The Redeemer

by J. D. Chase

  But how in God’s name do I do that?

  You’re Xander Fucking Rhodes . . . stop whining and think. Let’s face it, whatever you do, it can’t make life worse than this . . .

  Freshly showered and shaved but still feeling like a nuclear holocaust survivor, Xander knew what his first priority was, closely followed by his second. First he needed food. Not just any food but a greasy, cholesterol-laden, fried breakfast. Then he needed to shoot his load. He wasn’t horny. Not remotely, but he knew he could always think clearer and solve problems faster when he’d emptied his balls. A quirk of Mother Nature but it worked. And he was desperate. The image of a flame-haired sex goddess swam into his head. Oh yeah, he was definitely desperate.

  Xander sat, mug of coffee in hand, patting his full stomach. He’d had breakfast in one of the greasy spoon cafés he liked to visit occasionally. Not just any breakfast, but a ‘belly buster breakfast’ that was in real danger of bursting his intestines. But the amount of fried bacon, sausage, egg and mushrooms that he’d put away was a sure-fire way to cure the demonic hangover that had made its presence felt during the drive over there. For once, he’d been glad he didn’t have the Holden – that noisy V8 was unbearable when he was hung-over. Instead, he drove the beaten-up hatchback that he’d bought when he’d been forced to sell the Holden, and that favourite vehicle was still at Rouge Passion where he’d left it when he’d fled on foot, too pissed to drive.

  He was content for the moment to sit back and wash the whole lot down with a mug of strong coffee. He tried to wipe his aching head of all the crap that was floating around. He needed his mind to clear but images of his beloved Red would not obey the instruction to disappear. Yet, he realised that he had no trouble burying the images of his wife and the faceless newborn he’d fathered. Just the thought of his wife and child made his stomach churn and, panicking that his breakfast was about to make an unwelcome return, he got up and left.

  Back behind the wheel, he realised that he didn’t know where to go. Smacking his palms on the steering wheel in frustration, he knew precisely where he wanted to go. Straight into his love’s arms. But he knew that before he and Red could stand a chance, he had to sort out the issue of his wife and child.

  My wife and child . . . even the thought of it makes me shudder. How can I be a father to him when I can’t even bring myself to see him? When I feel nothing for him?

  ‘Red, I need you,’ he whispered. ‘I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone. Without you, I no longer feel like I’m drowning . . . I feel like I’m on the seabed, in a straightjacket with lead weights tied to my legs. The life that I should be living is over. Without your breath in my lungs, I’m a dead man. Save me, Red. Save me.’

  Hunched over the wheel, he could no longer deny the build-up of frustration and fear that he’d been carrying around since Friday evening. The DNA test results had hit him like a hammer to the balls. For months, he’d felt trapped. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a cheating wife – or so he’d thought. But Red had come into his life. Shining like a beacon to guide him to safe water but now he’d blown it. There was no light in his life. He realised then that he hadn’t been trapped. Not truly. Back then, he’d had hope. But not now. Now he had nothing.

  As the tears picked their way down the contours of his face, his shoulders began to shake as his mind fully absorbed the impact of his loss. Minutes later, he sat up. The cathartic cleansing cleared his mind more effectively than any wank had ever done, which was useful, since he doubted very much that he could get his cock remotely hard while his head was so fucked up.

  I’ve been such a fool. A prize fucking knobhead. I shouldn’t have run from Red out of fear that she’d end it with me. Oh my God, Red . . . she’ll be wondering what the hell has happened to me. I’ve not called her to try to sort this mess out or even let her know I’m not lying in a morgue somewhere. It’s been four days . . . she’ll think I’ve abandoned her and . . . oh my fucking God, she might think that I’ve gone back to Janine. Fuck. Oh fuck. You stupid fucking idiot! What have you done?

  Firing up the engine and slamming it in gear, he shot out into the busy London traffic, cursing his stupidity and hoping that his actions hadn’t made things much worse. Weaving in and out of the maniacal traffic, he soon wished he was in the Holden.

