mean the coffee - he meant the rant. I felt a bit embarrassed and couldn't help but let out the traces of a smile from each corner of my mouth.
"I'm good, thanks."
He smiled and his face displayed a warmth and kindness that reminded me of my grandfather. I looked away and back out to the rain hitting the windscreen.
"He didn't know about you," he said out of the blue. This time it was me who felt stung by words. He hadn't intended to hurt me, far from it, but there was something about mentioning my father and me in the same sentence that hurt me deeply.
"Perhaps you'd like to think that, but I'm sorry I can't believe it. My mum wrote to him. He knew. He definitely knew".
"Your mother told you that? What else did she say?"
"She's never spoken about him in detail and to be honest I don't know you from Adam. I'm not inclined to tell you that much about her, or me for that matter. At the end of the day, I don't know you but I know my mum. She would never lie and she would never say she did something when she didn't. I don't know much about the detail and i
f you’re looking for me to fill in gaps for you then you're going to be disappointed.”
I had clearly taken him by surprise. The poor old guy seemed to visibly deflate, obviously hurt. This was not going in the direction that he had anticipated. He told me that his brother had not received the letter. It crossed my mind that the only way he could have been so certain was if he had intercepted it. But why would he do such a thing? Had he tried to protect his brother from throwing his life away on a holiday fling and an unwanted baby? Or was he just a troublemaker who got some sick thrill from messing up other people's lives? To be honest, I couldn't imagine either scenario from the limited time we had spent together.
"Please Sophie, don't think I'm accusing your mother of anything. Julie was a wonderful girl, beautiful, charming, and funny. I know that she wrote to your father, but I know that he didn't get the letter."
"I don't understand."
"You see, by the time the letter came, he wasn't around anymore. I opened the letter and I decided not to tell our parents about you or your mother's situation. More letters came but then soon stopped. She telephoned once; I think that was after the first or second letter maybe. Mother told her we didn't know where he was. It upset her greatly. It was a difficult time for us and I didn't want to cause them any more problems than we had already. I'm sorry if that was wrong. I know that it was now, but I was only in my twenties at the time, still learning to be an adult myself. I wanted to protect my family and I knew that your mother would manage, not least because she always spoke so highly of her own parents. I knew she would be okay. I'm so sorry if I was wrong."
"My grandparents were marvellous. When my mother told them she was pregnant, they did everything they could to support her. My grandfather said that any man who abandoned her wasn't worth worrying about - although of course he understood why she wanted to contact him. Apparently she wrote to your brother once and tried to telephone a few times, but never got an answer. She's never talked about you or her time in Denmark, but I guess she just made the decision to get on with it on her own. It put paid to going to university for her, but we've had a good life. As far as I know, she made no further attempt to contact him and I grew up sharing her sentiment. If he couldn't be bothered with us, why should I be bothered with him?" I was feeling surprisingly matter of fact about it - a refreshing change in this roller coaster ride of emotions.
Sophie Morgan (Book 2): Death in the Family Page 17
