Storm Rising

by Rachael Richey

  Chapter 2

  Wednesday, 16th November 2005

  At eleven the following morning, Abi got slowly out of her car, which she had parked a hundred yards down the road from her father’s house. She couldn’t bring herself to pull into the drive—to be seen by all the neighbours peering speculatively out from behind their net curtains. She couldn’t even bring herself to park right outside the house. She locked the car and, slipping the keys into her bag, made the seemingly endless walk along the tree-lined road. She took a deep breath. The sights and smells were bringing it all back to her. That and the astonishing news she had seen on the television the previous night. What timing, she thought wryly, her lips twisting tightly together.

  Pausing fractionally, she pulled her bag more securely onto her shoulder before turning up the drive. She squeezed between the Saab and the gatepost, snagged the bottom of her jumper on the hedge, and marched up to the front door, taking care not to look at either of the neighbouring houses. She rang the bell and took a step backwards. Within seconds her father had opened the door and stood back to usher her in. He looked even worse than the day before, thought Abi sadly, wondering how the death of such an evil person could have so devastating an effect on those who had lived with her. But that was the really sad thing—her father had loved the evil person. He had spent well over half his life with her, and he knew no better. A tiny part of Abi felt momentarily sorry for him, but she immediately pushed down the sympathy and forced herself to remember his behaviour all those years ago when he could have helped her but instead had just stood by and let that woman control her.

  She walked past him into the dark hallway.

  “Morning, Dad,” she said as she dumped her bag on the telephone table, thinking how antiquated the house was. She shrugged off her jacket and flung it onto the newel post. “What d’you want me to do?”

  Arthur Thomson stared at his daughter mutely. It was as if he had ceased to function as a member of the human race since the death of his wife. He couldn’t seem to form the words needed. His shoulders sagged, and he leaned back against the wall, giving the slightest hint of a shrug and dropping his gaze to the worn, dark-red, patterned carpet beneath his feet.

  Abi sighed. “Right,” she said, taking his elbow and leading him down the passage towards the kitchen. “A cup of tea, to start, I think. Then we can decide what needs doing.”

  The kitchen was cold and smelled of rotting vegetables. Half a dozen mugs and some sticky sherry glasses lay in the sink waiting to be washed, and the table was covered by piles of unopened post. Abi pulled out a chair and pushed her father down into it, then filled the kettle and set about making some tea. The milk in the fridge had gone off, so she poured it down the sink and went in search of the powdered milk she knew would be a staple in her mother’s food cupboard. Her assumption proved correct, and five minutes later she and her father were both seated at the circular kitchen table sipping from mugs of hot sweet tea. Abi hadn’t taken milk or sugar in her tea for years, but somehow the effect of being back in her parents’ house had forced her to regress, and she had added them without thinking.

  “There are some biscuits in the tin,” said Arthur suddenly, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the sink. Abi glanced up and located an old-fashioned biscuit barrel parked next to the drainer. She retrieved it and plonked it on the table in front of her father. He didn’t look up. “I just thought you might like one,” he said. “You used to like biscuits. They’re chocolate ones.”

  Abi cleared her throat. “No, thanks. I’m okay. Got to watch my weight,” she said, her mind immediately remembering the large bar of chocolate in her room the night before. Why had she said she needed to watch her weight? That was the sort of thing her mother used to say. God, she had to get out of here, and fast. She drained her cup and stood up. “Right. Let’s get started,” she said, standing back to allow her father to pass.

  He got slowly to his feet and led the way silently up the steep staircase and into the bedroom. The unmade bed was strewn with clothes, and the drawers of the dressing table were all half open. It looked as though someone were in the middle of packing and had had to abandon their task. Abi glanced at her father. He coughed slightly.

  “I started to take out her clothes,” he explained, “but I just didn’t know what to throw away and what to keep. Should I send them to the charity shop, d’you think? Would anyone want them?” He gestured pathetically to the piles around the room.

