Marcus…?
Seconds later, he’d felt a hand sweeping lightly over his body in the darkness – a hand that couldn’t take him quick enough, he decided. A hand whose delicious movements made him feel like the most desirable man in the world. A hand with the gentlest touch ever. Then he’d reached out and gripped her wrist, hearing her slurred voice.
Do you like me…?
He wasn’t even sure the words had been real or that she was even there, convincing himself that it could still be a dream, that he wasn’t actually doing anything wrong – let alone encouraging her.
You’re beautiful…
He felt himself respond to her touch – any man would react the same – and then he remembered the fullness of her lips on his neck, his ear, his mouth. She was so very sweet, her naked body folding lightly over his like the whisper of a silk sheet. He looked up at her, felt soothed by her in a way that Claire could never make him feel, until her young smile, flashing through the darkness, transformed into something else. A shocked look when she realised… but by then it was way too late.
‘Russ, come!’ Callum yelled. He scraped back the kitchen chair and stood up, whipping the dog’s lead from the hook by the door. Russ skidded to his master’s side. ‘Walk,’ he snapped, thinking it would have to be a bloody long one.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The conversation had wound back to babies and children, understandably so with Greta present, but it was the last thing Nick wanted to hear about.
‘I’m off in search of mussels to cook later,’ he said, getting up off the sand. ‘Anyone coming?’ He’d briefly hoped Claire would join him. He liked the idea of them scrambling about on the rocks together as they’d done as kids, but she glanced up, declining politely before returning to her chat with Jason and Greta.
‘I’d come with you, son,’ Patrick said. ‘But I’d be a liability.’ His eyes flickered with something, as though the hot sun was loosening old memories. Nick couldn’t help noticing the look Jason shot his father when he called him son.
His own father lived in Liverpool now with Nick’s much older sister. He didn’t see them very often. Growing up, his parents had been good to him, but were nowhere near as exciting as Patrick. His father had worked in the council offices and his mother had been a waitress. It was many hours waiting around in the restaurant kitchen for his mother to finish her shift that had sparked his love of food and cooking.
Nick pulled on his T-shirt and started off for the rocky section of beach behind them. The charcoal-coloured slate spotted with barnacles stood out against the fine buff sand. Occasionally, he regretted moving to London, so far away from the coastline that had once made him wonder if his blood was part seawater. So far away from everything he loved.
Nick waved at the teenagers, who’d chosen to sit away from the adults and look after Amy. Earlier, he’d watched as Marcus and several of his friends, plus a rather subdued-looking Rain, had struggled down onto the beach armed with surfboards, a blow-up boat, towels and a cricket bat. He’d stared at Rain too long, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. She was different in every way to Isobel, but his aching heart made him watch her as she spread out her towel.
Nick’s feet smarted as the hot rocks dug into his soles. But ignoring the pain was easy compared to the far greater pain in his heart. The day he’d discovered his daughter’s body splayed out on the hallway floor was the end of everything good in his life. On top of his and Jess’s grief, the police fleetingly considered a ghastly scenario. That someone had even thought he’d hurt their daughter was horrendous.
He shook open the plastic bag that he’d brought up from the picnic and pulled some mussels off the rocks. The slate cliffs rose imposing and dark behind, and the shingle path that led to the clifftop track was not far to his left. It seemed less daunting than he remembered, although still not an easy climb. As kids, the shale had made it three steps forward, two back. Everything was simple then. Everything linear – black or white, good or bad. These days, his mind was pickled with bereavement, divorce, financial worries, builders, and all the while trying to remain creative with his cooking. It was nibbling at his sanity, eating away at his brain on a daily basis. He wasn’t sure how long it would be before he cracked. He just wanted Isobel back.
‘Hey,’ a voice called out. Nick glanced up, looking around, not knowing where it was coming from. ‘Up here.’ Halfway up the shingle track, he spotted Rain. She was waving at him with a small smile, but then her smile dropped away. She’d put on her shorts but was just wearing a bikini top above. He tried not to see Isobel everywhere he looked.