  Come on, you piece of shit. Do you have an engine full of custard? The handling of a double-decker bus? Come onnnnn!

  Eventually, he tore on to the forecourt of the hotel, noting with satisfaction that his Holden was still there. He doubted that Isla would have done anything out of revenge this time. No, he doubted she’d be angry. Upset? Yes. Saddened? Yes. Turning back into Uma Thurman from Kill Bill again? No, probably not.

  Not unless she thinks I’ve turned my back on her and gone back to Janine . . . God only knows what she’d be capable of then. Man, I’m a stupid, arrogant fuck . . . it’s only once I realise how much I need her that I consider how I walked away from her when she needed me too. She needed me to face up to the situation and to try to work our way through it together. She needed me to be honest. She needed me to be a man . . . not some coward who fucks off when the going gets tough. How can she respect me now? How can I respect myself?

  By making it right, that’s how. I need to get my arse in there and explain and then try to find a way through this fucking nightmare. Together.

  Don’t fucking listen to her when she says she can’t be with you because of the baby. Make her listen to you. Don’t give her the fucking choice. Make her see that you can be a better father to that baby if she’s by your side than if she’s not. Make her give it a go. Then make it fucking work. You can do this with Red by your side. It won’t be easy but you can do it.

  Too fucking right, I can! I can fucking do this!

  Pumped up and ready to do battle, he slammed the car door and stormed into the hotel. Merely nodding to acknowledge the cheery yet inquisitive greetings from the front of house staff, he strode through the lobby. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he threw the door to his office open.

  Please let her be here. She’s got to be here . . . she’s . . . fuck. She’s not here.

  ‘Good afternoon, Xander,’ Alberto said, as he scooted out of the chair and around the desk. ‘I’ve been taking care of things in your absence. Unless there’s anything you require from me, I’ll be in the office next door.’

  Xander ignored him, only just managing not to roar in frustration, and strode over to the desk and sank into the chair. Just as the door was closing behind Alberto, he barked, ‘Where is Miss Hamilton, Alberto?’

  Alberto’s head slid gingerly back around the door, a pained expression on his face. ‘I haven’t seen her since Saturday morning. She called in sick yesterday but the ladies on reception tell me that she popped in earlier today whilst I was out for lunch. She’d gone by the time I returned.’

  Xander’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s off sick? What was she doing here then?’

  Alberto looked mortified. ‘She came to collect her belongings, according to Belinda.’

  Realising that Alberto knew of their relationship – he’d openly flaunted Isla at his other hotel, after all – he understood his GM’s discomfort. Nodding once to dismiss him, Xander then placed his elbows on the desk and put his face in his hands.

  ‘Um, one more thing, sir . . .’ From his tone, it was clear that Alberto was unsure of himself.

  Without looking up, Xander grunted.

  ‘Belinda says that Isla looked awful. I think the phrase was “like death warmed up”. She said Isla was clearly not well enough to be at work.’

  Xander’s stomach churned.

  Crap. Red really is ill. Somehow I doubt that it’s a virus . . . no, that’s too much of a coincidence. I’ve made her ill. Finding out that I’ve fathered a child with my wife, then me fucking off without a word . . . oh fuck, what have I done? I need to see her. Explain. Make it right. If she’s ill, she’ll be at home.

  Within secon
ds, he was back behind the wheel . . . the wheel of his Holden. He tore through the city streets until he skidded into a parking space outside Isla’s flat. He raced to the entrance and held his finger on the buzzer to her flat. Nothing. He kept his finger pressed on it, growing more agitated by the second. But it was useless.

  She’s ill. She probably won’t answer it. Fuck.

  He began to jab his finger on each buzzer in the hope that he could get someone to let him in. Nothing.

  Fuck it. Oh come on, you stupid fucking thing.

  In sheer frustration, he kicked the door before uttering a whole string of profanity.

  ‘Excuse me, young man.’

  Xander turned to find an elderly lady glowering at him.

  ‘I abhor such language and acts of vandalism,’ she stated in an ‘I take no nonsense’ manner.

