Clean Slate

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Yes.” Morgan’s voice cracked as she spoke, then she held her breath, not sure what she was going to say if he offered her an appointment.

  “I’m sorry, but that prisoner has been released on parole.”

  The world faded for a second and Morgan’s blood pounded in her ears. “I see. I’m his daughter; can you tell me how I can get hold of him?” She didn’t recognize her own voice as it cracked and faded to a whisper.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t give out any of that information. If you want to write him a letter, send it here and we can forward it to his parole officer.”

  “Right. Thank you.” She said good-bye and hung up. She felt numb, her fingers nerveless as she dropped the handset and stared at the picture still sitting on the wooden table. “He’s out.”

  “Shit.” Erin wrapped her hands about Morgan’s, entwining their fingers. “Okay, at least we know what we’re dealing with now.”

  “Yeah. That doesn’t fill me with confidence. He’s done twenty years for murdering my mother.”

  “Look at me.” Erin grasped her chin gently and tilted her head until she could see her eyes. “I won’t let him hurt you.” She pulled Morgan into her arms. “I won’t let him hurt any of us.” Erin held her until the shaking subsided, and kissed her gently. “I’ll go get that boy of ours and see if he’ll talk to us now.”

  Erin’s footsteps lulled her turbulent mind into a moment of sweet oblivion as they echoed down the hallway. The things Tristan thought she had done burned at her. She wanted to know if it stopped at his suspicions of her beating Erin, or had her dad told him other lies?

  “Tristan!” Erin’s terror filled scream ripped her from her mental meanderings and catapulted her out of her chair. She hobbled to the stairs, looking up to see Erin’s panic-stricken face, tears cascading down her cheeks.

  “What?” Morgan dreaded the words she knew were coming. She didn’t want to hear. The icy tendrils of fear swept along every nerve fiber in her body, paralyzing her in its wake.

  “He’s gone.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “What do you mean, he’s gone?”

  “His room’s empty.” Erin’s head spun until her brain shut down. Logic and sense vanished as she watched Morgan climb the stairs as fast as her crutches would allow. Erin couldn’t move, but she could hear Morgan opening doors and slamming drawers. The dull, heavy thud of shoes hitting the wall tore her from the torpor that had caged her and she ran to Tristan’s room.

  “We have to call the police.” Erin shivered, certain she wouldn’t feel warm until she held Tristan in her arms.

  “There’s got to be something.” Morgan didn’t even turn around as she continued leafing through notebooks, piles of magazines. She pulled open cases to DVDs, video games, boxes—anything she could find.

  “What are you doing?” Erin frowned, as Morgan grabbed his school bag and upended it. “Morgan, we need to call the police. You’re wasting time.”

  “I’m trying to find an address, a phone number—something that will tell us where the old bastard’s staying. Where Tristan is.”

  “You think there’s something here?”

  “I don’t know, but if it was me,” she said and reached into his blazer pockets. “I’d have the address written down somewhere.” She held up the notepad next to his computer, angling it in the light. “There’s something here.” She grabbed a pencil and gently rubbed across the surface to bring the indentation into relief. “Four twenty-nine Offerton Lane. Mean anything to you?”

  “No.” Hope flared in Erin’s heart and she had to fight the urge to run and find him. She wanted to lift every rock, open every door, and yell his name until she couldn’t speak. Morgan’s gaze locked on her, her determination palpable.

  The slamming sound of a car door broke the tension.

  “Mum, I got another star!”

  Erin whirled around and ran to the door. “Upstairs, sweetie.” Maddie ran up, grinning and holding out her piece of paper. Erin dropped to her knees and pulled Maddie into her arms as she entered the room.

  Erin held Maddie’s warm body cradled against her, her sweet scent filling the air. She carried her into the front room and sat down with her on her lap. She didn’t care how heavy Maddie was now or how awkward carrying her was. She couldn’t have let go if she’d wanted to. And she really didn’t want to.

