Sins of the Father: MANTEQUERO BOOK 3

by Jenny Twist

  “No, you don’t understand,” he said, turning his face away. “I – I like it.”

  She took his face in both her hands and made him face her. “Listen to me,” she said, very seriously. “It’s only a dream. It doesn’t matter how horrible it is or how you feel in it. It’s still only a dream.”

  He took her hands and very gently lowered them from his face. “You say it doesn’t matter that it’s only a dream,” he said. “But the point is, what sort of people have dreams like that?”

  Samantha shrugged. “Anybody,” she said. “I’ve had some pretty lurid ones myself.”

  “Yes, but I bet you don’t kill people in them.”

  “I do, actually. Or at least I try to. I regularly have one where I’m smashing Mrs Richards in the face with a hockey stick and she’s covered in blood and I’ve smashed all her teeth out and she’s still laughing at me.”

  “Bloody hell! Who’s Mrs Richards?”

  “The games mistress at my last school. She used to torture and humiliate me in front of the other girls. It’s bad enough being fat without teachers encouraging everyone to laugh at you.”

  Rupert’s face twisted in sympathy. “But that’s awful. She should be sacked. Did you report her?”

  “My mother did, but they just said it was all part of the rough and tumble of school and they had every faith in Mrs Richards.”

  “I’ve a bloody good mind to go round there and smash her in the face with a hockey stick myself.”

  Samantha laughed at the belligerent expression on his face. “You see. Anybody can have homicidal dreams. The difference is, most of us don’t go out and do it in real life.”

  Rupert continued to frown.

  “Come on. You don’t really think you’re going to start creeping into people’s rooms at night and sucking out all their fat, do you?

  Rupert thought about it. “I don’t know. I suppose it does sound a bit unlikely. I just felt. . .” he shrugged helplessly. “I felt it ought to mean something.”

  “I don’t know much about dream interpretation,” said Samantha, “but there are a couple of things that strike me.” Rupert looked up expectantly.

  “The man says he is your father and you’ve been trying to find out about your father all this time. Yet he seems to be some sort of monster. Even, maybe, the devil himself. That image of standing on the mountain while he promises you all the joys of his world is almost biblical. You know, the temptation of Jesus, when the devil takes him up a high mountain and promises him the Kingdom of the Earth if he will only worship him.”

  Rupert gave a little start. It was exactly like that. Why hadn’t he seen it?

  “And then he turns out to be a serial killer or maybe, even, some kind of vampire. That seems to me like you are afraid of finding out about him and you’ve made him into a monster so that when you do find him, however awful he is, he won’t be as awful as your dream and you won’t be disappointed.”

  For the first time since they began the conversation, Rupert brightened.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think,” said Rupert, gathering her into his arms, “that I ought to kiss you again. I’ll try to make a better job of it this time.”

  And he did - and it was - so much better this time.

  III

  It was well after four o’ clock by the time they got to Mrs Winton’s house. They came wandering along, hand in hand, gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes.

  As they got to the little gate in the hedge, the front door opened and a young woman with wild dark hair came bounding out. “Where have you been? I thought you were never coming.”

  “Sorry, Patsy. We got - a bit distracted.” Rupert looked down fondly at Samantha, who beamed back at him.

  Patsy grinned. “So that’s how the land lies, is it? Hello, you must be Samantha.”

  Samantha managed to drag her eyes away from Rupert and hold her hand out to Patsy, who completely ignored it and instead enveloped Samantha in a hug. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Rupert told me all about you but I never realised you were an item. I thought you were just really good friends.”

  “I think we’re sort of both,” Samantha said, smiling shyly.

  “Brill!” She turned and hugged Rupert, rather more enthusiastically than was necessary in Samantha’s opinion and then said, “Come on in. I’ve got loads to tell you.”

  They went up the steps and into the cottage, and Samantha looked around in wonder. She’d never been in Mrs Winton’s house before. It was very old-fashioned, full of overstuffed furniture and books, with an open fireplace. Not quite what she’d imagined. Mrs Winton seemed pretty modern in her approach. On the other hand, she did love books and this place was almost like a shrine to books. There were bookcases lining the walls. A small tabby cat was sitting on the rug in front of the fire. The room was like a picture postcard representing old-fashioned domestic comfort.

  Then the cat jumped up and spoilt the illusion. It ran to Rupert, who was in the act of sitting down on the settee, catching him off balance so that he half-fell onto the seat. “Jessica!” he cried. “What a lovely welcome.” The cat was licking his face enthusiastically.

  “What an adorable cat,” Samantha said. “She’s very small. Is she fully-grown yet?”

  Rupert cracked out laughing. “See how youthful you look, Jessica,” he said to the cat and then, turning to Samantha. “She’s older than me.”