  Frustration boiled within him but he resisted the urge to demand that she shut up and open the door and instead, held up his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not an abusive vandal. I’m desperate. I’ve done something stupid and my girlfriend has locked herself in there and won’t answer the intercom. Please let me inside.’

  Giving him a withering look, she squared her shoulders and drew herself up to her maximum height – all five feet of it and raised her chin. He knew there was no way she was going to agree to let him in.

  I’ll have to barge past her or overpower her somehow. Oh God, is that what I have to resort to? Granny bashing?

  He needn’t have worried.

  Pursing her lips in a most distasteful manner, she continued her unflinching stare. ‘I know who your girlfriend is. I’ve seen you coming and going in your fancy car. Well, you’re mistaken. She’s not locked herself away in her flat. I saw her leaving when I was on my way out about an hour ago.’

  Xander’s heart had begun to thud in his chest. ‘But that was an hour ago. She could be back inside. Just let me inside. Please.’

  She shook her head, a smirk replacing her pursed lips. ‘I doubt it. She was on her way to the station. Said she was going to stay with her parents for a while. So there’s no point in you barging in here and kicking her door down. You’ll only leave her flat unsecured and, no matter how good you are at sweet talking her, I doubt she’ll forgive you for that.’

  Fuck. I don’t know where they live . . . Oh, she’s Scottish . . . she said they’d moved back.

  ‘Do you have their address?’ he demanded.

  She grinned. ‘I don’t and if she wanted you to know it, I’m guessing she’d have given it to you. Therefore, I wouldn’t give it to you if I had it. Do yourself a favour. Go home. Give her time to think about what she wants. If she wants you, she’ll let you know. Pushing her won’t help.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I need to explain. I need to make her understand.’ Xander dragged his hand through his hair. ‘I know they’re in Scotland. Do you know whereabouts? North? South? East or West?’

  ‘Listen laddie, you men always think you can explain your way out of anything. Heed my advice and leave her be. There’s nothing to be gained from trying to rush her. Like I say, if she wanted you to know where she was going, you’d know.’

  Thankfully, the knowledge that Red’s next of kin would most likely be her parents and that he’d have their address on file, helped him to resist the urge to strangle her. He raced back to his car and called the hotel, asking Belinda to put him through to Alberto. It rang and rang before Belinda informed him that there was no reply.

  No shit, Sherlock.

  ‘Belinda, could you—’

  He stopped, realising that he was about to ask the queen of gossip to give him Isla’s parents’ address. For the sake of a few minutes, he could get it himself.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be back in a few minutes so I’ll sort it then.’

  Hanging up abruptly, he fired up the car and tore back to the hotel. He wrenched open the filing cabinet that contained the staff’s personal files before grabbing Isla’s and throwing it down on his desk. As he opened the file, he noticed an envelope addressed to him . . . in Isla’s handwriting.

  He snatched it up, not registering that his palms were sweaty as he tore it open but unable to ignore the banging inside his chest. Even before he began to read, he knew he’d lost her. By the end of the first paragraph, she’d confirmed it.

  With every bullet point that she’d given as her reason for leaving that he read, he felt more confused.

  We’ve been over this. I didn’t lie. I haven’t cheated on you. Who have I manipulated and to what end?

  He read on . . .

  My wife confided in your ex? What the fuck? Why the hell would my wife be speaking to your ex? How would she even know who your ex was? Fucking hell, Isla . . . have you totally lost it?

  He continued until the words began to swim in front of his eyes.

  Janine told your ex he was the father? How in hell’s name . . . whoa . . . Janine is Ms Big Tits? No fucking way!

  Oh Isla, you stubborn cow . . . she did not kick me out, nor did she file for divorce. I could have proved that if you’d asked me . . .

  . . . but I wasn’t here to ask. I’d crawled off to lick my wounds, leaving her to cope with the fallout. Fucking hell. Her ex? My wife? Jesus, no fucking wonder she’s fucked off.

