I read the words again. She was sorry?
I’d fucking ignored her for years and she was sorry.
I was the one who kicked her out onto the street in a fucking foreign country and she was sorry.
My mouth went dry as I processed the thought and guilt that accompanied the knowledge that she was alone in London because of me. The image came to me crystal clear: Alyssa walking alone on the streets, dragging her suitcase behind her, tears streaming down her face. Any one of a hundred horrific situations could have happened to her. I leaned over the kitchen island, and tried desperately not to think about those. Instead, I tried to focus on where she would go. She’d said she had a hotel room, but she’d never mentioned where or which hotel.
She’d said something about being in England to check out some law firm that’d offered her a job, but I couldn’t remember its name either. I’d been my typical, self-obsessed dick self—too fucking interested in my own issues to even fucking pay an ounce of attention to anyone else. Other than to fuck her like the cock I was, of course.
No fucking strings? Bullshit!
A child would constitute a pretty major fucking string. I wanted to leave the house and run; to scour every inch of London until I found her and spoke to her. It was pointless though. She could be anywhere, and I didn’t know London at all.
I was lost and I had no way of contacting her.
She was lost to me.
Think, you idiot! Fucking think! How can I get hold of her?
In an instant, the answer was there.
Her mum! She’d know where she is and Alyssa called her last night.
For half a second, I hoped the number would be on redial.
Shit!
Alyssa had used the phone twice since then. For the ambulance and the food.
I turned on the computer assuming that if the apartment had a phone, it had to have the Internet too.
Fucking wrong! Damn it.
Even though it was a long shot, I decided to try Alyssa’s childhood phone number. Those digits were so deeply ingrained into my brain after years of dialling them that I would probably remember them for the rest of my life. I just had no idea if Alyssa’s parents had moved or not in the four years since I’d left town. Again, I was reminded just how fucking little I knew about any of the people to whom I’d once been so close. I’d fucking alienated myself from everyone and everything. In fact, I couldn’t remember speaking to Ben at all after the fucking formal, and he’d been my best friend, besides Alyssa.
I picked up the phone and dialled but all I got was a recorded message in a high-pitched voice that the phone number had been disconnected. I hung up the phone and growled in frustration.
I needed to find her. My anxiety shot through the roof and I was positive I was about to have another fucking panic attack any second. I wasn’t sure I would be able to survive another one in my current state.
If anything happened to Alyssa, I would forever hold myself personally responsible.
There was only one other number I could possibly ring. It was by far the longest of long shots, but it was the only other number I had. My childhood home. Mum answered the phone on the third ring. She heard the tone to indicate it was an international call and sounded confused when she said, “Hello?”
“Hey, Mum.”
“Declan?”
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, who else would be calling you mum?” I was going to ask whether she had a love child I didn’t know about, but the words froze on my tongue when they hit too close to home.
“Sorry, it’s just a little odd. I mean, getting a call from you.”
“Actually, I was calling to ask a question . . .” I hesitated. How could I ask for Ruth’s phone number without sounding like a complete fucking lunatic?
“What is it, Declan?” She sounded worried.
I sighed. “Do you have Ruth Dawson’s phone number?”
Something dropped and clattered in the background, a pan or pot or something. It clanged loudly when it hit the ground.
“Why?” Her voice was low and harsh.
“I need to speak to her.”
“About?”
“About Alyssa.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “Declan, what’s going on?”
What is this? The fucking Spanish inquisition? I decided to answer with as much of the truth as I thought I could handle speaking aloud. Which wasn’t much. I still didn’t know if my mouth would work if I tried to form the word “daughter.”
Fucking daughter!
Not even a baby, but a ready-grown fucking little lady daughter. I tried to do the math to figure out how old she must be, but my brain just wouldn’t fucking work. I wondered if someone had permanently disconnected the fucking thing.
“I ran into Alyssa and got some news. I was . . . well, I was a fucking dick to her. Now, I need to find her, but I have no fucking idea where to start. I’m hoping Ruth might be able to give me a fucking clue.”
“Declan,” Mum admonished. I thought I was going to get a lecture about swearing—God knows it wouldn’t be the first—so I was surprised by her next words. “As if that poor girl hasn’t had it hard enough. You had to go and make things worse, didn’t you?”
“What the fuck do you know about what Alyssa’s been going through?” I asked harshly. How the hell was I going to explain to my parents that I had a fucking child running around in the world?
“A whole lot more than you do, I’d be willing to bet. God help me, Declan, if you’ve hurt her—”
When the words hit my ears, my brain decided to kick in with a painful thud as it recognised the truth in her statement. “You knew?”
She sighed, then whispered, “Yes.”
“You fucking knew and you never fucking told me?” My fingers formed a fist around the handset.
“It’s a bit more complicated than you make it sound.”
“Well, then un-fucking-complicate it, Mum, and tell me why you didn’t fucking feel the need to tell me I have a fucking kid.” The neighbours on both sides of Danny’s apartment could probably hear every word I said, but I didn’t give a crap.
“I promised Alyssa I wouldn’t.”
