Watching Her

by Harlem Dae

  My eyes dried, and I blinked. My throat was tight, my breaths coming fast and shifting the towel knotted at my breasts.

  Hurriedly, I turned the other three photographs over. I had no idea how or why my father had these pictures but he did, and that was all that mattered right now.

  In the largest picture of the bunch, Guilia wore a short red skirt with thick red tights and a fluffy white jumper. She stood before a Christmas tree which was decked in little wooden ornaments, and behind her a large fire—with a child guard—shone beneath a mantle stacked with greeting cards. She held a doll with pouty lips and a pink dress, and glittery wrapping paper lay at Guilia’s feet. It was clear the doll was a new toy, perhaps brought by Santa, maybe from her new parents.

  A familiar longing stretched within me. Usually I could stop it, that feeling, distract myself with sex, but not this time. Now it grew and grew. Usually I told myself that my child should hate me, that I had no right to want to be in her life, but now that I could actually see her in the photos… God, I allowed myself to wish I was there, in that picture, buying her dolls, decorating a tree, taking her photograph.

  But that wasn’t to be.

  Father had made sure of that.

  The longing sensation stopped; it contracted, into a tight ball of fury.

  He’d been the one to send me away, to take her away. My daughter.

  His granddaughter.

  Yet he still had a piece of her. He kept in contact with Guilia’s adoptive parents. He was supplied with updates and pictures, probably on an annual basis. Would he ever have shown me these?

  Of course not.

  He’d scrubbed this perfect little girl from my life.

  The way he’d sent Aaron away, too.

  But I didn’t care for Aaron, my first lover. He’d never fought my corner, or fought for our child. He’d proclaimed to be a man, made me think he was—but he wasn’t.

  His child did, however, have his hairline, and her bottom lip was full with the same deep dip above her chin, which had my dimple set in the centre. But I’d known she had that dimple, when I’d held her, that one time in Linz, I had studied it, smiling. She’d been rosy-cheeked, a little bashed from delivery, her hair sparse and her eyes tight shut, but that dimple had been there, right from the beginning.

  A bang from downstairs dragged my thoughts from the sterile hospital room that held so much wonder and pain.

  Sutton was back.

  Quickly, shoving the documents and pictures into the envelope, all except the one of Guilia holding her doll, I glanced at the bedroom door.

  Sutton’s voice was drifting up. His words were clipped as were his footsteps on the tiled foyer floor. They were getting louder

  Shit, he’s coming this way.

  I rammed the envelope into the drawer, dropped Dan Brown’s novel on top of it, and shut it quietly. Standing, I swiped at the duvet, removing the wrinkles I’d placed there. With trembling fingers, I placed the framed picture back then picked up the one remaining photograph.

  Fuck.

  Dashing to the bathroom, I pulled the door to and started to gather my clothes.

  “Yes, I’m in the master bedroom. Hang on. I’ll get it now,” he said.

  I straightened and held my breath. Who was he talking to? My father on the phone? Or had another man walked out of the damn bushes and Sutton had brought him inside?

  If it were my father, I should grab the phone, yell at him, tell him what a monster he was for stealing my baby, for keeping her to himself all these years and not sharing any of her life with me.

  But I couldn’t. Something held me back. It was too raw, this new knowledge. The image of Guilia was sacred somehow, as was my discovery of her. I wanted to hold her close, keep my thoughts private, lick my wounds but at the same time wonder at how proud I was of her.

  “Yep, it’s here. I’ve got it,” he said.

  I sneaked to the door, peered through the crack, being sure to keep my photograph buried in my pile of clothes.

  Sutton was standing by the dresser. He had the framed picture in his hand and was opening the drawer.

  “Brown envelope,” he said. “Guilia on the front.”

  He listened to a reply.

  “Okay, got it. I’ll put it in the safe.” He glanced my way.

  I stepped back from the door, my heart pounding. Sutton had clearly been instructed to hide Guilia away from my prying eyes. Well, it was too late. She’d been there waiting for me, her ethereal presence a magnet it seemed for me, her birth mother.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be in touch.”

  Silence.

  “Claudine, are you in there?”

  I swallowed, my mouth dry. “Yes.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” I unhooked the towel from my chest and let it pool on the floor. With my clothes and precious hidden picture in one hand, I stepped from the bathroom, unashamed of my nakedness.

  He had one arm behind his back, holding the evidence he was removing. His eyes widened, and briefly his gaze dipped to the juncture of my thighs.

  “I needed a shower,” I said. “And now I need a cup of tea. Not American shit, a decent Darjeeling or an Earl Grey. Do you think Father Dearest will have some of that secreted away in his house the way he has so many other things hidden?” I placed my free hand on my hip.

  “I’ll er…”

  For a moment, he reminded me of the old Sutton, not the new one who killed and followed my father’s grim instructions. For a second, the Sutton who’d sat at the pool bar trying not to look at my tits was in the room.

  “Well?” I said then tutted.

