by Anna Jacobs
Anger began to bubble up in her. The Irish accent only crept into his voice when he was conning someone, because he'd left Ireland when he was seven to live in Lancashire. But oh, a man had no right to be so attractive at the age of fifty-eight. 'If you'd said this to me last week, I might have listened, Des. I was thinking about returning. So . . .' She let the word hang in the air for a minute, then said bluntly, 'I had another report done on you by my detective friend.' She paused as she saw understanding begin to dawn in his face, then tossed at him, 'You're still seeing her. I won't be part of a menage a trois, not now, not ever! It's over between us, Des. Get used to it.'
Anger darkened his face and all the easy charm vanished.
She got up and moved towards the door. 'I'd like you to leave now, please.'
'Not so fast, you stupid bitch!'
He had such anger burning in his eyes that terror slammed through her and she dived for the bathroom, just managing to slam the door on him and lock it. As he pounded on it and roared at her to come out, she leaned against the wall, shaking from head to toe, shocked at how physically afraid of him she was now. The door shook against her body and she backed away from it. It wouldn't hold him for long. What was she going to do?
Then she caught sight of the wall phone. She'd wondered why they bothered to put them in hotel bathrooms, now she blessed whoever had thought up the idea. With a hand that shook, she picked it up.
'I have an unwanted guest in my room and he's turned violent. I'm locked in the bathroom.' The noise Des was making, banging on the door and shouting, must be audible, surely? 'C-could you please send someone quickly to get him out?'
'I'm not leaving till you come out and discuss things properly!' Des roared from outside the door, doing some more thumping. A wooden panel split beneath his fist.
She didn't answer, couldn't, just sat on the toilet seat and covered her face with her hands. She couldn't believe they'd come to this, that she was terrified of Des. But she was. He'd changed in so many ways lately. Judith hadn't even noticed what was happening at first, putting his irritability down to his being so busy. It had begun to sink in eventually, however, that this was what he had become - not only unfaithful, but domineering and sharp-tempered.
It seemed a long time till someone knocked on the door of the suite. She heard Des shout, 'Sod off!' then the outer door open. This was followed by what sounded like a scuffle and the words, 'But I'm her husband, dammit! I'm paying for this room, so I have every right to be here.'
When someone knocked on the bathroom door and said, 'Ms Horrocks?' Judith's maiden name, which she was using now, she couldn't hold back a sob of relief. She opened it to see Des standing there, still radiating anger, with two burly men standing between him and her.
'Do you wish this gentleman to leave, madam?' one of them asked.
'Yes. Yes, I do, please. And so I told him.'
Des breathed in deeply 'Look, this is just a lovers.' quarrel. I'm sorry if we disturbed the peace. It won't happen again.'
She said quickly to the concierge, 'I don't want him to stay. He may be my husband, but we're separated and he won't leave me alone. I'm going to have to take out a restraining order against him.'
The two men moved towards Des, who threw up his hands and asked the ceiling, 'Does anyone understand women? She opened the door to me and invited me in, you know. I can't figure what's got into her lately.' His Irish accent was back.
'It's easy enough to understand that a woman whose knee you injured recently in a fit of anger doesn't want to risk something similar happening.'
There was an audible intake of breath from the uniformed concierge, and the other man glanced quickly from one guest to the other.
The smile vanished from Des's face. 'You'll be sorry for that, you stupid bitch.' He turned on his heel and left. One man followed him.
Judith collapsed on the nearest couch, tears running down her cheeks.
'Can I get you something, madam?' the concierge asked.
'No, thank you, but I'm grateful for your help. I'll be very careful who I open the door to from now on, I promise you.'
That evening Judith's mother rang. 'All right if Mitch and I come to see you tonight?'
'Yes. I'd love that.'
'Is something wrong?'
Judith sniffed back a tear. 'Des came here today. He - was pretty nasty.'
There was a long silence.
'Mum? Are you still there?' She was weeping, couldn't hide it, was still so upset by what had happened.
'It's his age, probably. I was reading an article about it only last week, how their hormones change and it makes some men grumpy. They can fix it if the man will seek help.'
'I can't see Des admitting he needs help. You know how he hates doctors and hospitals.'
'No, I can't either. Well, shall I see you about half past seven?'
'Yes.'
That evening one of the concierges escorted her visitors upstairs himself.
Mitch waited for the door to close then asked, 'What happened with Dad this time?'
'Do you want to sit down before we discuss it?'
Shrugging, he sprawled on the bed. 'Well?'
'How do you know anything happened?'
'Because he came to Gran's in a fury and it seemed to be because of you. He said I shouldn't come to see you unless I wanted to be treated like a criminal, but wouldn't explain what he meant by that. What happened today, Mum?'
'Oh, he came here ranting and raving and wouldn't leave. He wants me to go back to him, but I won't because he's still seeing the other woman. He started shouting and I got a bit nervous, so I locked myself in the bathroom and called for help.'
They both looked automatically at the bathroom door, one panel of which had a long split down it.
Hilary gasped and covered her mouth with one hand for a moment or two, then whispered, 'Dear God! What's got into the man?'