“When?” I was trying very, very hard to keep myself together. It really wasn’t working. I drew in measured breaths through gaps in my teeth as my heart thudded against my chest.
“What?”
“When did you promise Alyssa you wouldn’t tell me?”
“When Alyssa first told me she was pregnant. She came to me and told me everything and then begged me not to tell you. She wanted to do it personally. She was so excited about telling you, but she was never stupid enough to think it would change anything. She was still so scared and happy, but then you wouldn’t take her calls and day by day I saw her heart break. And then . . .” She paused, and took a deep breath to calm herself. “Well, I don’t know if you’ll ever really comprehend just how much you hurt her.”
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me though? Didn’t you think I had a fucking right to know?” I asked again, trying to be demanding, but my voice just didn’t have any volume anymore.
“After I realised you weren’t going to talk to Alyssa, I told myself I would tell you the next time you asked about her. But you never did. You never even rang home. Alyssa brought Phoebe around to see me at least once a week, and I didn’t even get a single phone call from you.” It sounded like she was in tears.
“I called,” I argued, but it sounded weak even in my own ears, because honestly, I couldn’t remember calling her. Had I? Surely in four years I’d called at least once? I remembered emails and texts, but I couldn’t recall ever picking up the phone and calling my parents.
“No,” Mum argued. “In the four years you’ve been gone, the only time I’ve spoken to you was if I called you, and then I was usually off the phone again within five minutes.”
“So you’ve met her?” I felt hollow.
“Yes. Like I said, Alyssa brings her
around regularly. She wanted to make sure I had a chance to get to know my granddaughter.”
I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. My heart was somehow both in my throat and my feet at the same time. My head and face were starting to pound once more, which was probably a good fucking reminder to take some pain medication for the fucking bruises that now lined my body, not to mention the lovely cut now gracing my arm. All because of Alyssa and her fucking with no complications.
“Whatever,” I said dismissively, anxious to get off the phone. “Do you have the fucking number or not?”
She rattled it off from memory and I hastily wrote it down.
“Don’t hurt her again, Declan.” It almost sounded like she was begging.
The fear in her voice chilled my blood. What sort of monster was I that my own mother was afraid of me on behalf of the woman I’d once loved?
“I think it’s too late for that,” I admitted in a whisper as I hung up the phone.
I picked up the receiver again. I knew this next call was going to be even worse than the last.
“Hello?” The voice belonged to Alyssa’s arsehole brother.
My mind spun with questions. Why was Josh even there? Wasn’t he married now? Shouldn’t he be out fucking living in his own fucking house by now? I knew I couldn’t speak to him about Alyssa. He would probably find some way of reaching down the phone to kill me. Not that I didn’t fucking deserve it.
“Would Ruth Dawson be available please?” I asked, hoping with everything I had that he wouldn’t recognise my voice. The issue of course was that I was too well known by him, both personally and professionally. Despite the intervening years, there was no way he wouldn’t recognise me.
“No, sorry she’s out for the day.” The new edge to his voice confirmed my fear.
“Can you help me then?” I asked with desperation. Another minute more and I was sure he’d hang up the phone. I just needed to try to appeal to his compassionate side before then.
“No, fucker, I don’t think anyone can fucking help you.” The phone clicked and then beeped. He’d hung up on me.
Shit! I forgot the arsehole didn’t have a compassionate side. At least not when it came to me. Maybe he had once, but not anymore.
I picked up the phone and dialled again.
“Hello?” There was no joviality in Josh’s voice this time. No doubt he suspected it was me again.
“I need to find her, Josh.”
“No. What you need to do is leave her alone, fuckhead. You’ve done enough fucking damage already.”
The phone clicked again. I dialled for the third time. I didn’t wait for him to say hello.
“Look, I feel pretty damn shitty about all of this. I just need to fucking know that she’s safe, all right?”
“She’s safe,” said a female voice that I didn’t recognise. It was almost soft and caring. Then the phone went dead again.
I wasn’t sure if my frustration or defeat was winning when I dialled the number again.
“Please, I just need to speak to her. Tell me the hotel she’s at. Anything?” The defeat—and the tears—climbed to the top for the moment.
“I . . .” It was the female voice again, and I hoped she’d help me, but then she paused. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because Alyssa asked me not to.”
What? ”You spoke to her?”
“I told you she was safe didn’t I? Did you think I was fucking lying?”
Whoa, the bitch is back. With the comment, and the attitude her voice contained, recognition rammed into me. It was Ruby, Josh’s wife.
“Look, I know I fucked up by throwing her out like I did. I know it was a dick move. I fucking know all of that. But it was a bit of a fucking shock to find out that shit like I did.”
Ruby chuckled slightly. “Yeah. Although in her defence, she did try to tell you earlier. Quite a lot actually.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I just wish she’d tried harder.”
“How exactly?” Ruby snapped. “Turn up at Sinclair Racing with a fucking gift basket saying ‘Congrats, Daddy’?”
“I don’t fucking know, all right? But she should have found some fucking way to tell me.”
I was greeted by a beat of silence. I was sure the click and tone of a hang-up were about to follow. I calmed myself down as best I could, but my frustration was taking over and bursting from me in uncontrollable ways.