  “I’m sure he has.” He kept his attention firmly on my face. “I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Yes, of course he’d go and put the kettle on. Any excuse to leave me so he could lock the evidence of my child away in the safe. He’d sidled to the door, and I’d wanted to say that I knew he had an envelope behind his back, but I’d rather enjoyed his discomfort. Especially as he’d backed out through the doorway, trying to make that style of walking look normal.

  I was dressed now, feeling better, but my clothes didn’t smell right. The chemical odour of the bin liner had attached itself to them, and I longed to wear something properly clean. In a way, those clothes I’d had on the boat were a part of what had happened on there. A part of the crime. I was currently tainted by wearing them.

  There was nothing I could do about it for now—except to parade around naked. That wouldn’t bother me, but I was sure Sutton might get flustered. I smiled at the thought of that and talked myself out of turning up in the kitchen in the buff. Heaven forbid I be the cause of him burning his skin mid-tea-pour.

  “Are you coming down or not?” he called.

  His voice sounded far away, and I supposed it was, given the size of the house. I didn’t bother to answer. I tugged open a door to my left. It led into a large walk-in wardrobe. Hanging on the first rail I came to was a black velvet robe with RMF embroidered on the chest. So Father kept clothes here. Another bit of information. As I pulled it on and rolled back the sleeves, I glanced around, wondering if there was any evidence of a female.

  Nothing.

  So no Miriam-bloody-Pennington visits, then.

  Which made me think all the more that this place was purely a business venture.

  I fastened the belt at my waist, feeling strange to be comforted by wearing something of my father’s when I was so damn angry with him.

  I floated my way down the stairs in the same way I’d floated up earlier, just in case Sutton was watching. I wasn’t going to let him know I’d seen the contents of that envelope. And he was most definitely not going to know I was upset, dying a little inside. I’d seen the evidence with my own eyes; evidence that I was missing her childhood.

  As I reached the foyer, it struck me how much I’d been through since meeting Sutton. We’d been on a crazy whirlwind so far.
Would it get any easier? Or was there worse to come?

  I found him in the kitchen. He’d set the tea things on the table, very British, what with the teapot, the cups and saucers. Perhaps he wanted some normality—or as close to it as he could get, anyway. The life of a bodyguard-cum-killer couldn’t be particularly pleasant—bloody awful if that was the only choice he thought he had.

  “How delightful,” I said, tone breezy. “I’m surprised the milk is fresh.”

  It was my way of finding out information, although I doubted he’d tell me anything of significance.

  “I took some milk from the boat. Marion didn’t mind,” he said and took a seat at the table.

  “I’m sure she didn’t.”

  Stealing from the dead. A new low.

  I joined him, staring through the large window at the grounds to the back of the property. It looked lovely out there. Sutton must have opened the shutters because they had been closed when I’d done my tour. “Maybe we should take our tea into the garden.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

  He scowled, so I scowled back.

  “Okay, maybe we shouldn’t, then.” I smiled. “Will you pour or shall I?” I stared at him, waiting for his answer.

  He couldn’t make eye contact with me. Was it because he’d possibly nosed in that envelope before stashing it away and had seen my name as mother on the birth certificate? If so, I hoped he felt guilty and knew I’d been forced to give her up.

  Why did him knowing that seem important?

  Because I don’t like the idea of people thinking I didn’t want her.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  Keeping himself busy while he composed his thoughts? I waited for him to fill my cup, then I added milk. It tasted divine, and I closed my eyes, transported back to England for a second or two.

  “I’ve been told I brew good tea,” he said.

  “You do.” I opened my eyes again, chagrined to find myself still in the Clearwater house and not Juniper Hall.

  Was our conversation going to turn into polite drivel now? I couldn’t abide that.

  “The boat left while you were in the shower.” He finally met my eyes.

  “Lovely thing for the neighbours to spot,” I sniped. “Did you think about that?”

  He sipped. Shrugged. “No need to as there aren’t any neighbours.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, I saw the houses either side of this one.”

  “Houses, yes. People, no.”

  I caught my frown before it had time to properly form. “I see.” Although I didn’t. Not really. Empty homes waiting to be sold? Holiday homes only used every so often?

  “They’re your father’s.” He smiled, a little sadly, as though he realised I didn’t know much about a good chunk of my life. Or Father’s at any rate.

  “Oh. Quite the property owner, isn’t he?” I said.

  “He is.”

  I finished my tea without asking any more questions. My body grew weary, as did my mind, but I had to keep alert. I was in danger here, I sensed that keenly, yet I had no choice but to do as Sutton had said and stay in this house until he felt it was okay to move on.

  There’s always a choice.

  I couldn’t remember if I’d said that to him or if I’d imagined it, and whether he’d answered that there wasn’t always a choice. Yes, I could leave, but if I did, I’d be putting myself into the line of sight of whoever was after me.

  I had to know some of the truth.

  “Look,” I said. “I know you can’t tell me much, because Father will be upset with you and blah blah blah, but surely you can answer this: Why am I being followed?” I paused when he sighed. “All right, let me put it another way. I have come to the conclusion that my father is, shall we say, not who I thought he was. He possibly does things I wouldn’t want to know about. But what has that got to do with me? Why am I being targeted and not him?”

