by ML Rose
It seems like such a short period of time.
She had been a brief actor on life's stage, worth only a few lines. And now, her silence spoke volumes. She would never laugh again, or whisper in his ears as her fingers played on his chest.
Charlie kneeled, and put the bouquet of flowers on the raised gravestone. He took out the flask of water he brought with him and tended to the flowers that now grew around the grave, which he had planted. Dahlias, daffodils and white lilies.
"They're coming along nicely, Reenie," he said aloud, referring to her nickname. He had given her the nickname in life, and he would utter it until the day he joined her on the other side. "Look how bright they are. You like daffodils, don't you?"
He still remembered the day well. He stood by the hospital bed, surrounded by the doctor and two nurses. Dr Vaughan. The man was so consumed with guilt he was unable to look Charlie in the eye.
They were hushed, apologetic, heads bowed. After the birth, the haemorrhage had been severe. He still thought she died of the heartbreak from the baby’s tragic death. Dr Vaughan told him it was multiorgan failure following the sudden, severe blood loss.
Charlie knew it was unusual. In this day and age, how many women died giving birth? The truth was that Dr Vaughan was too busy ensuring the new born was alive to give Irene the attention she needed. He left the room with the new baby, to call the neonatal paediatricians. The baby spent the whole night in the neonatal intensive care unit, but was pronounced dead in a few hours.
Dr Vaughan should have concentrated on giving Irene a blood transfusion, Charlie had later discovered. His eyes screwed shut as rage suddenly jolted in his veins. A curtain of anger dimmed his mind. His teeth ground together.
Dr Vaughan had paid for what he’d done.
He was gone, but nothing would bring his sweet Irene back. He remembered the last days of her life, in that hospital ward, surrounded by the gentle hum of beeping machine, and well-meaning nurses.
As Irene fought for her life in the intensive care unit, she asked Charlie the same question over and over again.
"Where's my baby?"
She was on morphine due to her pain, but he knew she wasn't delirious when she asked him that question.
She knew about the baby’s death, and that's why she gave up fighting. She wanted to go. For 72 hours he stayed by her bed, sleeping overnight in a bed-and-breakfast opposite the hospital. She was asleep most of that time, but every time her rose tinged, paper-thin eyelids fluttered open, she asked him the same question. He gripped her cold hand, useless tears running down his cheeks. He had no answer. She knew that. She knew the truth, and just like the baby left them both, she too, said goodbye.
There was a bench opposite, and Charlie sat there. He lifted his face up to the sunlight. Patches of clouds sailed across the blue expanse, like pieces of torn cotton-wool. He spoke to Reenie, telling her of the things he had done, and those he planned.
"I wish you were here," he said, a sob strangling his last words.
It was so unfair. The nights and days had slipped into years, but the regret never went away. In fact, the regret intensified when he learnt that things could have been different. On sleepless nights, he stood staring out the window at the hazy outlines of chimneys and roofs. Rain spattered against the glass, smudging his views of the small yellow squares of window light.
But the resolve grew in his mind. At last, he had something to tell her. Something he knew she would have looked forward to.
He stood and crossed the path to the tombstone. He knelt, and brushed away the dirt on the stone, and kissed it briefly. His lips felt cold against the stone. He placed his hand where his lips had just touched, like he was putting a hand on her, feeling her still.
He murmured something inaudible, then raised his voice. "I promise, Reenie. I promise."
CHAPTER 12
On Friday mornings, it was the father who dropped the child off. Charlie was watching from his car.
Sloane Square was a hive of Lamborghinis, Porsches and Rolls-Royces in which the uber wealthy came. Many of the cars were driven by chauffeurs, and they held the door open for the passengers to disembark.
Charlie gripped the steering wheel as he saw the man alight, holding his five-year-old son. The registration of the car was PIT 1. Unmistakable. The one and only Pitt family.