  “Mummy, what’s wrong?” Maddie stared at Morgan over Erin’s shoulder. Her eyes were open wide, her lower lip trembling.

  “Tristan’s run off. We’re going to get him.” Morgan stroked the top of Maddie’s head.

  “Where’s Tristan? Is he in trouble?”

  “We don’t know.” Morgan gripped Erin’s shoulder. “Do you want to wait here? I can call a taxi.”

  “I’m coming with you. It’s faster if I drive.” She loosened her grip on Maddie’s slim frame and stood up. “We can drop Maddie with Chris on the way.” She pointed at the page in Morgan’s hand. “What if he isn’t there?”

  “Then we call the police and let them find him. But this isn’t far away. Just a few minutes’ drive.”

  They rushed to the car and were almost out of the driveway when Chris pulled up.

  “What’s wrong?” Chris frowned as Erin helped Maddie back out of the car.

  “Tristan’s run off. I was going to bring Maddie to you—”

  “We’ll be fine. Go. Call me.”

  Erin backed out of the drive and compressed the accelerator, urging the car over the speed limit, her eyes flicking to the side mirrors. I will find my son, and if that bastard has harmed one hair on his head—

  “Erin, it’s just up there.” Morgan pointed to the left. “Just after the pub.”

  She scanned for somewhere to park and decided that the bar’s car park would have to do.

  The door to the house was a dingy brown, the paint chipped and peeling, the doorknocker rusted in place. There was a buzzer type intercom on the wall, “Jesper House” written in neat block letters in the small window. Morgan pushed the button and they waited.

  Erin’s palms were clammy, as she told herself over and over that everything would be fine.

  “Hello.” The static over the intercom disguised the voice on the other end. Erin had no idea if the speaker was a man or a woman. She didn’t care, as long as Tristan was there.

  “Hello, my name’s Morgan Masters. I’m trying to find—”

  “Masters. You looking for George Masters?”

  Erin watched the color drain from Morgan’s face as she gripped the doorframe. “No.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I’m looking for my son. Tristan Masters. I think he might have come here…”

  The box vibrated and let out a strangled buzz until they heard the catch release. Morgan pushed on the door and it swung open on creaking hinges.

  The hallway had black and white checkered floor tiles; magnolia colored paint haphazardly covered layers of woodchip wallpaper. The scuffed, off-white wooden banister was chipped, and one of the spindles was missing halfway up. The musky odor of rotting food emanated from further down the hallway, and unwashed clothing hung around the coats that clung to the pegs by the front door. The door closest to them opened and a man stuck his head out.

  “In here.” He inclined his shaved head toward the room behind him and held the door open for them. “I’m John Yorke. I’m the warden for Jesper House. This young man turned up about twenty minutes ago, looking for George.”

  Tristan sat in a chair in front of the window, his posture slouched, affecting the I’m-not-afraid-of-anything look that belied the nervousness in his eyes.

  John was a short man with a matching girth. Thick muscles covered his chest, shoulders, and arms. “I was just about to call the police.”

  “Why?” Morgan frowned.

  Erin crossed the room quickly, wrapping him in her arms, and kissing the top of his head before Morgan’s question could be answered.

  “We don’t allow minors in the hostel.
We have registered sex offenders in here. So no one under the age of twenty-one. He wouldn’t give me his name, or your details, so I couldn’t contact you. The only other choice I had was to call the police. It’s for his protection, as well as theirs.”

  Erin pulled back far enough to look into Tristan’s face. “Why?”

  “Because you believe her.” He flicked his eyes in Morgan’s direction.

  “I believe your mum because she told me the truth.”

  “So you lied to me too.” It wasn’t a question, and his words stung, but she knew they had to tell him everything now. They’d left it far too long.

  “We didn’t tell you some things because you were too young to know them. Too young to understand.”

  “He doesn’t treat me like a little kid.”