  He rested his palms flat on the table, either side of his cup and saucer. Pushed himself standing then walked over to the window, where he looked out, shoulders straight and spine rigid. This man had a burden he didn’t want to have, and I felt sorry for him in a way, despite what he did for a living. Both of us were trapped here when we didn’t want to be. Both of our lives were being disrupted by outside forces. We were kindred spirits in that, so at least we had something in common.

  “They want him to make certain deals,” he said. “And please don’t ask me who ‘they’ are. And, quite simply, your father won’t deliver.”

  “Marvellous.” My smile hurt my face. “So he’s happy for ‘them’ to come after me. Is that correct? Rather than Father doing what they want so I’m protected that way, he’d rather try to protect me himself, swishing me to this place so that he still doesn’t have to do what they want. Typical of him. Doing it his way or not at all.”

  Sutton snorted. I could have taken it as derision, but I went with the sound being made in support of me. I had to have someone I could believe in—even if Sutton didn’t care one jot about me, the idea that he did might help me through this.

  I continued with, “This thing he does, what he’s involved in… It’s big, isn’t it?”

  Sutton nodded.

  “Right. Bigger than I can imagine?” I tilted my head, hoping he’d answer with words.

  He only nodded again. Blew air out through pursed lips. Shook his head. Then, “I will keep you safe until your father sorts things out with them. Which I’m sure he will.” He mumbled something and balled his hands into fists. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…this was supposed to have been stopped for this week. Stay there, Claudine.”

  He left the room, strutting off towards the foyer. I turned around to watch what he was doing. He fumbled inside a cupboard that stood in one corner and produced a rifle. I widened my eyes. What the bloody hell was going on now? A flicker of movement from the kitchen window caught my eye, and I looked through it, annoyed that my focus was off of Sutton. A man stared through the glass—Mexican or Greek, maybe?—his own eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. In true ribald, Claudine fashion, I raised my teacup at him, pissed off that he was there, my chat with Sutton cut short. I was also apprehensive, but considering how quickly the other visitor had been packed off earlier, I had no doubt that Sutton, armed with the rifle, could make this one bugger off even faster.

  The front door slammed, locked, and once again I was alone, secure inside. The man stepped backwards, licking his lips, and I recognised the gesture for what it was. He was imagining fucking me. His fleshy lips wobbled, and for an insane moment I imagined them planted firmly against my cunt. My good friend sex was once again my fallback, the thing I turned to when I wasn’t on level footing. He wasn’t attractive, did nothing for me visually, yet here I was, getting a twist of desire between my legs. He wanted me, and that seemed to be enough.

  He raised his hand to his face, pointer finger and thumb touching, and kissed their tips. Yes, he thought I was delightful and had no shame in letting me know, but much as I’d have toyed with him at one time, I wasn’t able to now. That brought home just how monitored I was. How I couldn’t just go out there, order him to his knees, and have him lick me dry. Having my rights restricted was a bind, but if I wanted to live—and I did, because my God, I had some justice I wanted to mete out—I had to do as Sutton told me.

  And there was Sutton—or the business end of the rifle anyway, pressed to the man’s temple. The fellow’s hand disappeared from view, and he stared at me with even wider eyes. He nodded—Sutton must have said something—then scarpered off, through the garden and disappearing into a stand of palms at the far end.

  Sutton materialised at the window then, watching the place where the man had vanished. The rifle was propped on his shoulder, one eye closed as he took aim. His face was hard, the skin tight with anger, and his mouth was just as tight, if not tighter. What was going through that mind of his? Was he wishing he didn’t have to run people off the property, that he could enjoy some time her
e with me, without interruptions? I laughed. No, he wasn’t wishing that at all. The sooner he could get me off his hands, the better.

  What a shame I couldn’t get myself into them. I was sure they’d feel wonderful on my body. In it. I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them again, he was gone. Then came the click of the lock, the front door slamming, locking again, and his footsteps.

  He came into the room, sat at the table, propping the rifle beside him, and watched out of the window. I sat silent, watching, too, and after ten minutes had gone by with no one appearing in the garden, he got up. Opened the window. Pulled the shutters closed. Secured them.

  “I should have remembered,” he muttered.

  “Remembered what?” I got up to boil the kettle again. Fresh tea was in order, more to give me something to do than anything.

  “When the shutters are open…” He snapped his mouth shut.

  “When the shutters are open, people visit?” I asked, cleaning out the teapot.

  He nodded.

  “For…?” I didn’t expect an answer.

  I didn’t get one.

  “You’d better go and close the shutters in the living room, then, and the master bedroom,” I said. “Don’t forget, I opened them earlier.”

  “Fuck.” He went in a flurry of angst, hand up to his brow, his cheeks reddening.

  The poor man would have a heart attack one of these days.

  While he was gone, I congratulated myself on finding out another little tidbit. This house was used when Father wasn’t here. People came to possibly collect something. What, I didn’t want to contemplate too much, but one day I’d have to.

  Yes, one day, if I wanted to bring that deceitful man down.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Carrying both cups of tea, I headed into the living room. Despite it only being noon it was dusk in there, now that the shutters were closed. Depressing really, when the outside weather was so glorious.