‘Careful up there,’ Nick called back. ‘It’s steep.’ He held his breath as she slid back down the scree a few feet, lunging for a nearby rock. She missed the handhold and ended up dropping further down on her bottom. In a moment she was standing again, brushing herself down, signalling to Nick with a thumbs up that she was fine.
‘Hang on,’ he called out, deciding it wasn’t safe. ‘I’ll come and help you.’ He left the bag of mussels dangling in a rock pool and started off down to the sand. As he leapt across the rocks, taking the safest but longest way around, a jut of cliff momentarily obscured Rain from view. When he finally got to the bottom of the shingle slope, she was nowhere to be seen. He looked about, calling her name and feeling slightly annoyed that she hadn’t waited for him. She’d either got to the top all by herself or abandoned the idea completely and decided to take the long, sensible route along the beach. He thought that was probably the more likely, though something compelled him to go and find her.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When Claire got back to her parents’ house, she discovered a missed call and a message from Jeff. She rarely took her phone to the beach because the signal was patchy. She hoped Jeff wasn’t calling her into work again, especially after what had happened at Galen Cottage. She’d decided not to say anything to him about it.
‘That’s odd.’
‘What is, love?’ Shona had just come back from the beach and was beating the sand from her sandals on the doorstep. Patrick had insisted on checking on the store of feed for the few goats they owned even though she’d told him they still had plenty. She tolerated these aberrations; little routine errands that made him feel useful when, in reality, Shona had everything under control. But it was having to be in control that was wearing her out.
‘Jeff working on a Sunday, that’s what…’ She trailed off, listening to the message.
Claire hung up, glancing out of the window to see if Patrick was coming back. ‘Very odd,’ she said slowly, mulling over what she’d just heard. ‘Mum, apparently someone’s already interested in buying the farm.’
Shona was making tea but stopped. She stared at Claire.
‘Some developer is willing to offer full price on condition it’s taken off the market immediately.’ Claire frowned, pacing about. The details hadn’t even gone live. It didn’t make sense. ‘Have you had a viewing you’ve not told me about, Mum?’ Surely, she wouldn’t do that without telling Patrick, or at least her.
Shona shook her head and turned to fill the kettle. Claire could see her cheeks were tinged pink, her jaw tight. ‘No viewings. But I did speak to Jeff a couple of days ago,’ she said finally. ‘It was agreed he’d try some low-level marketing. I didn’t want to worry—’
‘It was agreed?’ Claire was shocked. ‘Dad doesn’t know, does he?’ Claire folded her arms tightly, not sure who to feel angrier with – her mother, Jeff, or this mysterious developer. She settled on all three.
‘I’m sorry,’ Shona said quietly. She put the kettle on the hotplate and sat down, her usually straight back bent and her head in her hands. ‘I don’t want to let Trevellin go any more than you or Dad, love. It feels as if I’m selling my own child, but I wanted Jeff to see if there was any initial interest. It seems there is.’
‘It’s more than interest by the sound of it,’ Claire said, but then levelled her voice. ‘He said this supposed buye
r isn’t local.’ If she’d not taken time off work, she could have checked him out properly herself. ‘Jeff’s sending out a photographer urgently, to get pictures for this developer, whoever he is. He said if it comes to nothing, the shots can still be used in the brochure.’ She’d never heard of anyone making an offer without even viewing a property. Something didn’t add up. ‘I’ll call the office tomorrow. It doesn’t sound like Jeff’s on top of this.’
‘He was just being helpful, love,’ Shona said in a quiet voice. ‘And I think external pictures only at this stage, don’t you?’
Claire frowned. The implication was clear – her mother didn’t want Patrick finding out. She sat down next to her, taking her hands, unknotting them gently. ‘You know, there’s a bungalow with estuary views for sale in Padstow. Dad could still fish and go off on his walks. His friends would be near.’
‘A bungalow.’ Shona blinked slowly. ‘That sounds small and modern.’
