For now, all he could do was to keep his phone charged and handy. He couldn’t miss the call. As dreadful as it was going to be.
WHAT AM I GOING TO tell Mum and Dad?
He made up his mind to go for a walk; it always helped him figure things out.
Blue went to get his water bottle and his battered grey baseball cap. He signalled to Molly with a sharp whistle: it’s time to go out. Excitedly, the canine raced ahead and waited for her dad by the wooden gate.
The sky was overcast. They could walk for miles and miles without worrying too much about burning in the sun; not that he had ever let a small amount of discomfort concern him at all.
The walking got him thinking.
He was just twenty but had already been in the Parachute Regiment for three years. During a leave from active duty, he had a brief love affair with an eighteen-year-old country lass. So rapid was the courtship that it was over in two weeks, the entire length of his break.
But they were young and horny and were soon having sex every chance they got, from the minute they laid eyes on each other. The only way to describe it was intense, very intense. They were consumed in a searing flash of carnal fire.
It took him by surprise that the passion had cooled as soon as he was back in the barracks. It was, even for him, a bewildering experience. He’d had girlfriends who had affected him far more than the bright, bubbly brunette. He couldn’t even recall her name now, for when they were together, he’d just called her Honey.
He called everyone “Honey”. It just made things easy. Just like his mother called everyone “Jackson” for the same reason.
The girl always called him by his real name, Nicholas, not “Blue”. He had not been called this nickname when they met. It was a moniker he earned much later on in the Parachute Regiment for turning blue in a parade once, and fainting. He had not been able to live it down since.
Six months later, once again on leave, they bumped into each other in the village square. She looked different. Older, it seemed. Or maybe just sadder.
She smiled at him. He smiled back. It was awkward but more painfully so for her. But it was she who had the gumption to make the first approach. ‘Can I talk to you?’
‘Sure, Honey,’ he said. She let out a sad half-laugh. She was smart enough to know he didn’t mean it as a term of endearment. She shook her head slightly as she gave him a tight, half-crooked smirk.
Brize Norton, situated in Oxfordshire, may have been home to the Parachute Regiment, but it still had peaceful, quaint, and lovely countryside. Picturesque in that idyllic setting of centuries old houses and pubs and winding, lonely country roads.
They strolled casually to the ancient village church and walked on its ground, passing through the decades-old cemetery. She paused to read a tombstone; it said: Here lies Genevieve Hunter, aged 16, loved and longed for by her husband Alexandre Hunter (1880-1896). The inscription was faded and obscured by the passage of time. But it remained a testament of enduring young love.
She then turned and continued. He followed where she led, to the foot of a tree. She sat down and patted the space next to her. ‘Sit,’ she said. ‘You need to be seated.’
He did.
She didn’t waste any time and didn’t mince her words. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Pregnant?’ he echoed, eyes wide. He felt overwhelmed, to the point of becoming woozy.
‘Yes, six months,’ she replied. ‘You do the maths.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. Shit. Shit. Shit.’
She smiled again, and then said, ‘By the way, my name’s not Honey, it’s Melanie.’
‘Melanie,’ he repeated after her.
He had never, ever been this nervous. Not even when he jumped off a plane at three thousand feet for the first time. ‘Is it mine?’
God, he kicked himself mentally. Should I even be asking?
Melanie looked down at the ground, suddenly quiet. She said, bravely, ‘Yes, you were the one and only.’
He slapped his forehead. ‘Seriously?’ Yes, of course. He remembered now seeing a spot of blood on the white bed sheet.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he whispered. ‘Do your parents know?’
‘They both know. I’ve decided to give the baby up for adoption. I’m only eighteen, I can’t look after a baby,’ she said as tears threatened to spill. ‘I want you to sign the adoption paper, too. I don’t want any complications later. We both need to agree on this.’
‘Okay,’ he replied, a little too quickly as a sense of relief flooded in. Thank God, he repeated to himself over and over.
