Hardacre's Luck (The Hardacre Family Saga Book 2)

by CL Skelton

  ‘I want you out of my business, and out of my life,’ Sam said. ‘And I want it a fortnight from now.’

  Jan stared. ‘You’re joking,’ he said.

  ‘Oh my God, I am not joking,’ Sam said, his hands suddenly gripping the end of the desk, as he struggled to keep from violence.

  Jan saw then how serious he was and he straightened up from the mess of papers on the floor. He said very slowly, ‘You can’t do that.’ It was rhetorical, for he was well aware it was not so. Sam had been fair to Jan. He had been indeed generous, financially. But he had never relinquished one ounce of control. It had been instinctive, from the start, to keep that to himself. Hardacre Salvage was always legally his own, and the holding company, Hardacre Enterprises, which he had formed when Riccardo joined him, was totally under his control.

  ‘Oh yes, I can,’ he said, and Jan nodded as the true situation hit him.

  ‘So. Janet has seen you.’

  Sam was silent.

  ‘Oh, come now, this is what we are talking about, is it not?’

  ‘I’ll not cheat you,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll buy you out. You’ll do quite well.’

  He turned, as if to go. ‘The solicitors will contact you tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Jan said, so vehemently that Sam stopped, losing some of his momentum. ‘No. You won’t do this to me. Look,’ he said. ‘You will listen to me. You will do that. A moment. I have spent six years of my life in this, in a foreign country, for you; for me, too, but for you. I made this possible for you. I taught you everything. You knew nothing. You were a boy, playing. I taught you. Not just salvage; I taught you how to do business, how to deal with people. We all taught you. Mick Raddley and Pete, and myself. This is our company, too, no matter how much control you’ve always kept. And I’ve been well aware how closely you’ve kept it. Do not suppose you have fooled me. You would be none of this without us.’

  Sam listened, looking down at the scattered books and papers on the floor. He raised his eyes and met Jan’s and said, honestly, ‘True. I won’t argue. But the fact remains it is mine. And the fact also remains that if you leave, it will continue. If Mick, or Pete, or any one or any group of you leaves, it will continue. If I leave, it will fall apart. I cannot do what you all do by myself, perhaps, but none of you can keep it together. Only I can do that. That’s why it’s mine, Jan. Not because I kept control.’ He was quite calm now, and turned again to walk to the door.

  ‘Stay there,’ Jan shouted. Sam only glanced at him, his hand on the knob. ‘No, you will not walk out on me. I will finish first.’ He moved closer and Sam shrugged and turned his back. He felt Jan’s hand close on his shoulder and, in an instant, all pretext of rationality left him. He turned and went for Jan with a savagery he had not known himself to possess.

  Sam was not a fighter. He disliked violence because he disliked inflicting pain, unless he was too angry to care. He had seen enough brutality in the war to do him for a lifetime; indeed what he had seen there was a good part of what had driven him to the monastery at the end of the war. But always, when truly angry, he would fight with total commitment and total lack of sense; he would turn on anyone, regardless of size or ability, without the slightest regard for personal safety. So he did now. Jan was a big man, a really big man, heavy and powerful, and he was a fighter, trained, and in his own day, and his own war, quite brutal.

  But Jan didn’t want to fight, and Jan, too, was flabby from years of sitting behind a desk, and Sam was fit. Even so, it was sheer fury that carried the fight for him, and at first, Jan was actually struggling. He dodged about, getting the desk between them, then a chair, still fending more than fighting, trying to talk, to argue, to win some sense from the opponent he still regarded as his friend. Eventually his own reluctance undid him. He emerged once too often from behind his shelter, stepping backwards, his hand only lightly raised in protest, and Sam caught him with a sharp right that sent him backwards over the overturning chair, and down to the floor. He sat up, shaking his head, and his expression changed.

  ‘Enough,’ he said. He got up slowly, his eyes never leaving Sam’s, and took his stance in a sturdy, professional fighter’s crouch. Sam didn’t even notice the difference, he was so senseless with fury. He went for Jan once more, and met a fist that sent him into the wall. He just shook his head, almost satisfied, and went back for more. But Jan was alert now, and ready, and Jan was skilled. He threw punches from places Sam never thought of, and knew holds he’d never heard of, and had the skilful ability to use his own strength and momentum against him. In half a minute, Sam found himself on the floor, got to his feet with some difficulty, and found himself back there again, not even sure how it happened. Jan was standing over him, his arms outstretched, hands open.