  Abi picked up a dress distastefully with her finger and thumb and held it at arm’s length.

  “Well, I s’pose some poor soul might want them,” she remarked disparagingly, “but personally I’d just chuck the lot.” Her father made no response, and she turned to see he had sunk down on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Abi sighed and sat down beside him. “Sorry, Dad,” she said bleakly. “I’m not taking your feelings into consideration at all. Just because I hated her doesn’t mean you did too. You can’t have done. You stayed with her for forty years.” She paused and tentatively put a hand over his. “But I’m sure we can sort this out together.”

  After a moment, Arthur raised his head and stared at the wall directly in front of him. It had a damp patch that looked like a small sheep, and the rose-patterned wallpaper was beginning to peel around it. When he spoke, it was very quietly, and Abi had to lean towards him to catch his words.

  “I hated her too,” he whispered softly. “I hated her for what she did to you, the way she treated you. I hated her for the fact that you left home and never came back. I hated her for the way she treated me.” He paused and looked directly at Abi. “But she needed me, and I needed her. I couldn’t leave her. I can’t really explain why, but I had to stay. I think I always hoped you’d come home, so I needed to be here to wait for you.” He paused again and tentatively reached out a hand to his daughter. “Maybe one day you’ll understand. I realise you can’t forgive me, but maybe you can learn not to hate me.”

  With only a moment’s hesitation, Abi took his hand and squeezed tightly. “Oh, Dad.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry.”

  He patted her hand and then, rising to his feet, pulled her gently up.

  “Let’s do this, then, shall we?” he said with the ghost of a smile.

  Abi pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and blew her nose hard. Then she smiled at her father and nodded.

  “I suggest we bin all the clothes, and then we can go through her other stuff, and you can see what you want to keep,” she said, her eyes quickly scanning round the room. “Is there a lot of stuff other than clothes to go through?”

  Arthur nodded and handed her a black bin bag. “Loads of paperwork, photos, books, and stuff,” he said. “I really don’t care to keep any of it, apart from some photos, but I just can’t bring myself to throw it all out. I just wondered if you could have a quick squint through it all and see if there’s anything you want, or think I might want.” He paused. “I suppose we should maybe offer some things to your Aunt Margaret…” He tailed off when he saw the look on his daughter’s face, and gave a small smile and shrug. “Oh, well, at least I never need to socialise with her again,” he said and began to help Abi pile the clothes into bags.

  ****

  Simon Dean leaned in towards the mirror and stuck out his tongue. It was pale and blotchy and covered with a type of fur. With a shudder, he quickly put it away again, then splashed his face with tepid water and picked up his toothbrush. He wasn’t sure how he was going to face the day, but trying to do so without cleaning his teeth was out of the question. He reached for the toothpaste and discovered it was empty. Really empty. It had been squeezed and rolled and folded to within an inch of its life and had not an iota of toothpaste left to offer. He swore loudly and flung the offending tube into the bin. Then he strode over to the phone and called for room service.

  “I need toothpaste!” he barked into the receiver. “Right now, Room 917.” Then he slammed it back down int
o its cradle.

  While he waited for the toothpaste to arrive, Simon lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. After the media attention had finally subsided the previous night, he had proceeded to get ridiculously drunk with bass player Charles Bond, in the privacy of his own room. Gideon had refused to see either of them and, to the best of Simon’s knowledge, had admitted no one to his room at all. A muffled groan from the floor beside his bed alerted Simon to the continued presence of Charles, and he peered over at him. The bassist was lying flat on his stomach, his head cushioned on Simon’s discarded shoes. Simon leaned down and hit his friend on the shoulder with a nearby book.

  “Ow!” came the response, and a tousled head was raised slowly, accompanied by more groaning. Despite his own diabolical hangover, Simon grinned evilly and swung his legs off the bed.

  “Come on, Chas,” he said, bending down and retrieving his shoes from beneath his friend. “Time to meet your fans. There’s a queue of girls at the door.”

