by Daniel Caet
HEAVEN´S LIES
DANIEL CAET
INDEX
DEDICATION
PREFACE
Family
Stories
I am
Flesh and blood
Brother
Flames
Betrayal
Pilgrim
Ghosts
Past
Woman
Slave
Loss
Darkness
Heritage
Sacrifice
Lust
Oblivion
Fate
Ashes
Re-encounter
Marble
Lies
Truth
I am
THANK YOU
THE AUTHOR
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Copyright © 2020 Daniel Caet
DEDICATION
For my husband,
for being my most beautiful story.
For my children,
for reminding me sweetly that my stories are not as fun as theirs.
For Anne Rice, Katherine Neville and Matilde Asensi,
for nurturing in me with their stories the dream of telling my own.
Thank you, with all my heart.
Daniel
PREFACE
¨That which has been believed by everyone,
always and everywhere,
has every chance of being false.¨
Paul Valéry
Family
She could feel the cold in her bones. Her New York spring coat was insufficient to withstand the frigid Scottish temperature that swept the banks of the Loch Lomond even at that time of year. The tombs around her were unable to block the wind which, although blowing lightly, greatly increased the cold feeling. She wondered how much of that unpleasant sensation was due to that cold and how much to her own, the one that had accompanied her since she could remember, always.
All this was ridiculous, her last three days in general did not make any sense, even less the way in which she had let herself be carried away by the events.
«Becca, you are a complete asshole!≫ she thought.
Her eyes looked at the gravestone at her feet and her brain clung to the hope of suffering, of pain, of grief. But there was none of that. She did not feel anything. And yet, there she was. She had brought flowers, efficiently provided by the household service, a rare form of lily, a dark red colour, blood lilies, apparently some kind of family icon. She bent down to lay them on the grave. Still nothing, just cold.
Genevieve Engels, 1958-1993. The faded letters on the gravestone shouted her mother's name, her birth and death years. Becca never thought about her mother. Not because she did not want to, but because she was only five years old when her mother sent her to a religious boarding school in Canada, the Sisters Of The Assumption, near Montreal. Two weeks later she was dead. Until three days before when a phone call brought her back to life.
That call had shaken her entire world, a world built by herself, orderly, methodical and above all, predictable. A world where she had control. Two years earlier she had finished her degree in evolutionary genetics at Columbia University in New York and had begun a PhD in human genetics at the Mount Sinai Hospital under the direction of Dr. Matthew Anders, one of the University stars. Dr. Anders would only choose the most outstanding students in his class for his laboratory and Becca's spectacular record had ensured that she was the chosen one. She had always been a bright student, one of those aspects of her life where she was the only one in control. Since joining the lab, her life had become the kind of routine that made her feel comfortable. It was true that she worked seven days a week and that she never knew at what time the day would end but locked in that world of test tubes and microscopes she felt safe, protected. Or, at least she was, until her phone rang.
The call came at seven o'clock in the morning east coast time, too early for her co-workers to start their day so she was alone in the lab. The call was made from a hidden number. Usually Becca would ignore those calls. Advertising, cold calls from her telephone provider trying to place an offer or a survey was what they used to be, but that day, somehow, her fingers chose to answer.
“Rebecca Engels.”
On the other side of the phone line a man's voice with a British accent answered calmly.
“Good morning Miss Engels, my name is Alexander Mason from the law firm Mason and Kraus Associates. Is this a convenient time to talk to you?”
Becca was surprised by the formal presentation and did not know very well how to respond. The term law firm did not make much sense to her outside of the television series she used to watch at night before going to sleep.
“Er ... yes ... I suppose so,” she answered. Again, an unexpected response.
“Ah, perfect,” the voice continued on the other side of the line. “As you may know Miss Engels, our firm has overseen the execution of your mother's last will since her death and we are obliged to contact you for …”
Her brain suddenly woke up.
“What? Wait a second, please,” she interrupted. “My mother died twenty years ago. I think there must be an error. Are you sure I am the Rebecca Engels you are looking for? I cannot understand which will you are talking about, I imagine that if there had been a will I would have been informed before, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me, Miss Engels,” the voice said after a brief silence. “I suspect that I have assumed that you were in possession of more information than you obviously are. Let's start at the beginning if you will allow me. Are you Rebecca Engels, a resident of New York and the daughter of Genevieve Engels, who died in Scotland, United Kingdom in 1993?”
“Yes, that's my mother’s name and mine, and the year of her death is also correct,” she answered, not wanting to continue with that conversation.