  ‘Enough?’ he said hopefully. Sam shook his head. He got up, staggering, and swung once more, wildly. Jan just stepped out of the way. But he swung again, and connected, and Jan cursed softly, and took again his waiting, professional stance. Sam was losing and even knew now that he was losing, but he didn’t care. He just kept going back for more until Jan had hit him so often, and so hard, that he was reeling. Then Jan turned the fight in an instant, going on the attack, and in moments had Sam from behind with one arm locked behind his back, and the other pinned to his side by Jan’s arm around his waist. In truth he was so tired that Jan was as much supporting him as restraining him, but he fought yet, and Jan suddenly shouted, ‘Idiot’, and twisted the lock on his arm with sudden viciousness. Sam gasped and Jan said, ‘Right. Enough. In a moment now, I break your arm. Enough, right?’ Pain began to break through to rationality, where nothing else had done. Sam said nothing, but he stopped fighting.

  ‘Right,’ said Jan. ‘Now we talk.’ He eased the armlock to the point where it would not be painful, but did not let go. ‘Now I tell you something,’ he said.

  ‘If it’s about Janet, I don’t want to hear,’ Sam said.

  ‘You,’ said Jan, ‘will hear what I want you to hear.’ He tightened the armlock slightly for emphasis. ‘But no, it is not about Janet. There is nothing to tell about that. We have been utterly honest with you. There is nothing more we can do, other than lie and say we do not love each other, and that we will not do.’ He sighed slightly. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you make this difficult.’

  ‘You pompous bastard,’ Sam whispered, turning again to fight. The pain in his arm made the room go black.

  He heard, from a distance, Jan’s voice, deeply angry, ‘Stop making me hurt you, for God’s sake.’ Sam stopped, he couldn’t take any more. ‘Now listen.’ He listened. When Jan started to speak his words seemed to make no sense, an illogical blur that blended with the sickening spin of the room. His anger was fading and, with it, the last vestiges of his strength. He tried to concentrate and realized that Jan was talking about the war.

  ‘France,’ he said. ‘We were dropped in to join the Underground. We worked with the British; the British whom we had fought over the Mandate. It did not matter then; we had worse enemies. I was useful to them; I was a good linguist, even then. German, French, English, Hebrew.’ He shrugged slightly, loosening his hold, but Sam did not struggle. ‘A network, fifty people, all tied together, tied with a thread, a lifeline, and for each that thread is like a noose, if ever any one of them should talk. Are you hearing me?’ Sam nodded; he could see more clearly now. ‘There was a girl. A pretty girl. Dark, like your mother when she was young, no doubt. French, dark, lovely. I loved her,’ he said. He paused so long that Sam thought he would not continue. He said suddenly with great force, ‘I loved her, Sam. I loved her. They reached her. Who knows? A word dropped foolishly, a little girl’s bravado. She was seventeen. They took her somewhere. They threatened her. Perhaps they did things to her, perhaps not. They threatened … her young body, her pretty face. A child, Sam, a child with a child’s simple vanities. But I loved her.’ He sighed again, suddenly tightening the grip of his arm about Sam’s waist, but not with violence, or to restrain, but as if he h
imself needed support. ‘But she knew … she knew everything. And they turned her. They turned her. We knew, of course. We knew at once. Five men died because of her. And she, so foolish, she led us to herself with her child’s protests of innocence. Oh, we turned her again, it was not difficult. She was like clay in my hands. But we could never trust her. A lifeline, fifty people, a noose and a lifeline, in her little hands. And not just us, but the whole Resistance. It was too important. It could not be risked. She begged me to trust her. I could not.’ Again he was silent, staring straight ahead, over Sam’s shoulder, into an emptiness of the past. ‘I could not,’ he said. When he spoke again his voice was thin and distant. ‘There was no one else I could trust to do it. No one who would do it so cleanly, so quickly, so there would be no pain. You see you came at me to kill me just now with your hands, because you were so angry. But it is not easy to kill with the bare hands, angry or not; it takes terrible certainty. You could not do that. Even if you were stronger than me, you could not do that. I know, Sam. I have done this thing.’ Sam was silent. He felt cold all over, in the aftermath of Jan’s words. Jan said then. ‘Do you think, now, I do not know what it is to be betrayed in love? To betray?’

