“Don’t you use that tone with me. I’m your father.”
“Unfortunately.”
He took another step closer.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel scared. This time, I wouldn’t back down.
Mum paused by the door, leaning on it for support.
My father looked at me as if he didn’t believe what he had just heard. “What did you say?”
I took a deep breath. “I said unfortunately. I wish to God Mum had had an affair and I wasn’t your biological offspring.”
He drew his hand back, made a fist.
I ducked and skipped out of the way.
He couldn’t stop the impetus and fell over a chair, cracking his head on the sharp edge of the bookcase. When he turned, blood streamed down the left side of his face. He seemed unaware of it.
Mum cried out and limped over to him. He shoved her away and she fell.
I rushed over to her as my father picked up the poker. I caught sight of his wild eyes, full of rage. He’d use that poker on Mum or me any second.
My angel spoke inside my head, Now.
Mum sobbed into the carpet.
I wrenched the poker out of my father’s hands, with strength my angel gave me. I threw it over to the far side of the room and watched my father clutch his chest with one hand.
He stared behind me with the same look of terror I’d seen in Stuart’s eyes. Blood drained from his face. His free hand trembled as he pointed behind me. “You’ve brought her. Get her away from me. Get her away!”
My angel stood in the doorway.
Mum looked wildly around. “What is it? What can you see?”
But only my father and I were allowed to see my angel.
I turned back to my whimpering father. “Who do you see there?”
His lips moved, his voice a whisper—I had to lean closer to hear “Death. Death angel…” His voice trailed away.
“And she’s come for you,” I said. “I’ve waited a long time for this. A lifetime.”
I did nothing as his lips turned blue. I ignored his feeble cries. Then, as he tottered, I stepped aside so he could come crashing down. He smashed his skull on the fireplace. Blood pooled on the hearth. His breath stopped, then exhaled one last, rattling time.
I looked down at him, at the now-sightless eyes staring upwards.
A few feet away, Mum had stopped sobbing. “Is it over?” She wiped her eyes.
“Yes, Mum. After thirty years, you’re finally free.”
But my angel hadn’t finished with him yet. What she did to Stuart should have told me it wouldn’t be enough for her.
I helped Mum to her feet and she limped off to call for an ambulance. I stayed with my angel. She said nothing to me. We had no need of words now.
She pointed at the corpse on the floor and then opened her hand, stretching her palm toward it.
A shimmering began just above the corpse’s head and I watched in fascination as a ghostly yet still-humanlike form of my father left his body and floated towards her. His cry became a lonely, desperate wail as he struggled against the force dragging him to her.
My angel made a curious gesture, and only on the fourth repeat did I realize she was performing an inverted sign of the cross. Seven times she did this and each time my father’s wails grew louder. Smoke and flames curled around his ghostly form. Wails became screams.
The expression on my angel’s face never changed. Then, for the first time, her black eyes flashed red fire. Her lips curled. She was enjoying this. Far more than what she had inflicted on Stuart. Maybe that’s why she had held off on his punishment for so long. She wanted to savor it.
For all he’d done to Mum and me, my father deserved to die, but I hadn’t the stomach for any more. “Enough. Please. Let him go,” I said.
But she took no notice.
My angel looked at me as the flames continued to lick the spirit she held in some force field of her making. Full payment is required. The list is long.
She opened her cloak and released the others.
They attacked with their claws, talons and razor-sharp teeth, their hideous, twisted bodies and scaly, barbed tails. They tore and clawed at his spirit in human form, ripping it apart.
My father’s agonized screams deafened me. His fingers, hands, feet, legs were wrenched off, just as he had ripped apart my dolls all those years earlier. This was a feast and he was the main course. The predators ate too fast, spitting out gore. It splattered his spirit face and he screamed louder. His head was the last to go. They twisted it off what remained of his torso, and a serpent with massive crocodile jaws swallowed it whole.
His cries became fainter, but somewhere, inside that demon beast, what was left of my father still suffered.
My angel swept her cloak over the hideous scene. Then she spoke. Now you are avenged.
Her words galvanized me. I had been in some sort of trance. Hating what I saw. Unable to tear myself away from the spiritual carnage that had just played out in front of me. I felt numb, but I nodded. “Yes, I am avenged.”
As Mum pushed the door open, my angel faded away.
“The ambulance will be here soon.”
I heard the siren coming closer. “You were quite a while. Did you see her?”
My mother looked puzzled. “They wanted details and I needed a glass of water. It’s a lot to come to terms with. See who?”
“No one. Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
I looked back down at the corpse.
Mum limped over and took my hand. “We’re both free now, dear.”
“Yes, Mum. You’ll finally be able to live again.”
“He doesn’t look very happy, does he? And that blood will take some getting off. The rug’s ruined, of course. I’ll put that in the bin when they’ve taken him away.”
Her matter-of-factness was strangely shocking. How she must hate him too.
The doorbell rang and Mum let go of my hand to let the paramedics in. Their shocked faces made me look back at the body.