Terence had come today, the man who married into the Pitt family. Lucky guy. He wore a lilac shirt that showed his chest hair, dark slacks and loafers. The brown-haired boy was cute in his little jacket uniform, his thin legs protruding from Navy blue shorts.
Father and son didn't speak as they walked towards the gate, where two teachers stood, ushering the children in. The parents were also allowed inside, up to the classroom doors. Charlie watched Terence and his son walk up the slope and turn right into the school building, till he couldn't see them anymore.
The usual gaggle of mothers congregated outside, kissing the children, chattering away. He looked hard for Terence’s wife, Rochelle. But he couldn't see her anywhere. He was glad. Seeing Rochelle made bile rise in his throat. She was beautiful, but she was also poison.
Charlie had been coming to the school regularly for the last few weeks. He never stayed in the same spot twice. He changed his clothes as well. Today, he was dressed in a business suit, dark hair slicked back with gel. He looked like a banker on his way to work.
He leaned forward, craning his neck upwards. The road that went past the square joined the main artery where traffic was heavier. There was a CCTV camera perched on one of the lamp posts. It was directed at him, and he knew the films would identify him later. No problem. His sunglasses wrapped around his eyes.
On previous occasions, he had even worn a white wig, and with a walking stick, walked like an old man. Standing outside the gates, he had smiled at the boy, and the boy waved back at him.
Charlie watched and waited. He sipped his Americano with two espresso shots. The coffee smelt great, and tasted even better. He needed to be fully alert, senses working overtime. His mind went back to the scene in the Taxi Driver where Robert De Niro points a gun at himself in the mirror. Charlie grinned. That film was his favourite, because he knew what happened when a man was pushed beyond the edge.
He didn't fall, he learnt to fly. It wasn't fear that gave him wings, but the desire of revenge.
Charlie dreamt of a future where he would be happy and free from all the sorrows in the world. Irene's loss would always weigh heavy on his heart. She would be with him till he died, a constant light in the darkness of his soul.
He shook his head as his eyes fluttered close, a hundred visions and memories colliding in his brain like fissile material in a nuclear reactor. His eyes popped open, then bulged as he stared unceasingly at the car's dashboard. His whole life had built up to this specific point, where he knew exactly what to do.
He would leave nothing to chance.
He was ready.
Charlie finished the rest of the coffee, and put it in the cupholder. The parents had left, and the children were inside. They would be in the class for 45 minutes, and then come out for their playtime. Charlie spent the time walking down three blocks to Victoria Station. The station was a busy transport hub for national bus coaches, as well as a train junction.
The railway arches had stood the test of time, built, as the name suggested, during the Victorian times. This place, close to the river, had always been a hub for horse-drawn carriages and highway men, dating back to the obscure time of the Saxon kings.
Charlie walked past the gleaming new frontage of the station, and the usual knot of tourists and pedestrians. He took a right and walked down a quiet street. He was close to the old arches, and there was a small collection of disused, crumbling buildings that had not been renovated for decades. Charlie looked round to ensure no one was watching him.
In his sleek designer suit, he blended in with the crowd in the busy main street. But he might stand out in front of this derelict building. Luckil
y, people moved round on the main street, and no one paid him any attention. A buzzer sounded on the door and an automatic lock clicked open. Charlie stepped into the dark, dingy interior.
CHAPTER 13
There was a smell of damp and cold beer, combined with old tobacco smoke. Charlie walked down the narrow hallway and took the dilapidated staircase, boards creaking under his feet. At the landing, he knocked on the only door that had lights on. He looked at the camera on the door, just as he had done at the main door. The buzzer sounded again and the door fell open.
The fat man called the Russian was seated at his desk, surrounded by computer screens, photocopiers, and a small printing press to the right. Cables and wires sneaked across the floor, in such a great tumble that it was hard to walk. The smell of inkjet printers and strange chemicals was heavy in the air. Green and red lights beeped from the various printers stacked along the walls.