  Sam said nothing. It had never ever occurred to him to question Jan’s odd, solitary existence, without women, or love. Jan said, as if in answer, ‘I thought for so many years I could not love. I told Hannah I could not love. She did not care. She asked nothing of the world. Most women are more demanding.’ Again he shrugged, lightly. ‘Now, you,’ he said abruptly, his tone changing, ‘you can put me out of your company, if you wish. I cannot stop you, though I will fight you. But you cannot put me out of your life. I am going to marry your cousin. We will be family, whether you wish it or no. You can tear this family apart now or hold it together. It is entirely up to you. But you cannot put people outside your life and make them vanish. You are a powerful man now, but you have not that power, nor that right.’ He paused and said again, ‘Are you hearing me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sam said. He started to turn, but felt Jan’s relaxed grip suddenly tighten, twisting his arm back into the painful lock, and pinning the other by his side once more, as if to once more demonstrate his victory.

  When Jan spoke again, his voice was very hard. ‘Now, I am going to let you go. If you come for me again, I will make an end to it. I have had enough now. I am tired, and I am not fit. I will make an end to it. Do you understand me? I know how to do this, Sam, I assure you. It is something one does not forget. Use your sense, now. You are not usually stupid. In this you are still the amateur; I am the professional. It is not love you are fighting for; only pride. It is not worth anyone’s life. But if you come for me again, I will kill you.’

  He released his hold and stepped back, dropping his arms to his side. Sam stood still, holding his left arm with his right. He was bloody and exhausted, a defeated man, and Jan was not happy seeing him like that, but it could not be helped. He started to turn away and then saw, out of the corner of his eye, Sam lunge for him again.

  ‘Oh you bloody damn fool,’ he whispered in dismay. He sidestepped and turned to defend himself, his hands spread open, his eyes desperate, when suddenly the ringing of the telephone broke into the bitter silence of the room like a voice from another world. They both stood dumbfounded looking at it, wrenched back to civilization by a comic bit of stage play, a bad joke.

  ‘You’d better answer it,’ Sam said.

  Jan looked at him and nodded. They stood studying each other, dumbly, and he reached for the telephone, aware of the insanity of their appearance, both cut and bleeding, their clothing torn, and the room in a shambles. Jan raised the receiver and said, with businesslike formality ridiculous in that setting, ‘Hardacre Enterprises.’ He listened for a moment, nodded, and said, ‘Ja,’ as he did under times of stress. ‘He’s here.’ He held the phone out to Sam, ‘For you,’ he said. ‘Your mother, from the North.’ Sam took the receiver from him, conscious that his hand was shaking with exhaustion and emotion.

  ‘Yes?’ he said flatly.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want the reasons. I don’t want the excuses. Just get here. Now. Just get here.’ The phone went down with a click and he was left with the hum of the dialling tone ringing in his ear. Carefully he handed the receiver to Jan, who replaced it, watching him with cautious, questioning eyes. Sam brushed one hand across his face, distractedly brushing back his bloody hair.

  ‘Harry’s dying,’ he said.

  Jan raised both hands to the sides of his head, shaking away confusion. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ he said. They both just stared at each other in mutual remorse. Sam was silent. The fight was gone out of him in an instant.

  Jan shook his head again. He raised his hands placatingly in the air and said quietly, ‘Go. Wash. Clean yourself up. I’ll find you a clean shirt.’ Sam just stood for a moment and Jan touched his arm lightly and said, quite gently, ‘Come now.’

  Sam nodded. He went into the bathroom of the flat and washed the blood from his face, conscious sharply of pain as he did so. He looked up into the mirror and was surprised to see his shirt, too, was liberally splashed with blood. He took it off, still looking in the mirror. There was no way he could possibly disguise the damage. He would simply have to explain it. His mouth was swollen and cut, both his eyes, he knew, would blacken, and the left, with a deep cut just above it, was already half-closed. The cut bled freely. He held a wet facecloth to it, soaking up the blood. Jan came in carrying a white shirt. He looked over Sam’s shoulder at his reflection in the mirror and winced. His own face was relatively better, though scarcely unmarked.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said, with another wince. He took the wet facecloth from Sam, studied the cut over his eye, and searched for a plaster to stop the bleeding. He said, ‘That will need stitching.’ Sam shook his head. ‘It will scar,’ said Jan.

  ‘Good,’ Sam said, and suddenly grinned. ‘Whenever I look in the mirror I’ll remember my limitations.’