‘I’ll have the papers ready by tomorrow. I’ll meet you here, same time.’
‘Okay,’ he said, then added, ‘I’m sorry.’ He really meant it. It couldn’t have been easy to be pregnant at such a young age and still in school. And then have to make a decision to give the baby up for adoption. She was brave, he thought.
At a loss for words, and feeling a tad claustrophobic, he got up to say, rather callously upon reflection, ‘I’ve gotta go, my mates are waiting for me.’
She smiled once more, only because she wasn’t someone who sought to be pitied. ‘Go, but be sure to be here tomorrow. Preferably sober.’
He nodded and walked slowly away, even though he felt like sprinting.
That night, he went out with his mates to get pissed. They did, he didn’t, because, by some strange coincidence, one of the lads had drunkenly shared the abuse he suffered at the hand of an adoptive father. He listened as his friend ranted and raved and cried into his drinks. That night, Blue decided. No other people would raise his child but his Mum and Dad and himself.
The following morning, his mother had very nearly suffered a heart attack when he told her he’d got someone pregnant, and he intended to keep the baby. ‘How?’ she asked. ‘You’re in the bloody Paras!’
He looked at her, not daring to say what he was thinking. But she read his mind. She blurted out, as she grabbed the spatula to take the fried eggs out of the frying pan, ‘Oh no, you don’t. No! Your baby! Your job to look after it.’
But in the end, she agreed to look after the wee one on the condition he would do his duty as a father every time he was home on leave. ‘There will be no nightlife for you,’ she said. ‘No dating until she’s old enough to be left with a sitter. And, you have to start saving so you can buy your house.’ She carried on like a woman possessed about all his responsibilities, itemising them with her fingers until she ran out of digits.
He gave his Mum a solemn promise to be there for his baby.
That afternoon, he told Melanie of his decision. At first, she looked at him in disbelief. Then, went through a whole gamut of emotions. She was confused, then scared and uncertain. ‘You won’t change your mind, will you? You might decide at the end of it to saddle me with the baby.’
‘No, I won’t. I promise. I won’t let you down again. Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll sign the adoption paper as the adoptive Dad so that you know I won’t be changing my mind.’
But rather than be grateful, she reacted in a way that confused him initially. She cried her heart out and said, ‘You make me feel like a bad person. Giving her away—’
‘Don’t feel bad about yourself,’ he said. ‘Few eighteen-year-olds would go through what you’re going through. They would have an abortion, and they wouldn’t even let the Dad know.’ He reached over to give her a tight embrace. He patted her back and lamely said, ‘There, there.’ What else was there to do?
IN THE FIVE YEARS SINCE Cherie was born, he had been the greatest father he possibly could be.
And just when he had sacrificed his career in the Paras and joined the Circuit to be able to take care of her more, she had been taken. I have to get her back.
He, Cherie, and Molly grew up together. Nothing and no one could separate them.
Not even Carl Joseph Sigmund Kruger-Daniel, who he suspected was behind Cherie’s disappearance.
No one I know is as demented
as that one, and he certainly enjoyed mind games.
He had learned previously, after just a few weeks of working for him, that Carl was an atypical crook. He didn’t physically intimidate, but he was far more frightening with his ability to manipulate people and plot schemes of malfeasance. He was certain that Carl was a sociopath.
3: Painfully Separated
HE CHECKED HIS MARATHON NAVIGATOR WATCH with its maroon strap, a favourite piece of kit that had been with him for more than a decade. It had been five hours since Cherie was taken. He and Molly had walked the surrounding hills and been back home for more than an hour. Still, he had not received any more calls.
He didn’t need any obvious confirmation. Only one person in his orbit would do such a thing: Carl Kruger-Daniel. His former boss, now nemesis, excelled in mind games. This waiting phase was just the start of his twisted psych war.
He knew, instinctively, that this waiting was meant to weaken him; but being aware didn’t mean he was unaffected. He was hyper-sensitive to every sound, thinking every passing car was the one carrying news of his daughter. Outside, darkness had fallen and blanketed the area. He wondered whether there was someone still out there, watching him sweat.