“Perfect,” the voice said. “Once we are clear on that, let me explain who we are and the reason for our call. Our law firm in London was chosen by your mother to act as executors of her last will. Upon her death and following her instructions, we proceeded to the opening and reading of her last will and testament in which our firm was granted powers to manage the fortune of her family, of which you are the sole heir, until you were twenty-five years old. Something that, if I'm not mistaken, happened last week.”
“Yes, that's right,” Becca said, “but nobody has told me about any testament. My studies and all my expenses have been covered all my life by a fund that my mother established for this purpose and I am not aware that there is anything else.”
“Yes, we are aware of the existence of such fund since we are the administrators and we have been entrusted, as you say, to ensure that all your needs were covered according to your mother’s last will. However, your family's fortune is much greater than that, Miss Engels. We are talking about investment funds, companies, real estate and a vast private collection of art. All this has been managed, in an absolutely efficient way, if I may say so, by our firm and now we must execute the last clause of your mother's will and transfer all these assets to you.”
Becca's head was spinning. Twenty years after her death her mother continued providing unexpected surprises.
“The truth is that I do not know what to tell you,” she answered. “I guess if you have to do it, well, I do not know...I do not know anything about companies and investment funds. I imagine that I can find someone here in New York to help me with it. Do you need
me to send you some signed document?”
“I'm afraid it's not that simple, Miss Engels,” the man said condescendingly. “For the transfer to be effective, your mother stipulated that it must be made in Duncan Hall, the house that your family owns in Loch Lomond, in Scotland.”
Becca went mute once again. In a few minutes her life had spun out of control and it was making her dizzy. She did not want any of this, she had not asked for it and she did not need it. The idea of being a rich heiress like those in soap operas scared her to death.
“Look. I... I cannot travel right now. I have a job here, a life that I cannot leave to travel to Scotland. If you do not mind calling me in a few months maybe I can organise something…”
On the other side of the line there was silence for a few seconds that seemed like hours.
“Miss Engels, I'm afraid I must insist. The dimension of the fortune you are inheriting makes it imperative that you travel tomorrow. I have taken the liberty of calling Dr. Anders before speaking with you and he has confirmed that, given the importance of this situation, he will not make any objections to your trip.”
Becca felt as if the blood had stopped in her veins. Was she really hearing this?
“You have done what?” That man was behaving like a CIA agent or something much worse, like a mobster who thought he could handle her life at will. “Who gave you permission to…?”
“Your mother, of course,” the man interrupted without losing his calm.
The answer left Becca speechless yet once more. Twenty years after her death the ghost of the mother she did not remember had come to dismantle her life, the life that had cost her so much to build.
“Very well,” she said, not knowing who was speaking. “I will search for a flight and call you to tell you when I can go.”
“Oh, you do not have to bother! In fact, we have already arranged everything for you to be picked up at your apartment tomorrow at nine o’clock and taken to La Guardia airport where your private jet awaits to bring you to Glasgow. One of our drivers will pick you up at your arrival to take you to Duncan Hall.”
Becca could not believe what she was hearing but did not have time to talk.
“It has been a real pleasure to speak with you, Miss Engels. I wish you a good flight and, of course, do not hesitate to contact us if you need something else.”
“Yes...okay,” Becca babbled.
“Oh, I forgot!” the man said suddenly. “There is another matter that I will need to discuss with you upon your arrival, Miss Engels. Another customer of ours has contacted us to send a parcel for you. The person in question is Mr. Daniel McGregor, your father.”
A second later the man had hung up leaving Becca in complete shock. If the whole situation regarding her mother's will made no sense, the last sentence had completely blocked her brain. In the school in Canada, the Sisters Of The Assumption had always tried to avoid the subject of her family history. The school was an institution for girls from high society families who did not have the time or the desire to take care of their offspring. The little ones spent all year there, coming home for the summer and Christmas holidays only. All, except Becca. She was the only girl who lived with the sisters permanently and that made her something different. A difference that child cruelty had taken advantage of, hurting her and putting her aside. Becca could not say that her childhood had been happy but the knowledge that she had been able to survive all that without help had always filled her with pride. However, her wounds, those she believed closed, had just reopened and were bleeding profusely. A father. Or at least someone who claimed to be. Where had that man been during all those years? Why had she had to suffer alone all those years of emptiness, of not understanding anything, if there was someone who could have filled at least part of her life? And, if he had consciously kept away from her all this time, what was the point of contacting her now?
That thought was the straw that broke the camel's back. She could feel how all the muscles in her body tensed, as the anger that she knew so well and that only brought destruction began to accumulate. She could hear the laboratory glassware cracking. The rage was overflowing affecting everything around her. She had to stop. She must regain control, before it was too late. She had to breathe, yes, that always helped her. She puffed her lungs as much as she could holding the air and noticed how her pulsations descended.