  Jan did not smile. He was bitterly remorseful, which, considering how little he was at fault, was not logical. Sam put on the shirt that Jan had given him, and came back into the main room of the flat. Jan was standing at the door, with his coat on, holding his car keys.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I will drive you.’ Sam shook his head.

  ‘No. I must be alone. Please.’

  Jan looked at him doubtfully, studying his cut eye. ‘Can you see to drive?’ he said.

  ‘I can see.’

  Jan nodded. He looked reluctant but said slowly, ‘All right.’ As Sam passed him in the doorway he held out the car keys. ‘Take mine,’ he said. ‘It will take you all night in that van.’ Jan had no qualms about motor cars. He had a very nice Aston Martin parked outside the florist’s shop below. Sam nodded and took the keys.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. Jan smiled for the first time, a small, tired smile. He held out his hand. Sam willed himself to take it, but he could not. He turned, and went out of the door.

  He drove out of London carefully, getting used to the car and his somewhat limited vision, and wary of tangling with some officious bobby who might question his appearance in conjunction with the luxurious vehicle. It didn’t matter; he could explain, but it would slow him down. It was getting dark when he got out on to the A1, and then let the car go. He drove as fast and as well as he had ever done, effortlessly, without thought. He did not enjoy it, but only because his concentration was solely on getting to Yorkshire for Harry. He drove one-handed most of the way, changing gear with painful difficulty only when most necessary. His left arm, that Jan had refrained from breaking, still felt rather as if he had. He never looked at the speedometer, only the road ahead, and as he drove he unselfconsciously prayed aloud the decades of the Rosary. Not for himself, or his safety, neither of which occurred to him, but for Harry, facing eternity without that lifeline of faith that he himself had always held.

  The Yorkshire countryside was silent and
dark when he reached the familiar roads of home, and yet when he switched on the radio for the time, he was amazed to find it nowhere near as late as he thought it must be. He had made such remarkably good time that, afterwards, when he had leisure to reckon it, there was no way he could work it out that did not end in an average speed that was downright terrifying. Still, he made it. As he drove up the driveway he saw lights on throughout the house, but his eye went at once to the windows of Harry’s bedroom. They were lit, but dim. The library was dark.

  He drove right up to the front door, switched off the engine and leapt out of the car, running through the always-open outer door and into the foyer, pushing the glazed doors open and blinking painfully in the light of the hallway. It was deserted. He did not waste time looking in the drawing-room, where he saw lights, but ran through the main hall to the foot of the stairs and bounded up them several at a time, and ran down the corridor to Harry’s room.

  It was not, as perhaps it should have been, the master bedroom of Hardacres, where he had once confronted Janet Chandler, but another, more modest room, at the corner of the house. Old Sam and Mary had been the last permanent occupants of the master bedroom. Harry had never assumed his natural sovereignty there, regarding it, until even now, as his parents’ domain.

  Sam stopped just for a moment outside Harry’s door. He was breathing hard, and he wanted to look controlled when he entered the room, to offset the appearance of his face. He straightened the collar of his borrowed shirt and smoothed his hair down, trying to draw some of it over the cuts on his forehead. It was useless, he realized even without a mirror, but he didn’t want to shock anyone. He knocked lightly on the door, and heard Jane’s voice say softly, ‘Come in.’ She was always their authority in times of crisis.

  Cautiously, Sam pushed open the door, standing just in its shadow for a moment before he stepped into the room. It was, without doubt, a deathroom. Harry lay on the bed, a wisp of a white-haired wraith, propped up on pillows and breathing with audible difficulty. Sam’s mother sat beside him, loyal as ever, and the closer members of the family, Noel, Vanessa, Rodney and Jane, were gathered in the room. Madelene looked up as he entered, her face registering first amazement that he could be here already, and then shock. Jane looked up as well and gasped, and Vanessa opened her wide mouth to speak out in, undoubtedly, her ever-ringing tones. Sam shook his head and silenced her with a sharp gesture of his good hand. He looked at once so commanding, and so vehement, that not only she, but the rest as well, kept silent. He was hoping that, in the dim light, in his frail condition, Harry would not see anything wrong. He met his mother’s eyes as he approached the bed. They were, after their initial shock, stony and cold. He saw, but did not acknowledge. For Sam, there was no one in the room except himself and the old man on the bed. He came closer and leaned over to touch Harry’s hand lightly with his own. It felt cold and dry, and immensely old.