“If you won’t tell me where she is, can you at least do me a favour? Can you please tell her how fucking sorry I am and let her know I’m ready to listen whenever she’s ready to talk?”
“What if she’s not ready to talk?”
“Then I’ll wait until she is.”
I was about to hang up when I heard a small voice. “I wanna talk to Mummy.”
“It’s not Mummy, sweetheart,” Ruby responded to the little girl.
“I wanna ta-alk.” The voice became demanding and whiny.
My heart hammered in my chest. That was her. That was Phoebe. That was my daughter.
Oh my fucking God!
“Can I speak to her?” I asked tentatively, not knowing what the fuck to say to a child but knowing that I absolutely fucking had to try to find some words.
“No. I don’t think that would be best right now.”
“I have a right, you know.”
She snickered. “Actually, you don’t.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You need to talk to Alyssa about that.”
I growled. “I’m fucking trying to talk to Alyssa, but no one will help me.”
“I’ll let her know that you called. But if you call again, we’ll regard it as harassment. I’m sure Curtis will be more than willing to have his mates press charges, or something.” Alyssa’s Dad, Curtis—Killer Curtis—was a prison warden at Wacol. He knew plenty of cops, and just as many criminals. With that threat looming between us, she hung up.
Fuck!
I was no fucking closer to finding Alyssa than I had been before all the fucking phone calls. I didn’t feel better about anything either. I felt even worse.
My own fucking mother knew. My mother had known and kept it from me. Because I was too much of a fucking dick to give two shits about anyone but my own fucking life.
My life is just fucking perfect right now, isn’t it?
It was daylight but with a murky grey sky that had no warmth at all, I was fucking hungry, and my brain was dancing a fucking conga against my fucking skull. All of that, and I still didn’t have a fucking clue where Alyssa could be. At least I knew she was safe though. It was a small consolation, but better than worrying about her lying dead in a gutter because of me.
I grabbed the rest of the duty-free alcohol from my bag. I had another bottle of whiskey, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to fucking touch that yet. Not with the reminder it was of the previous night. There was also a bottle of vodka. Preferring my vodka chilled, I opened the fridge to put it in, planning to drink as much of it as I fucking could later that night.
What I saw in the fridge was something I hadn’t expected. Alyssa had ordered enough takeout—Indian curries—to get me through about four fucking days, all in individual containers. She’d left it all there, nicely stacked in the fridge waiting for me, despite the fact that I’d thrown her out onto the fucking street. There was a moment where I wondered whether it was actually possible to hate myself any more than I already did.
Fucking fuck!
I risked Ruby’s ire, and Curtis’s possible punishment, and made one more phone call to Alyssa’s mother’s house.
“Hello?” It was Ruby again.
“Please.” My voice was laced with the tears that had sprung to my eyes and were running uninvited down my cheek. “Please. I need to speak to her.”
There was a pause and the phone was being handed to someone else. Fuck. Josh was probably going to fucking threaten to rip my balls off or something. Well, fuck him. There was
nothing he could fucking say to me that could make me feel any worse than I already did.
One small word, “Hello,” in a small fucking voice told me I was wrong.
Ruby had clearly misinterpreted what I’d meant.
That was my fucking daughter. On the phone.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How do I fucking deal with this?
My breathing hitched. More tears flowed and I squeezed out, “Hello?”
“You’re not Mummy. Who are you?”
Fuck.
What a loaded fucking question. How the fucking hell was I supposed to answer it? “I’m just a friend of your Mummy’s. My name’s Declan.”
“I’m Phoebe Castor Dawson.” Each word was said with such gusto and enthusiasm, I couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s nice to talk to you, Phoebe Castor Dawson.” I was surprised she could even hear me over the beating of my heart. “How old are you?”
“I’m three and on my next birthday I’ll be four, and I’ll have a yellow birthday party with a yellow chocolate cake and my friends will be coming to my house.”
My lip twitched. I had no idea what to say to her. “That sounds fun,” I said eventually.
“It’s time to go now, sweetie. Say goodbye.” I heard Ruby say in the background.
“Okay, bye-bye, see you later.”
I hung up the phone and sank to the floor trying to breathe around the lump in my throat. That was my fucking daughter.
I knew in that instant, no matter what else happened, my life had irreversibly changed. I was a father now. A fucking father. Nothing could change that. I would always be a father. Now I just needed to figure out if I was ready to be a dad.
I thought about the photo that was sitting in my wallet and the voice over the phone line. Two pieces of irrefutable evidence that she was real, that she actually existed.
What a fucked-up ride the last few days had been. If the trip to London had done nothing else, it helped to confirm in my own mind just how fucked up I really was—much more than I’d ever admitted to anyone else, or even myself. I grabbed some of the painkillers the hospital had given me, washed them down with a mouthful of vodka, and then threw one of the meals into the microwave. I had no idea how to work the damn thing so the food was blistering hot in some places and ice cold in others, but it was edible. I wondered if it was just the luck of the draw that Alyssa had ordered a beef vindaloo, one of my favourites.
Declan Reede: The Untold Story (Complete Series) Page 25