Molly was hungry and thirsty from the walk. He poured dry dog food into her bowl and refilled her water container. She feasted on the offering, consuming every bit of kibble. She lapped at the water so fast that she splashed liquid on the kitchen floor.
For himself, he slapped together a simple cheese, ham, and tomato sandwich. He took one bite. His throat was parched; he had difficulty swallowing. He drank cool water from the tap to help the sticky masticated bread go down. He stood a while, staring into the blackness through the hundred-year-old sash window.
He couldn’t help it; he had to think about how Cherie might be coping. She’s a tough little cookie, he decided. She’s alright.
He had to believe that she was alright or he would lose it completely.
Setting aside that she was his child, he forced himself to think of the problem clinically. With no idea of where she might have been taken, it was best to use the time to formulate a strategy. Running around like a headless chicken wouldn’t serve any good.
The first thing he did was call his employer to say he couldn’t take his next assignment for personal reasons. He offered no explanation, and no explanation was asked. All the Boss said was, ‘Good luck. Let me know when you’re ready to go back to work.’
He replied with a cheery, ‘Course, mate. You’d be the first to know.’
Then, it was time to call his mum. If he wasn’t careful, she would know something was wrong. So he rehearsed the script in his head several times before dialling her number. Monette was watching an episode of Downton Abbey when the phone rang. She answered the annoying device quickly and said sternly, “Wrong timing.”
He pretended to chuckle. ‘I’m gonna be brief,’ he said. We’re going out of town, so you guys won’t be seeing Cherie and Molly.’
‘Your Dad and I are missing her; we haven’t had her for two weeks. That’s the longest we haven’t seen her. Can I at least speak to her?’
‘She’s already sleeping, she’s had a long day. We went hiking after school.’
‘Alright then, we’ll have her back in a little over a week anyway.’
‘Yes, Mum, you will.’ He pressed the hang-up button before he choked on his lies.
He stared at his food. The bread had gone dry, and the tomatoes had bled all over it, making it look unappetising. Disgusted, he tipped the lot into the bin. It was all Molly needed to get up and bark.
‘What?’
Molly turned to look at the bin, and then back at him. He shook his head, put his hand in it to fish out the ham. ‘There you go. Happy now?’
The excited wagging of her tail answered his rhetorical question. The Belgian Malinois ate up the processed meat before looking up at him gratefully. He smiled and rubbed her back. ‘We’d better get some rest.’
He led Molly to the bedroom she shared with Cherie. The dog crawled into bed, paws hugging a pillow where his daughter ought to be safely and happily tucked in. Except, tonight, it was all space. His father’s heart was ripped to pieces.
He left Molly and went about his usual routine. He checked the perimeter of the house, then locked the doors before heading for a hot shower. The jet spray was soothing to his body, but not to his mind. It couldn’t stop the all-too-consuming worry that buffeted him. He braced himself against the wall, looked up to meet the downpour from the spout. Water cascaded down his face and mingled with his tears of frustration.
He turned off the tap once the water had gone cold. He towelled himself dry, then put on his pyjamas. They weren’t originally part of his wardrobe, not until Cherie had come to live with him in their house. He used to sleep naked but found it didn’t feel right with a two-year-old around. Not that it mattered until the child became aware, but nevertheless, he had made up his mind.
He purchased their house three years ago, the location of which was dictated by his meagre savings and income. He had bought a home in Chalgrove, southwest of Oxford, nearly an hour’s drive from Brize Norton. The historic town had a community of three thousand people but their nearest neighbour was half a mile away.
It was a charming detached Grade II period cottage dating back to 1680, with a wealth of character features throughout. Its best attribute was its thatched roof. The flaking paint only added to its likeability. It exuded old world charm. The story-book dwelling had become his escape from the nastiness of the world beyond its perimeter. With hardly any time invested into domestic duties, some of the stone walls were falling apart in places. Someday, he often thought, I’ll fix you.