  Erin shuddered. “No, I imagine he doesn’t. I made my decisions based on what was best for you at the time. Remember that, Tristan. I was doing what was best for you. George doesn’t have your best interests at heart, believe me.”

  “You don’t know him” Tristan tried to pull away. “He said I was man enough to know the truth, and he told me everything.”

  Erin kept hold of him, knowing she had to get through to him.

  “The truth. You want to know the truth?” She waited for him to meet her eyes. He was curious, receptive. Good boy, Trist. “The truth is your mum watched her dad kill her mum. She saw him hit her for years. He hit her, many times.”

  “He said she hit her mum. He said she’d hit you.”

  “It’s not true.” She looked away. “Morgan, show him your back.”

  “What?” Morgan frowned, her confusion clear.

  “The scar on your back. Show him.”

  Morgan stepped forward. “I don’t have any scars from him. He was always very careful about that.”

  “But you do. You told me that he cut you, but you refused to say any more about it.” Comprehension dawned on them both as they stared at each other. “I’m so sorry, baby, but I have to show him. He has to know what your father did to you.”

  “It’s okay. Where is it?”

  “Down your right shoulder blade.”

  Morgan nodded and turned, pulling her sweater up her back. A thin pale line marred the smooth expanse of skin.

  “He did this with a piece of broken glass.” Erin turned back to Tristan. “Before she lost her memory, your mum never told me when he did this, but do you know how your gran died?”

  He shook his head, staring at the scar on Morgan’s back.

  “Her throat was cut with broken glass.” She took Tristan’s hand and held him fast when he tried to pull away. “You can’t cut yourself here, Tristan. You know that, right?”

  Tristan’s face turned ashen and his lips trembled, but his eyes never left Morgan’s back. “He said he was covering for her. That she still had her whole life ahead of her.”

  Morgan dropped her shirt and whirled around, grasping his face in her hands. “I don’t remember what happened, Tristan. I won’t lie to you and tell you that I do, just to make this easier. What I can tell you is that he confessed.”

  Erin met her gaze before she focused on Tristan again.

  “He said he confessed because the police suspected you.”

  “All the evidence says he did it. The glass had his prints on it. He’d beaten her so many times, I can’t even tell you how many. He broke her bones, cut her, gave her concussions.”

  “He hit you too?” He wrapped his hands around her arms.

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to believe. It was like he was the only one telling me the truth.”

  “He was lying to you, Tristan.”

  “Everything?”

  “I don’t know. What else did he say?”

  “He said that you hit your mum. That he was sure you’d hit…” His gaze flicked to Erin. “He said you hit mum, because it was your nature. It’s who you are. He said I should look after her, and Maddie, ‘cos I’m the man of the house and that’s what men do.”

  “Oh, Tristan.” She pulled him into her arms. “I’m here to protect you. And I will. I swear I will not let that bastard near you.”

  The door creaked open behind them and they all looked up.

  “You always did make promises you couldn’t keep, girlie.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Cigarette smoke and gravel. His voice was deeper with age, more menacing with experience. It was the sound of the monster she had never escaped.

  “Aren’t you gonna say hello to ya dear old dad?”

  Morgan tried to quell the shaking and focus on Tristan. She could feel sweat beading on her upper lip and trickle down her back.

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Really? I should think a thank you was in order.”

  She pulled Tristan against her, whispering in his ear, “Does he know about the amnesia?”

  “Yes.” Tristan’s voice was just as quiet.

  “Did he tell you that I killed my mum after he knew that, or before?”

  “After.” His response was instant, and as he pulled back, she saw the realization of what it meant register in his eyes. “I should have trusted you. I’m so sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. Right?”

  Tristan nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks. He wiped them away with his sleeve.

  Morgan let the truth warm her soul. She hadn’t killed her mother, the gnawing fear receded, and relief washed through her like a tidal wave. She sucked in a deep breath, preparing herself to face her father.

  “I have no reason to thank you.” She stood up slowly, pressing Tristan into Erin’s arms; she finally looked at her father.