  I need to see her. I can explain. Well, I can explain that you’re wrong about me wanting Janine and her kicking me out . . . I have no fucking clue about why you were told that. Some fucker is playing games . . . whoever it is, I’ll break every bone in their fucking body if I lose you over this.

  He grabbed Isla’s personal file and tore out the page of personal data containing her next of kin. It was given as her parents.

  Yes! Thank fuck for that.

  He scanned it.

  Edinburgh? Fucking hell, that’s a long drive. Perhaps I should fly up . . . No, by the time I’ve farted around getting a flight, driving over there and getting checked in, I’ll be halfway there.

  He was almost out of the door, determined to do without any overnight things when he remembered that Alberto had brought some over a few days before. He located his case, stuffed Isla’s letter inside and got on the road.

  He snickered when he programmed the Murrayfield address into his Holden’s satnav.

  ‘Seven and a half hours, my arse. I’ll do it in half that.’

  He put his foot down, grateful to be just missing London in rush hour. The problem was, the faster he drove, the quicker his fuel gauge went down. He cursed, knowing that having to take extra fuel stops would cut down on the time he gained from speeding up the A1(M). Rush hour hit as he approached Peterborough. Until then, he’d been too busy focusing on the road ahead; driving at breakneck speed on British motorways required balls of steel and total concentration.

  It was only when he found himself stuck at a crawling pace that his mind was able to fully consider the contents of Isla’s letter.

  Janine told Isla’s ex that he was the father? Why would she do that?

  Wait a second . . . Thursday? Didn’t Red say that Janine had called him up to give him the DNA result on Thursday? Fuck, where’s that letter?

  He rifled in the overnight bag on the passenger seat and pulled it out. Scanning the letter again, he saw that was indeed what she had written.

  But I haven’t even told Janine about the results yet . . . I paid for the test and I got the results sent to me late on Friday afternoon. What the fuck is Red talking about? Her ex is feeding her a pack of lies. Hang on . . . has Janine told him he’s the father? And that it’s proven by the DNA test? Why the fucking hell would she do that?

  And why would she even ask him for a DNA sample? Something’s wrong here . . . something’s very fucking wrong.

  Fuck! Xander had almost driven into the back of the car in front.

  Fuck this! I can’t fucking drive until I know what the fuck’s going on here. And I need fuel . . .

  He pulled into Grantham services and parked up. A quick call
to the DNA company revealed that they had only received two DNA samples: his and the baby’s.

  So what the fuck did Janine do with the other one? She must have requested a kit from a DNA lab in case I didn’t come back as the father . . . she must have sent it off with samples from Red’s ex and the baby to prove that he was the father if my test came back negative.

  But why tell him that he’s the father? I want to know what the hell is going on.

  He dialled Janine’s number but it diverted to her voicemail. He tried the landline but that rang out until the answering machine picked up.

  Groaning in frustration, he debated what to do.

  Why would Red take off without talking to me first if she thought he was the father and not me? Did she simply believe his lies about Janine kicking me out and filing for divorce? Would that make her hate me that much?

  Hurt that Isla would believe her ex and not him, he pulled into the fuel station and refuelled.

  Is there even any point in driving to Edinburgh? She obviously doesn’t trust me . . . despite what she said, she doesn’t think I told her the truth. So what’s the point?

  He got back into the car and was sorely tempted to drive back down the A1. But something wouldn’t let him. He still had the feeling that something wasn’t right. Janine telling Red’s ex that he was the father made no sense. The DNA paternity result was back late on Friday so he knew Janine had put it in the post either on Wednesday evening or on Thursday as she’d agreed.

  Why pay for another test before waiting for the result of my test? It’s a forty-eight-hour wait, for fuck’s sake.

  Why contact him and get a DNA sample . . . the result of which was back on Thursday . . . both results can’t be positive. We can’t both be the fucking father!

  What is she playing at?

  Suddenly, he snatched his phone up and scrolled through his redial list.

  A few minutes later, he was heading north again. And this time, his head was clearer. He had a plan. It was risky but he had a plan.