My father’s face had become contorted. His mouth was open, as if locked in a scream of abject terror. His eyes had become wide. The man looked as if he had died of fright. Only I knew how true that was—and that a part of him would never die but would remain forever locked in torment.
The paramedics worked quickly and quietly. They checked the vital signs but could find no sign of life. They kept exchanging questioning glances.
I had to explain what happened in the minutes leading up to his collapse. I told them the truth, leaving nothing out, except my angel.
Mum sat on the settee, clutched her arms tightly and rocked back and forth.
One of the paramedics took some notes. Maybe they thought they might be needed—in case the autopsy revealed any need for an inquest. I don’t think they were convinced that neither Mum nor I had done away with him. It was his face. Not the face of a man who had merely had a massive heart attack.
They took him away.
I wondered why my angel hadn’t simply taken him bodily, as she had Stuart. Maybe because Mum was there and would have asked too many questions.
I went into the kitchen and filled a bucket with hot water and some cleaning fluid. While my mother filled sack after sack with his clothes and other personal items, I crammed the ruined rug into a black-plastic bag and scrubbed the floor. Just as I had at Stuart’s house.
Three hours later, we had removed every trace of my father from the house.
Now we were both avenged.
Chapter Eleven
Two years flashed by. Two years when life felt good. I woke each morning, fired up and ready to go to work. I made friends I could laugh with, drink with and work with. Even the odd boyfriend came and went, but with no regrets. I learned what most people discover when they’re children—how t
o have fun.
I didn’t see my angel again, and as time passed, I convinced myself that her chapter in my life was closed. Sealed forever. Thanks to her, the demons of my past had left. She could help someone else now. I didn’t even have my dream anymore. The image of that tuxedoed singer faded from my memory. I had grown up.
How naïve I was.
I had a new best friend too. Lucy Pargiter. She was my colleague in display. We worked well together, found we both enjoyed the same films, laughed at the same comedians and even enjoyed similar tastes in music. Fortunately our tastes in men differed, which is how she introduced me to John Dudley.
John was thirty-five, divorced, no children. His height of six foot two suited him and he bore it with confidence. Some tall men stoop, as if they’re ashamed of towering over most folk. Not John. He entered a room and took control of it, but not in an obtrusive or arrogant way. Charismatic, sensitive. Small wonder I fell in love with him almost at our first meeting.
He must have seen something he liked too because he asked me out again. Lucy was delighted.
“I’m really pleased you two are getting along,” she said, tossing back her long, auburn hair. “It’s about time John met someone. He’s been on his own far too long.”
“I’m surprised you two didn’t get together,” I said as we sipped red wine in the busy pub after work. “You’ve known each other forever.”
She fingered the stem of her glass. “That’s the reason, I think. He was my brother’s best friend at school. I’ve known him pretty much all my life and it would feel sort of incestuous if we were anything more than friends.”
I smiled. “Can’t say I’m sorry you feel like that.”
Lucy laughed. “Besides, he’s really not my type. I prefer blond, suntanned guys. Like George Michael.”
“Well you won’t get far with him.”
She laughed. “Why not? I reckon I stand as good a chance as anyone. I just have to find a way to meet him, sweep him off his feet and—”
“He’s gay.”
Lucy looked as if I’d shot her. “He’s not.”
“Most definitely.”
“How do you know?”
“Gordon told me.” Gordon was one of my telesales team. “He said it takes one to know one and George Michael definitely is one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh for heaven’s sake. Bang goes another one. It’s true what they say, you know. All the good men are either married or gay. Why can’t I find a gorgeous, hunky, available straight guy?”
She didn’t. At least not for a while.
I suppose it was inevitable that our evenings would dwindle away as my relationship with John became more intense.
“You see Lu whenever you want,” he said. “We’re not stuck together with Super Glue. I’m quite capable of spending a night at home on my own. Or I might even venture out to the pub…” he struck a dramatic pose, “…alone.”
I punched him and our mock fight ended in bed, as always. The truth was, I couldn’t wait to rush home to him every evening. He touched parts of me no other man had ever aroused before. This man entered my head, body and soul and took up residence there. For the first time in my life, I gave myself up totally to the love of one man.
Unaccustomed waves of euphoria set me laughing for no reason or smiling at nothing. Life surged through me. I had never experienced this and I prayed with all my heart it would never end.
Mum, too, had got a new life, new friends and interests. She’d taken up golf and bridge. She’d even started embroidery, and had gone on four holidays abroad with a group of women of a similar age. I traveled up to see her every month and each time she seemed to grow younger. Her eyes were alive and shining. For the first time, she dressed with confidence and walked tall.
“This is how I used to be, before your father,” she said.
We never discussed him. He was as dead to us as his ashes which we never collected from the crematorium. I hoped they’d long ago been thrown out with all the other garbage.