Mitch came and put his arm round his mother, something he didn't often do.
Judith leaned against him for a moment. 'I don't want you involved in our quarrels, love.'
'I'm part of it all, whether you want it or not.' Mitch hesitated, then added, 'Gran says I should keep out of it, only Dad keeps saying things to me about you.'
She could feel herself stiffening. Des playing dirty already! 'Well, I'm not going to start blackening his name to you. I shall keep to the facts, and only those you need to know.'
After another thoughtful pause, Mitch said, 'I ignore most of what he says about you, but I will ask you if there's something I really want to know your side of. You'd better get on the Net as soon as you settle in, then we can email one another. How's it going?' He nodded towards the laptop.
'I'm getting pretty good at it. I'm starting to enjoy surfing the Net, actually. Thank goodness this hotel's connected in all rooms.'
'Good. It's such an easy way to stay in touch. There's always time for a quick email, even if it's only a one-liner. I'm a bit busy with my studies just now but he doesn't seem to understand that.'
'No. He's not very understanding about other people's needs.'
'Will you be all right in Lancashire?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, living on your own. I think you should get someone to share your house, Mum. It'd be much safer. Preferably a strong young guy.'
'My aunt's house is in the country, in a village not an urban ghetto.'
'Still . . . better to be safe than sorry.'
When they'd gone she couldn't get Mitch's remarks out of her mind. Surely Des's dislike of anyone besting him wouldn't make him reach out so far to get back at her?
The private investigator looked at Maeve, his face expressionless. 'You want me to send someone all the way to Australia, Miss Corrigan?'
'Yes. Someone very skilled and circumspect. I have a niece and nephew there whom I've never met. I want to know what they're like, but I don't want them to know I'm having them investigated.'
When he pursed his lips, she s
aid nothing more, waiting for him to consider what she'd asked him to do. She'd employed Mark Felton several times, then had helped him set up his own business. He was intelligent and tactful, able to do more than just find out facts.
'That'll cost a lot of money, Miss Corrigan.'
She brushed that aside with a wave of her hand. 'You'll do it?'
'Yes. It may take me a few days to find someone suitable, though.'
'You couldn't go yourself?'
He stared at her, giving nothing away, then a slow smile warmed his face. 'I'm due a holiday. Why not?'
'There are a few other things I want looking into here in England as well. For that I require someone very capable to take your place.'
'All my employees are capable. I'll put James at your disposal.' Mark had been thinking of offering his deputy a partnership, taking life a little more easily now his business was thriving. He was getting the urge to find a life partner, settle down, but he didn't seem to meet many single women and he wasn't into clubs and pubs.
Australia, end of a long, hot summer. Sydney is full of dust, fumes and heat. Sweaty, sleepless nights send tired people into streets and offices. The sky is cloudless. No prospect of rain.
It was cooler that day, after a five-day hot spell, and people were smiling as they walked along the street. Kate stared at them and wished she could feel the same joie de vivre, but she was on her way to the doctor's and all she could focus on was the results of the latest tests. Surely they'd show something this time, something that could be treated, because she still felt terrible?
The waiting room was full and she slumped down in the nearest chair without even the energy to pick up a magazine from the pile on the table, let alone read it.
As soon as she was ushered into the consulting room she asked, 'Well, what do the tests show?'
Dr Smithers consulted her computer. 'That you've had a virus. But it's nothing specific, like Ross River or glandular fever. There's not much we can do about viruses anyway, I'm afraid.'
Kate swallowed hard. She was determined not to weep in front of the doctor today as she had last time.
'How are you feeling?'
'Pretty lousy. This fluey feeling just won't go away. And my head feels as if it's stuffed with cotton wool.'
Dr Smithers looked at her sympathetically. 'It's been going on for what - nearly two months now? We should start calling it post-viral syndrome, I'm afraid.'
Kate glared at her. 'I don't care what you call it, I just want to get better. There must be something you can do!'
'I'm afraid not. The main advice I can give you is to take time off work - have a really long holiday and continue resting.'
'And will that get me better?'
Another hesitation, then, 'I don't know. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't.'
'I want to see a specialist.'
'What sort of specialist?'
'How the hell do I know what sort? You're the doctor. You tell me what sort deals with post-viral bloody syndrome. I'm running out of money. I can't afford to stay off work any longer.'
There was a silence, then Dr Smithers looked at her patient, who had been bad-tempered and uncooperative all through this illness, who had twice tried to go back to work - against her advice - only to collapse and have to be taken home again before the morning ended. She had to make this young woman realize how serious this could become. 'There's a possibility now that you may be suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome and—'
Shock held Kate rigid for a moment, then she clutched her handbag with both hands. 'But that's a crippling disease! No, I can't have that! I won't! I'm finding myself another doctor. You don't know what you're talking about.'
She slammed out of the consulting room, storming through the reception area without trying to pay for the consultation. But she had to sit in her car for a few moments before she could drive off because she felt so exhausted she could hardly lift her hands to grip the steering wheel. But she did not have chronic fatigue syndrome!