‘It’s been on the market a couple of months. I could take you and Dad up to see it next week, if you like. The owners are lovely and…’
Shona was suddenly in tears – a full-blown, bottled-up meltdown that had clearly been building. Claire pulled her into her arms, not surprised by the depth of her release, but rather that she had one at all. Shona was, as everyone knew, the rock in the Lucas family.
‘Oh, Mum,’ she said. ‘It’ll be OK. Dad’s getting good treatment now and soon you’ll have a lovely new home and…’ She trailed off.
Shona sniffed, squeezing Claire’s hand in return. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without you living so close.’ She reached across the table for a tissue. ‘And I know everyone’s thinking what if Lenni—’
‘Who the hell is that outside taking photos of my property?’ Patrick burst in through the back door, brandishing his walking stick back out towards the courtyard. He was red-faced, looking as if he was about to commit murder. He lunged back outside again, tripping on the step which only fuelled his rage. Claire went after him, but he pulled away from her as she tried to calm him.
‘Get out of here now or I’ll get my shotgun!’ Patrick was shaking to the core, every cell in his body on fire. He thumped his stick against the wall, making the young man in the courtyard flinch. ‘Go on, be gone with you!’ His breaths were shallow and rasping, making his cheeks turn purple with effort. Claire noticed the fleeting confusion on his face, as if for a second he didn’t know why he was yelling. She hadn’t seen him this mad in a long time.
Shona took hold of his arm, but he yanked himself away from her too. ‘Darling, calm down.’ He was shaking with anger.
‘I’m calling the police!’ he shouted, spit frothing in the corners of his mouth. He marched up to the man, who retreated with every step Patrick took. ‘Get the hell off my property!’ Patrick’s eyes bulged as he tried to make his body big and intimidating, like it once was.
‘Your blood pressure, darling,’ Shona implored, putting her arm around him. Again, he shrugged her off. ‘Please, calm down. You’ll have a stroke if you carry on like this.’
‘Look, you’d better go,’ Claire said to the pale-faced man who had a camera slung around his neck. For a moment, he stood completely frozen, wide-eyed and holding Patrick’s stare before hurriedly getting into his car. The wheels spun in the gravel as he sped off.
‘I bloody well found him up in the woods near the old cottage,’ he said, turning back to them, his shoulders heaving up and down. ‘He was taking photographs of the house from up there, so I chased him back down.’ Patrick seethed through shallow breaths. ‘He’d left the gate open and the goats had bloody well got out. How dare he!’ He clutched his chest, panting out short breaths. His forehead was covered in sweat.
‘Oh, Dad,’ Claire said, taking his elbow and guiding him back inside. ‘It’s fine, it’s all absolutely fine.’ She silently cursed Jeff as she led her father back inside to his armchair. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal and Claire noticed the frown forming, the dazed look in his eyes as if he was trying to refocus on life. Like he was waking up from a bad dream, not quite sure where he was or what had happened.
‘He’s gone now, Dad,’ Claire said, watching Shona count out his pills. She hated that they were lying to him. He wasn’t a child that needed the truth disguising and neither was he anything less than the intelligent man she’d always known. He had a right to know what was going on. ‘Look, Dad,’ she said, catching Shona’s eye. ‘That man was a photographer from the agents. He wasn’t snooping. He was taking some photographs to send to someone who might be interested in buying the farm.’
Patrick stared first at Claire and then at Shona, as though he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Are we moving?’ he asked, quite calmly.
‘There’s a bungalow,’ Claire went on. ‘It overlooks the estuary.’
Patrick picked up the newspaper, though she could tell he wasn’t really reading it. She noticed his hands were red and chafed, and the skin on his cheeks thin and veined. Seeing him nearly every day, she’d not been aware of him growing old, but truth was, after a lifetime of working on the farm, he’d been this weathered for years.
‘I should have bloody thumped him,’ Patrick said, glancing at the back door, suddenly remembering again.