A year after we met, John moved in. Even after all the months we had been together, every time I touched him, a thrill shot through me. Lucy and I saw each other at work, but hardly ever anywhere else. She never complained or seemed to harbor any jealousy, whereas I would get pangs of guilt I pushed to one side.
I shared my feelings with John. “If only Lucy could find someone of her own. She deserves to be happy too.”
John pinched my chin between his thumb and forefinger and flashed that same smile that had won me over the first time we met. “Lucy is fine. She’ll find someone when she’s ready. Don’t worry so much.”
We were watching TV. Top of the Pops was on and there was a new number one. My mind was on the induction course I would be conducting the next day for some new recruits, so I was paying scant attention.
But when a familiar face flashed onto the screen, I nearly dropped my mug of coffee.
“Oh my God! It can’t be him.”
“Who can’t be whom?” John took the mug from me and followed my gaze. “Oh, you mean Cavour? It’s not a bad song. Different.”
My hands trembled. In the video, the tuxedoed singer stood at the microphone, backed by three young women in scanty, gold skirts and bra tops. John was right about the song. Pop fused with rap, mashed up with a little opera. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did, and he had the number one to prove it.
“He’s singing in Italian, isn’t he?” I said, still unable to get my head around what I was seeing.
“Yes, but the song changes to English partway through.”
Right on cue, the rap was in English, and as I heard him speak, a chill ran down my spine. I knew that voice with its gentle, seductive accent.
I squirmed as Cavour stared straight at the camera in a close-up. Straight at me. I jumped at the last line of the chorus.
“You can have anything you want. Everything.”
I cried out.
John put his arms around me “What the hell’s wrong, Jane? You’re shaking.”
I tore my gaze away from the TV. How could I tell him without sounding crazy? How on earth would I ever be able to explain those dreams of a few years ago? Or the dark angel who had made sure I was avenged? It all seemed so far away now. Almost as if it never happened. I should just wave it away.
But I couldn’t. Hell, I was probably going to marry this man. I couldn’t keep such a secret from him. After all, I didn’t have to tell him all of it, did I? Memories of Stuart’s skin peeling from his bones pushed their way into my unwilling mind. The sound of my father’s spirit screaming in torment…
No, John didn’t need to know all of it. Just the relevant bit. Just this bit. For now, anyway.
The song ended. I released myself from John’s grasp, grabbed the remote and switched the television off.
He never took his eyes off me for one second. A frown creased his face. The face I adored so much, with its dark-brown eyes I could melt into; the glossy, black hair I loved to stroke.
I swallowed hard. “You’re going to think I’m crazy and you’re probably right.”
The frown vanished, replaced with a smile. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I love you.”
“I love you too, but you haven’t heard what I’m going to say yet. That singer. Cavour. I’ve seen him before. I’ve dreamed about him.”
John took my hands in his. “Should I be jealous?”
I shook my head. “No. Nothing like that. This was when I was in Baileyborough. I’ve told you about that horrible time in my life.”
“Yes, and the boss who disappeared just after he’d been fired. Wonder whatever happened to him?”
I shook my head. “The point is, I’d never seen Cavour until just now, but he’s the spitting image of the man I dreamed about. He told me I could have anything I wanted. Everything I wanted. Just lik
e in the song. But he never showed me how.”
“My dreams never make any sense. I’m always somewhere I don’t remember, with people I either know or don’t know, and then I wake up.”
“I can’t remember my dreams much these days, but back then the dream I had about this man happened most nights. Then, when I left Baileyborough it stopped.”
“And tonight you’ve seen someone who reminds you of him.”
I was about to protest; to say it didn’t just resemble him, it was him. But that would have sounded crazy, wouldn’t it?
“Yes, you’re right. Of course you’re right. Coincidence, that’s all.”
But it bothered me. I didn’t dare tell John how much.
The song, appropriately titled “Everything”, stayed at number one for three weeks. Next day, I heard it everywhere. In shops. At work. On my car radio—at least there I could switch it off.
At six thirty that night, the salad was ready and on the table. The steaks were waiting to be grilled. I switched on the TV in time for a pop-music show. A minute later and a different video for Cavour’s number one single, “Everything”, began.
This one showed him in a tuxedo, on a dance floor in a sumptuous lemon-and-white ballroom glittering with chandeliers, and people enjoying a lavish party. Could the scene become any more surreal? Only if my dream self appeared as his dance partner, I suppose.
In the close-ups, his face stared out at me from the screen. The resemblance was uncanny, even allowing for lapses of memory. In that moment, I knew I had to find out all I could about this Italian singer who had invaded my dreams and promised me the world.
Of course, these days it would be easy—just go on the Internet. In the 1980s, research required more of an effort. It meant a visit to the library.
The following evening it was open late, so I took myself there while John attended another meeting. It didn’t help that I was going from a standing start. I knew nothing about him, not even his real name, but I picked up the latest edition of a hefty encyclopedia and soon found what I was looking for.
Cavour, aka Carlo Castiglione. Born Naples, January 15, 1947, died Rome, February 10, 1979…
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