When she got home she went and lay down on her bed because she simply couldn't stay upright a minute longer. But her last thought as she drifted off to sleep was that it wasn't chronic fatigue, couldn't be. She had a friend who'd been ill for two years with that. No, she couldn't, wouldn't have it! It must be something else.
Joe woke her later with a cup of tea and she stared at him in shock. 'What are you doing home at this time of day?'
'I always come home at five thirty.'
She struggled to sit up. 'It can't be that time already.'
"Fraid so. What did the doctor say?'
Kate blinked furiously, but the tears wouldn't be held back. She fell against him, sobbing, 'She says it could be chronic fatigue syndrome.'
He went very still.
She looked up to see pity on his face. She didn't want his pity, she wanted his love, wanted them to go out and have fun at the end of a long day's work, as they had done before.
'I was afraid of that. A cousin of mine went down with it a few years ago, so I've seen what it can do to people. I reckon it's more widespread than the authorities will admit. I'm sorry, Kate. So sorry.'
He held her until she had stopped weeping, then coaxed her into drinking the now lukewarm tea.
'What am I going to do, Joe?' she asked afterwards as she lay on the bed holding his hand. 'I'm not a permanent employee, only on a temporary contract. I've used up most of my savings and I can't even finish this contract.'
'I told you. I can pay the rent and buy you a few groceries till you sort something else out.'
But she hated the thought of being dependent on anyone, even him. And besides, that didn't really solve her problems. Some days she felt as though her skull were dense fog and -even more frightening - couldn't even remember what she'd done the day before. And though she slept for ten hours or more most nights, she still needed a nap or two during the day, because she simply couldn't stay awake.
On bad days it was a major achievement to wash the dishes. Or get dressed. Even on good days she couldn't do all that much.
She would go mad if this continued.
Five
An inner suburb of London. The early morning urgency is over and the sun is shining. Somewhere nearby traffic hums. In this street elderly folk stroll along, mothers push babies and cats sun themselves in sheltered nooks.
Cal picked up the envelope that dropped through his letter box, letting out a long, shuddering breath as he saw where it came from. As he read the results of the new DNA tests, fear sat like lead in his belly. He had hoped ... but this proved that Lily wasn't his, not biologically anyway. Feeling gutted, he sank down on the nearest chair and stared into a bleak future.
When he went back to his computer there was an email from her, sent from an Internet cafe.
Mum told me about the tests, but I still love you, Dad. And you are my dad, whatever she says, the best dad ever. She's bought me a new mobile phone to cheer me up but I've had to promise faithfully not to ring you on it. As if a new phone makes any difference to how I feel.
We'll find a way to be together. We have to. I'm not going with her and Wayne to the States.
Love ya! Lily-Pilly
Cal was filled with warmth at the thought of how much Lily still loved him, but he knew how implacable the law could be - and Kerry. He wasn't sure any longer that his lawyer could handle such a ticklish case, but it seemed there were complexities and something called parental responsibility to be decided before they went any further.
He went online and downloaded everything he could find about it. There were web sites which seemed to be run by angry men who'd lost their children. There were lawyers' web sites that tangled him in articles full of legal complexities, ifs and buts. Only they all seemed to deal with biological fathers in marriage break-ups, not cases like his. He tried every combination of words in the search engine, scouring the Net until the small hours of the morning, but found little to help him understand his own options.
He didn't think the law would really allow Kerry to take his daughter to the States, preventing him from seeing the child again, because it seemed children had a say in these matters, especially children over twelve, like Lily. The trouble was, he was torn every which way. He didn't want to make his daughter the subject of a bitter custody battle. And actually, he didn't want to stop Kerry re-marrying. Not if it made her happy.
If only he could believe that going to Texas with Kerry would make the child happy, he might have stood back a little, heart-breaking as that would have been, in return for a guaranteed annual visit in the summer holidays. But he didn't believe it. He knew how Lily felt about it, he'd never seen her so upset, and also how self-centred his ex-wife was. Kerry would be engrossed in her new husband and life.
And why should Wayne care for Lily? It was Kerry he was interested in.
He emailed back:
I love you too, Lily-Pilly. Untold. I'm going away at the weekend, just for a couple of days to think about things, taking the Hog. I'll email when I get back.
Dad
He sent off the email to her new address and wandered round his flat, unable to settle.
When he was upset, he always went back to his roots and that's what he intended to do now. They'd knocked down the terraced village house where he'd grown up, but the rolling slopes of the moors that separated Lancashire from Yorkshire never changed and he loved them. He'd live there if it weren't for the need to stay near Lily. Several times a year he mounted his Harley-Davidson and simply took off for a refresher break in the north. Only this time he took a bottle of whisky with him.
It wasn't refreshment of the soul he needed, but a wake to mourn the loss of a daughter who might not be flesh of his flesh, but was the child of his heart.
He didn't love Lily any less, of course he didn't, but he had cherished that blood and bone connection between them, been proud to have fathered such an intelligent and affectionate child.
And now he knew he'd fathered no one. He, who had wanted a family and children so desperately, had been glad Kerry was pregnant when they married.