  Charles’s head shot up, and he began to scramble to his feet, pausing half way in an attempt to stop his head from spinning.

  “God, Si, right now? Can’t you stall ’em while I clean my teeth?” and he began to stagger unsteadily towards the bathroom.

  “No toothpaste.” Simon leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms, and Charles shot a suspicious glance at his friend.

  “There’re no girls, either, are there?” he said finally, allowing himself to fall backwards onto Simon’s bed and cover his eyes against the morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling window.

  Simon gave a snort of mirthless laughter. “No girls,” he admitted. “I suspect they’re all outside Gideon’s door. No one will be interested in us today.” He sat down on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on. Charles opened a bloodshot eye and peered at him.

  “You goin’ out?” he asked.

  Simon nodded. “As soon as the toothpaste arrives, I am,” he said. “Got to get some fresh air and see what the world is saying this morning.”

  He paused at a short knock on the door, followed by a shout of, “Room Service!” and strode over to open it. He took the proffered toothpaste, nodded his thanks, and closed the door on the inquisitive and expectant face of the bellboy. He went straight to the bathroom, cleaned his teeth, ran his fingers through his still rather greasy hair, and turned back to his friend.

  “I’ll see if Gideon’ll see us, too,” he said with a grimace, adding, “Wish I knew what the fuck he was thinking,” then snatched up his jacket and headed out into the nearly deserted corridor. He closed the door behind him and set off towards the elevator, ignoring Charles’s feeble cries of, “Wait for me, you sod!”

  His hangover was not even considering abatement, and Simon found his mood getting progressively worse as the elevator made its descent to the foyer. He was mildly annoyed when the Americans sharing the elevator insisted on calling it the first floor when in fact it was, as everyone knew, the ground floor. It was in this mood that he stepped out into the foyer—to be immediately engulfed in a sea of flashing cameras and thrusting microphones. As he tried to push his way through them towards the huge glass revolving doors, one particularly tenacious reporter leapt in front of him and stuck her microphone so close it hit him on the nose. He sneezed violently, swore as his head throbbed, and thrust his face right up close to hers.

  “If you were a man,” he hissed at her, “you wouldn’t be leaving here on your feet. Now get the fuck out of my way!” He pushed her to one side, forced his way through the rest of the crowd, and exploded out onto the pavement.

  The Western International Hotel on Central Park West was situated just on the edge of the park itself, and as Simon dodged across the road, he was aware of several groups of people attempting to attract his attention. He jumped sideways to avoid being flattened by a yellow cab and scooted into the park, losing himself momentarily amongst the trees before jogging very slowly towards the Central Park Loop. He then headed along West Drive towards Sheep Meadow, the venue for the previous day’s concert. His steps slowed as he approached the open space, and he found himself watching from a safe distance as the huge stage was dismantled by a swarming crew. He wasn’t sure what had brought him back there, except maybe the desire to look for answers to the shocking events of the day before. What he would be able to find out there he had no idea. The only person who could shed any light on the revelations had locked himself in his room and was refusing to speak to anyone.

  The effects of the night before were beginning to take their toll, and Simon suddenly felt extraordinarily hungry. He hesitated a moment, wondering whether to return to the hotel, then decided to head across the grass towards Le Pain Quotidien, where he ordered a cheese-almond Danish and a cappuccino. He carried them to a secluded corner of the park, out of sight of any inquisitive fans, and sat down on the grass. Despite it being mid November, the day was unseasonably warm, the temperature peaking at a balmy twenty degrees Celsius, and Simon began to relax in the warming sun.

  By the time he had eaten his pastry and downed his coffee, he felt a lot better and decided he was ready to attempt to face Gideon again. Taking a deep breath, he struggled to his feet and set off towards the towering hotel.