  Time and prison had been harsh mistresses for him. His once black hair was gray and thinning. The intense features she remembered from her childhood were more pronounced, and deep-set lines were etched into the skin around his eyes, nose, and mouth. The coal dark eyes she’d inherited from him had clouded with age, hatred the only emotion she could see within them. His brow looked permanently set in a deep frown, and the strong muscles that had terrorized their family were withered and wasted. He was little more than sinew and bone now, a shadow of the monster that haunted her dreams, an aged relic who deserved her pity more than her fear.

  “What do you want?” Morgan shocked herself as her voice held steady.

  He tilted his head back as he barked out a harsh sound, a poor approximation of a laugh. “I want my life back. Can you give me that, Moggie?”

  She ignored the stupid question and waited. Her heart pounded, her body thrumming with nervous energy as her mind tried to find a reason that would explain what he wanted with them.

  “Why did you want me to visit you in prison?”

  “You owe me, girlie.”

  Morgan shook her head. “No, I don’t. You killed her, you paid for your crime.”

  He laughed again. “You sure about that, Moggie? Because the boy there”―he pointed at Tristan―“told me you don’t remember any of that.”

  “I’m sure.” She knew it in her bones. “You pushed it too far, when you said I hit mum. It never happened. I remember all of that.”

  “Well, good for you. But your little…memory problem. It’s enough to cast doubt on your testimony, see. Maybe get my conviction quashed.”

  Erin gasped. “You want money. That’s what all this was about?”

  Morgan frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “In the past twenty years, people who have had their convictions quashed or deemed unjust, but served time in prison, have received huge sums of money to compensate them for the time they’ve served. The longer they were inside, the greater the payout.”

  “But I didn’t have amnesia when I got the letter. So that doesn’t make sense.”

  “I was just going to ask you to help me out. Maybe lend me some cash. This is so much better.” George sneered. “I’ll have to thank Jimmy and that pretty
little wife of his.”

  “Wait.” Morgan whirled back to face him. “You know the man who attacked me?”

  George stepped closer to her. “He was my cell mate for three years, Moggie. He owed me. What better way to pay his debt than by finding out all sorts of information about you? They were supposed to give you a little warning, leave you with a little message that it was in your own best interest to come and see me. To do me a simple favor.”

  “Give you money?”

  George smiled. “Jimmy was supposed to take pictures when his pretty little wife seduced your perverted arse. A little insurance if you like. Jealous prick couldn’t even get that right. Had to go all macho and beat you to a fucking pulp. Not that I don’t understand the sentiment, girlie, but it wasn’t what I told him to do. Deliver a message and get some insurance. That was it. Simple. Fucking arsehole.” He closed the gap between them, his lips curled in a vicious sneer.

  From start to finish, it was all a setup. I never stood a fucking chance. Anna, Jimmy, the beating. The only thing he didn’t orchestrate was the amnesia, and the bastard’s trying to use that to his advantage too.

  “Why are you telling me all this now? With witnesses here.”

  “So that you know. So that you know it’s me who beat you. Me who ruined your pathetic little life. Cost you everything you love, just like I promised I would.”

  Fury welled inside her, a ball of molten rage burning in the pit of her belly. Her hands shook as she curled her fingers into fists at her side as she looked beyond her fear for the first time and saw what she couldn’t before. The thin, wrinkled skin that hung from his withered muscles made her wonder how she had ever feared this man. “You pathetic old bastard. You spent all those years plotting. And this is the best you could come up with?”

  His lips curved into a cruel sneer. “I’ve done more than enough, Moggie. You’ll be alone and pitiful. Your son wants nothing to do with you. Wife’s kicked you out. I’m guessing that cute little girl of yours won’t be too far behind her pretty mother.” He looked beyond Morgan and looked Erin up and down, licked his lips, and blew her a kiss. “Want me to show you what you’re missing, girlie?” He grabbed his crotch and thrust his hips in Erin’s direction, laughing as she shuddered.