The only time Claire ever recalled her father getting violent, exploding like a volcano, was when the detective handling Lenni’s case came to give them a three-month update. An update which consisted of absolutely nothing. There were no new leads, no extra evidence, and no fresh witnesses had come forward despite the television appeals. Patrick asked him what the hell they’d been doing, why they weren’t finding his daughter.
The detective stated quite calmly that he believed Lenni was most likely dead, that unless new leads came to light it wouldn’t be much longer until the investigation was scaled back. It was then that Patrick slowly pulled back his huge right fist and landed a sharp punch right on the detective’s nose.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jason took a long shower. In spite of himself he’d enjoyed being at the beach but, as he rinsed off the sand and salt, he couldn’t wash away what he’d seen earlier. He had no idea what to do.
What loomed between him and his father also couldn’t be washed away. During the afternoon he’d glanced at Patrick once or twice, watching his actions and movements, listening to what he said, concluding that yes, something intrinsic had changed in him. It was a metamorphosis, as if he was gradually becoming a different person, a man very unlike the one Jason knew as a kid. He screwed up his eyes, allowing the hot water to wash over him. When Shona had told him about the Alzheimer’s months ago, Jason had initially felt anything but sympathy.
All things considered, it was easier to stay away from Trevellin.
He put on a shirt his mother had given him on his last birthday when she’d been in London. He’d never ask her to take sides, but as they’d sat in the Fulham café, he admitted to himself that he was looking for clues – maybe even hoping for clues – that his father was softening, perhaps even showing remorse. If he was honest, he missed him terribly.
‘What you must understand about Dad, darling, is that he firmly believes everyone should graft. Make their own way in life like he did,’ Shona had said, but now, with Greta heavily pregnant, he couldn’t comprehend how a man could shut out his own son.
‘I was ill, Mum. I needed help, and more than just financial.’ From the moment Jason announced, aged eighteen, that he wanted to be an actor, Patrick’s thermostat switched to cool.
‘He’s old school, love. He thought acting was a cop-out.’ Shona had said this before, and always with a small smile. Jason had been surprised when she’d once confessed her long-held dream to be on the stage. But marriage, the farm, a family had put a stop to that.
‘Maybe Dad’s right,’ Jason had said. ‘I’m not cut out for it.’
‘He was hoping you’d take over the farm one day. He took it as a personal slight, as if you didn’t value ever
ything he’d achieved. Trevellin was his life and he wanted it to be yours.’ Shona sighed, knowing she was treading a fine line. ‘And your dad doesn’t understand mental health. I think deep down he blamed himself for how you were.’
‘It actually felt like the opposite, like he wanted me to be out of the way and have nothing to do with the farm.’ Jason pondered this for a moment. ‘Anyway, let’s be honest, Mum. Not long after I came to London, I got addicted to smack. That’s hardly Dad’s fault. I was still grieving and riddled with guilt about what happened to Lenni. We all handled it differently, and my reaction came out much later. Understanding and love was what I needed.’
Shona nodded, sipping her drink to cover the quiver of her lips. But Jason still noticed.
‘My life carried on pretty much as normal the morning after Lenni disappeared,’ he continued. ‘I forced it to carry on as normal, that’s how selfish I was. I put on my uniform and I went to school. I did my homework and I walked the dog. I hung out with my mates and got on with growing up. It was my way of coping with the chaos around me. I went suddenly from the middle child to being the youngest child.’ Jason could see by his mother’s expression that she’d never considered that before. ‘Then, at college in London, everything was different. I was surrounded by people like me – broken people, creative people, desperate people, and people searching for something else in life. They helped me forget, while the drugs took away the pain.’
Jason recalled the day he’d finally plucked up the courage to go back home. It was the second lowest point of his life and he reckoned the only thing that would save him. He was an addict, penniless, and knew if something didn’t change, he’d be dead within a year. He’d got on a train without a ticket at Paddington, then hitched from Exeter to Trevellin. His father was in the yard when he tramped down the drive, a dirty canvas pack slung over his back. When Patrick finally recognised his own son, the cold look he gave him made him want to turn around and go right back to the squat.
The Reunion: An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 15