The Russian was completely bald, and his cheek and jowls were sagging with age. A pair of bifocal glasses slipped down his nose. He remained seated, the big paunch of his belly resting against the table. But in his right hand there was a gun, and it rested casually on the table, pointed straight at Charlie. The Russian grimaced, and put the gun away.
Charlie separated a knot of cables with his right foot and stepped inside the room. He sniffed. "Do you never open the windows?" The curtains were drawn and bright white light from overhead bulbs filled the room.
The Russian grunted. "Do you never stop complaining?"
Charlie grinned. "I'm a perfectionist. You know that. Are they ready?"
"Have you got the money?"
Charlie's hand slid inside his coat’s pocket and he saw the Russian’s right hand stiffen.
"Take it easy. I'm here to do business."
The Russian relaxed, and gave him a crooked grin. Despite the name, he wasn't Russian at all. He was one of the many expert forgers who had once worked for the British intelligence service, or MI6, as they were known. No one knew his real name. He was fluent in Russian, and during the Cold War, he earned a living by forging KGB documents for British spies. Now, he worked for himself. He advertised on the dark web, and had plenty of customers like Charlie.
Charlie put the bundle of notes on top of a printer, and the Russian reached for it. He hefted the bundle in his hand. "I'm not going to count it. It's all there?"
"I'm going to come back for more. So yes, it's all there."
The Russian opened up a drawer and gave Charlie his documents. “Two European Union passports with French and Spanish identities, and one American passport.”
“Hope you got your back stories ready."
"I've been working on them for the last six months." Charlie had gone through the French, Spanish and American Registry of births and deaths, and taken over the identities of three male babies who died at the age of one year. No one bothered to check the date of death. But the birth certificates put a new born on the national census. That was checked at all airports and harbours.
The Russian opened a drawer to his left, and took out another A4 sized envelope. He gave it to Charlie, who opened it up and spread the papers on top of a printer. They were Port authority documents for a yacht charter and licence for Felixstowe Harbour in Norwich, and also the Hague in Amsterdam.
He had similar documents for Calais, France. Charlie was impressed. The documents looked genuine. He held them up to the light and admired the watermark. He knew better than to ask the Russian how he did these.
Shady contacts from the Russian's murky past extended all the way inside Westminster. Charlie knew for a fact the Russian would never sell him these documents if he wasn't English himself. There was some honour among thieves, after all. Charlie put all the documents inside his pocket, thanked the Russian and left.
*****
By the time he walked back to the school, it was close to pick up time. At the rear of the school’s compound, children were running round in the playground, supervised by two teachers. The fences were high, with wiring on the top. There was nowhere anyone could get in from the outside. But they could watch. Charlie crouched by one of the grill fence posts.
His eyes were fixed on the brown-haired boy, playing with two of his friends. Emmanuel Pitt. Sandra Pitt’s grandson.
Charlie looked behind him. He was hidden by a bank of bushes, behind which lay the pavement. Trees grew at regular intervals, giving him more shade. But Charlie knew he couldn't stay in this position for long. A pedestrian could see him, and although he was hidden from their teachers, if one of them walked around then Charlie would be visible.
Emmanuel walked over to the fence, and stared at Charlie. Charlie had taken his glasses off, and he smiled at the boy. This was the fourth time they had met. Charlie held out a chocolate, and Emmanuel came forward. He stared at Charlie with his big brown eyes, his lips slightly parted. Charlie's breath hitched in his throat, and his heart contracted painfully. Every bone in his body shuddered, like he was about to be hit by a train. He licked his lips, and cleared his throat.
"Hi Emmanuel. How are you?"
The boy didn't speak, but his eyes were fastened on the chocolate in its bright wrapper.
"Go on, take it," Charlie coaxed.
Emmanuel slid closer, and Charlie's pulse rate kicked up a notch. Emmanuel asked, "Who are you?"
"Rochelle is your mother, isn't she?"
The boy nodded. "I'm your mother's friend. I know I'm a grown-up, but I like children. Can I play with you one day?"