“Yes, go on like this,” she thought. “It cannot happen again, never again.”
She had discovered the anger in her last year at the boarding school. A not-very convenient first boyfriend and a classmate sufficiently interested in hurting her were the cause. Teasing her in a bath, the trigger. That time she had not been able to control that rage, the energy that accumulated inside her overflowed out of her and the flames were born around her devouring everything, the building, the bathrooms and that girl, Claire Davenport. That name would always accompany her. For the sisters, finding her unharmed next to Claire's charred body had been a miracle. For her, the beginning of her nightmare. From that moment all her efforts were focused on controlling at any price that anguish that could devour her, even if she had to sacrifice any life situation in which she did not have complete control. Her life became an absolutely predictable play where she was the only director, actor and audience.
Becca noticed how her body responded to the dose of oxygen retained in her lungs and relaxed. The worst was over, but she could barely stand. It was always like that. The level of effort needed to control the rage was increasing every time.
«Fuck, today I need a drink. Or two,≫ she thought.
She could barely survive the day in the hospital. With the excuse of the amount of luggage she needed to prepare for her unexpected journey she left earlier than usual and took the subway to the village. She needed to think, and she could not do it right there, so she needed someone willing to think for her. Fortunately, in her life there was a person more than willing to take the reins of her existence if necessary as in this case, Charice.
Charice and Becca were friends from their university days, roommates in the students’ dorms and the only person Becca called a friend without qualms. Her real name was Charlotte, but she had decided to change it upon her arrival at college because a fashion journalism student could not have such a vulgar name. Charice was the image of New York success, that which only appears in magazines and television programs. Always dressed to the last, the very definition of feminine and with beauty provided by the mixture of native American genes from her father and her Japanese mother. Charice could stop the traffic. Literally. She worked as a fashion reporter in one of the most famous magazines worldwide, so she traveled constantly from catwalk to catwalk, from Paris Fashion week to London and, although she was not up to par yet with the Anna Wintour’s of the world, her network of contacts was simply enormous. As much as her self-confidence, just what Becca needed. That, and a good glass of wine at DiMarco's.
“Let me see if I've understood, honey,” Charice said, raising the third glass of Chardonnay. “In ten minutes of a phone call you have become a multimillion-dollar heiress, with homes and businesses all over the world and with more money than you could spend in three or four lifetimes, right?” she said looking at her but without waiting for an answer. “And as a result,” she added, holding the glass to her lips, "you're depressed.”
“I know it sounds ridiculous, Charice, but I do not want any of this, I want to continue with my work and my things, without fear..., without a father.”
“Without emotion, without risk, without sex…”
“Hey, that's not fair, I do have sex.”
“Honey,” Charice replied, looking at her with mock pity, “The bald one does not count, it's not sex if it does not last more than ten seconds.”
“You're impossible!”
“I prefer the term irresistible ..., but it's okay” she replied smiling.
“John is a good guy. He's not the kind of man I need, that's all.”
“Neither you nor a
ny woman, animal or thing that values itself a little bit.”
“The fact is that tomorrow I have to get on my own private jet to go to my house in Scotland and take possession of my millions, and I... I’m scared,” she said looking at Charice with a depressed face.
“Seriously, honey, you must do something with this fear of yours to the unknown, you are blocking yourself, your development as a person, we all need monsters to face, darling, it is the way we grow, the way we…”
“Will you come with me?” Becca asked, interrupting her. Charice looked at her trying to remain serious, unsuccessfully.
“I don’t know, honey. Let's see, will I go with you on a paid vacation in Europe, flying private jet and sleeping in a mansion? … I thought you’d never ask,” she said with a huge smile while asking the waiter to bring another bottle.
She had to get up at five in the morning to be able to pack. The previous days wine round had lasted a long time, and she was going to pay for it all day with a fantastic hangover. She had no idea what the weather was like in Scotland, but she thought it was the end of April after all, so mid-season clothes would be fine. At eight o'clock sharp the doorbell almost made her head explode. It was Charice and her seven suitcases.
“Would you mind explaining what you have in seven suitcases of that size?” she snapped as soon as she saw her enter the door.
“Basics, love, just basics. Also, we fly private jet, they will not fine me for excess baggage. And if that were the case, my friend the millionaire can help me pay the fine, right?” she answered, sticking out her tongue.
Becca decided this was a lost battle and not to think about which things she was forgetting if basics for Charice were seven suitcases, and she had put everything she thought she needed in a small one.