  ****

  The bedroom was beginning to look a little more orderly. Half a dozen black bin liners crammed with clothes were piled near the door, and the now empty wardrobe and chest of drawers had been closed and dusted. Arthur had decided he no longer wished to sleep in the room, so Abi set about stripping the two single beds that had stood side by side ever since she could remember. Her parents had never shared a bed, in her memory, and she understood that in the final months they had not shared a room, either. A lot had happened in the eight years she had been away. Things had not been as she’d imagined.

  After hauling the soiled linen off the beds, she gathered it all up and lugged it downstairs to the washing machine. She loaded it in, added the powder, turned it on, then set about tidying the sadly neglected kitchen. Her father was nowhere to be seen, and she refilled the kettle, then ran a bowl full of soapy water and quickly washed the waiting cups and glasses. It did not escape her notice that there were no plates or cutlery awaiting washing, a clear sign that her father was existing on either coffee and biscuits or takeaways. She finished drying the crockery, then investigated the contents of the kitchen bin. She nodded to herself. A large quantity of crumpled paper and a few polystyrene cartons. Fish and chips, and Chinese takeaway. Well, at least he was eating something, and she proceeded to empty the bin and then wiped down the surfaces.

  Eventually she stood back to review her work with satisfaction, made another pot of tea, and went in search of her father. She finally found him in the shed. To all intents and purposes he was cleaning his gardening tools, but Abi noticed that nothing was really getting done. He was standing staring out of the small window onto the pocket handkerchief of lawn that Abi had grown up with as her childhood garden. It was edged with neat but neglected flowerbeds containing a large quantity of shrubs and a number of rosebushes. All were in need of a good pruning, quite different from the way Abi remembered them from her childhood. The back of the house looked forlorn and desperately in need of a coat of paint, and the windows all needed cleaning. Abi’s heart lurched as she realised just how bad her father’s life must have been lately.

  She put her arm around his bowed shoulders and gave him a squeeze.

  “Another cup of tea, Dad?” she asked gently.

  He turned and looked at her, his eyes sorrowful.

  “Okay, love. I’ll be in directly.” He turned back to his tools and lined a few of them up along the workbench under the window. Then he turned and slowly followed his daughter across the damp lawn. It had begun to drizzle, and Abi irrelevantly thought how she was going to need a session with her hair straighteners when this was all over. Once in the kitchen, she poured them both a tea and sat down at the table. Arthur joined her and ladled far too much sugar into his cup. H
e looked up to catch Abi staring at him in disbelief, and grinned sheepishly.

  “I think I need a bit of sweetening,” he muttered, stirring rapidly.

  Abi laughed. “Why not!” she said with a grin.

  They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping their tea, each lost in their own thoughts, until Arthur looked over at Abi.

  “I think we need to start on the attic next, love,” he began, delving his hand into the biscuit barrel and coming out with a bourbon. “That’s where all the papers and stuff are. You can probably chuck most of it, apart from the photos, of course, but I’d really appreciate it if you could go through it first, just in case there’s something we might like to keep.”

  Abi looked at him over the rim of her mug. He was beginning to shed the totally lost and hopeless look he’d worn when she arrived. Maybe her being there was helping him. He had a hell of a life change to cope with, after all. She was beginning to realise she would need to be involved in his life from now on, something she hadn’t even considered until today. She took a deep breath and stood up.

  “Okay, then, let’s get to it, Dad. Show me where it all is.”

  Together they left the room and headed towards the stairs.

  On the landing, Arthur reached up to the hatch in the ceiling with a long metal pole, unhooked it, and pulled it down towards him, revealing an extending ladder. Cautiously Abi climbed up, reaching her hand through the hole above her head to find the light switch. She flicked it on, and a dim bulb illuminated the shadowy, low-ceilinged loft space. The space extended the whole length of the house and rose to a height of just under six feet at the centre, sloping away to almost nothing at the sides. Abi peered around her before heaving herself off the ladder and into the loft. As was to be expected of her parents’ house, everything had been packed neatly and tidily in boxes and cartons; her task was probably going to be much easier than she’d anticipated.