Emmanuel didn't answer. Charlie thrust the chocolate forward, his hands reaching inside the playground through the gap in the fence. His eyes skimmed the top. Luckily, in this corner there wasn't any CCTV. But the wide-angle lens might catch some part of his body.
Emmanuel succumbed to temptation. He picked up the chocolate from Charlie's proffered hand. He took the wrapper off and ate the sweet.
A strong, heady mixture of elation and adrenaline shivered through Charlie's body. His spine jerked straight and he opened his mouth to breathe. Then he smiled.
"That's a good boy."
CHAPTER 14
Seven years ago
Rochelle was close to giving up hope. She lay on her bed, staring out the floor to ceiling window.
Snow-covered the branches of the long line of trees in one corner of the huge garden. Her dreams were dying in the wintry silence. She felt cold and lifeless like the snow that coated the trees.
As far as she could see, the clawing, whitened branches raised up to the sky. The ground was hard and brittle with frost. Her eyes took in the desolate scenery, but her mind barely saw it.
Instead, like the drops of moisture draining from the gutters, visions of the night before flashed upon her mind. She screwed her eyes shut immediately, quelling the panic that rose up inside her. Terence, her husband, had wanted to call an ambulance. So had her mother, Sandra. But Rochelle had refused.
After four miscarriages, she knew the fifth one wouldn't be much different. Over the last week, she could feel it coming. Her body was betraying her again. She was just 30 years old, and healthy. She didn't smoke, and had never taken a prescription tablet.
There was no reason for this to happen, but the various doctors, and the innumerable blood tests, had revealed nothing. Like the gynaecologist suggested, she had taken a high dose of aspirin for this pregnancy. Apparently, it made the blood thinner, which helped blood flow into the developing foetus.
Nothing had helped. After 10 weeks, along with the morning sickness, she had started to feel the dreaded cramps in her lower belly. The spotting started the morning after, and like an avalanche, it only got heavier. She locked herself in her room and lay in bed quietly, like the doctor had advised her.
She tried not to panic, apparently that didn't help. She listened to music, read a book, watched her favourite movies over and over again. It seemed like she was stuck in Groundhog Day. The same nightmare kept repeating itself.
Sandra had called the well-meaning doct
or, who had sat by her bedside, and whispered the usual commiserations. This was Rochelle's third try at IVF. She had the pessaries inside her, she had taken the tablets before she got pregnant, and had serial ultrasounds. Getting pregnant didn't seem a problem for her. But no matter what she did, the progression into motherhood escaped her grasp time and again.
As she lay there, empty and forlorn, for the millionth time she wondered if there was something wrong with her. Some obscure medical malformation the doctors hadn't caught. Maybe science would discover it one day, and recurrent miscarriages and infertility would be a thing of the past.
Sandra had told her how in the 80s, IVF had been hailed as the future. Test-tube babies and all that. Rochelle herself had been an IVF baby. Her brother was conceived by natural means. To be fair, conceiving wasn't Rochelle's problem. It was carrying the baby through to 40 weeks.
Initially, she had been hopeful, given Sandra's history. Miscarriages did run in families. Despite that, her mother had two children, and one day, so would she.
But this was failure number five. Rochelle didn't have the strength to try for number six. There was a knock on the door. It came again, and Rochelle ignored it. She knew it wouldn't be Terence, he was at work. Her mother Sandra had taken time off work to be with her. But Rochelle didn't want to see her. She didn't want to see anyone, or say anything. Her mind and body were both paralysed. She felt numb, incapable of any sensation.
The door opened, and her mother stepped inside. She put down a tray on the bedside table. She went to the other end of the room, and tugged on the cord that pulled the thick Georgian curtains to one side. Unwelcome light streamed into the room. Rochelle was happier with the window close to her bed. It gave her enough light to stare at the frigid, barren landscape outside.
Sandra sat by the foot of her bed. Rochelle felt the mattress depressed, but didn't look in her mother's direction.