The cottage had a well-stocked garden to the front as well as a southwest-facing courtyard with raised beds to the side of the property, perfect for al fresco dining.
Inside, the ground floor accommodation featured a living room with exposed beams and inglenook fireplace with wood burning stove. The adjoining dining room and reception room also boasted a beamed ceiling. There was a well-appointed kitchen, the only part of the house upgraded with appliances to accommodate modern living. Both the kitchen and bathroom had underfloor heating.
On the upper floor, there were two bedrooms, both with built-in storage. The main bedroom was generous in size. He outfitted it with a double bed for Cherie and Molly to share. He occupied the much smaller single bedroom that just had enough space to fit a double bed, leaving barely enough room to walk around in, and it had a view of the gravelled driveway.
Monette and Joel, his parents, wanted him to buy somewhere closer to them, preferably right in town. They offered their family residence as additional bank collateral. But in the end, he wouldn’t accept it. Couldn’t. Too much risk for someone like him who was hardly around.
When he was away working, Cherie and Molly stayed with his parents. The little cottage was left to sit empty for long periods. Over the course of time, it became his mates’ home away from home. A place to recuperate from the war zone, a sanctuary to hide in and a home to lick their wounds. There was a key under the bushes and all they had to do was ask when the house was free.
Blue lay on the bed fully awake. He became aware of Molly softly walking into his room, then jumping into bed with him. She wasn’t used to sleeping alone. He reached across to pat her. She put a paw on his belly. He was brought to tears yet again knowing Cherie, likewise, was not used to sleeping by herself.
Perhaps she’s frightened.
HIS MIND FLASHED BACK to a time when Cherie was six months old. The first time he met his infant face-to-face since he brought her home from the hospital. All through that time, he only ever saw her via Skype. His biggest regrets back then were not knowing what she smelt like, and not knowing the feel of her little hand clenching his finger like he saw in other people’s photographs.
So finally, here was this tiny six-month-old, who could already roll over and commando-crawl all over the pl
ace. He was beside himself with joy. Not that it had been easy the whole way through. There were nights his mates asked him to join them at the pub but he had to decline because he was on Daddy duty. He was twenty-one, and already living a monk’s existence.
He should have been out drinking and dating. Out and about, doing all those disgusting things soldiers on leave do. But if he tried, and he did on more than one occasion, Monette always reminded him of their agreement. It wasn’t as though Melanie was around to share parenting duties either. For as soon as she gave birth, she left Brize Norton.
His mates used to call him “kangaroo” for carrying Cherie in a pouch on his front. It had its upside; it was a definite chick magnet. Many women, all of them much older, used to say he looked adorably sexy with a baby.
He felt sure Cherie lacked for nothing. Except, one sunny spring day, when he happened to bottle feed her in a park. A young mother sat not far from him to breastfeed her baby discreetly. It was at that moment when he felt Cherie was missing out on something. He packed their belongings and went home.
But the infant didn’t know that she was supposed to be missing out on something, for she was safely and snugly pressed against her father’s chest, sleeping soundly to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
CHERIE WAS FAST ASLEEP in the arms of her new companion. A hired nanny. They were on a yacht, accompanied by a captain and three male crewmen, sailing to an undisclosed destination.
Mimi had been recruited through a top-end nanny agency. Before this gig, she had been crewing in the Mediterranean on superyachts owned by the world’s wealthiest. To land this job, she had to tick two boxes: a love for children and a solid knowledge of the sea and yachting.
She kissed the child’s head tenderly.
Finally, the little angel had succumbed to her tiredness and her tears. Her charge had been crying intermittently for hours for her Daddy and Molly, who Mimi initially mistook for Cherie’s sister. ‘No,’ the young one said, ‘she’s my dog.’
So, all through the afternoon, in between sobbing, until it got dark, they talked about Daddy and Molly. By nightfall, Mimi felt as though she knew them all.
Promise Me Page 10