  “You’re kidding!” The cat beamed up at her, its eyes half-closed, and when Samantha came to sit beside Rupert, she delicately picked her way from his lap to hers and reached up to lick her face. “She’s just utterly gorgeous,” said Samantha.

  “She is a lovely cat,” Rupert said. “She’s nice to everybody. Doesn’t usually lick people’s faces, though. So maybe she’s decided you’re family.” Samantha smiled, delighted.

  Holding the cat against her, she resumed her survey of the room.

  “I didn’t think anyone had an open fire these days,” she remarked.

  “Oh, it’s not real,” said Patsy. “It’s gas. We’ve got proper central heating as well.”

  Not so behind the times after all, then.

  “I just never imagined Mrs Winton’s house would be quite so old-fashioned.”

  “Well, actually, it’s my house but we share it.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I just assumed –” Samantha clapped her hand to her mouth in embarrassment

  “It’s OK.” Patsy smiled kindly. “Everyone assumes that. But I inherited it, you see. And Auntie Alison loved it. And when she split up with her husband she moved in with me and we’ve shared the house ever since. She looks after all the bills and stuff, and I’ve got a lovely home to come back to.”

  Strangely, Samantha had never really thought about Mrs Winton’s husband. Of course she must have had one at some time or she would be Miss something. She’d ask Rupert about it later. Now was not the time.

  Patsy had moved into the kitchen. “What do you want to drink?” she called through the open doorway. “Tea, coffee, coke?”

  Simultaneously, Rupert answered, “Coke” and Samantha answered, “Tea.” They both stopped in confusion.

  “It’s all right. I’m doing both.”

  Samantha poked Rupert in the ribs. “Are you going to ask her?” she whispered.

  “Ask her what?”

  “About your father, stupid.”

  Patsy stuck her head round the door again. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Just a dash of milk, please,” Samantha said. “No sugar.”

  “Right,” said Patsy, and disappeared again.

  Samantha turned to Rupert again. “Well?”

  “I have to wait for the right time.”

  “Right time for what?” asked Patsy, who had just entered the room carrying a tray.

  “I – er.” Rupert wriggled uncomfortably.

  “He wants to know about his father,” Samantha said. “He’s been having some awful dreams and we think it�
�s to do with not being able to find out. We thought you might know something.”

  “Why don’t you ask Auntie Heather?” Patsy asked, setting the tray down carefully on the coffee table in front of them. On it were tea, in a pretty china cup with a saucer, coke in a tall glass with ice and lemon, and a drink that looked suspiciously like gin and tonic.

  “Mum? She won’t tell me. I’ve already asked loads of times. She won’t tell me anything. Just says he’s dead now so none of it matters. And, before you ask, I did ask Auntie Alison once and she changed the subject. I think she’s been sworn to secrecy.”

  “Mmmm. . . tricky.” Patsy sat on the other side of Rupert, picked up her glass and sipped at it with obvious relish. Then, putting the glass back firmly on the tray, she said, “Well, I’ll tell you what little I know, but you have to remember I was only eight at the time. They didn’t tell me everything.”

  Rupert and Samantha both sat back, for all the world like small children expecting a bedtime story.

  “It all started when my Auntie June went on holiday and didn’t come back. Auntie Alison was her friend and when she couldn’t find out anything, she and Auntie Heather, who was also her friend, decided to go to Spain to look for her. Well when they came back a couple of weeks later Auntie Heather had gone really thin and both of them were in a dreadful state.”

  Rupert and Samantha exchanged a worried glance.

  “It turned out that Auntie June had fallen in love with someone called the Mantequero and he had killed her.” She paused for a moment. “Although Auntie Alison said he hadn’t meant to kill her. He’d just loved her to death. Later she took me to Spain to see the grave.”

  “He killed her!” Samantha had gone pale.

  Rupert looked confused. “But where does my father come into this?”

  Patsy put her arm around his shoulder. “Nobody told me this, but children overhear a lot of stuff they’re not supposed to, and what I overheard was that Auntie Heather also fell in love with the Mantequero, but Auntie Alison got her away in time. That was why she was so thin, you see. What the Mantequero did was eat all your fat so you got really thin.”

  Both Samantha and Rupert looked completely aghast. For a while no-one spoke, then Rupert said, very slowly and carefully, “So you’re saying my father was a murderer?”

  “Well, Auntie Alison said he didn’t mean to.”

  “But he nearly killed my Mum as well as your Auntie?”

  Patsy took her hand away from his shoulder and grasped both his hands in her own. “Look, I don’t know for sure. It’s just stuff I overheard. I may not have understood it. I was only eight.”

  Rupert looked down at his hands, still holding Patsy’s. He let out a long, shuddering sigh. “I think he did, though,” he said. “It all fits.” And he told Patsy about the dreams. When he had finished there was a silence, then Samantha said,” What I don’t understand is if he is your father why doesn’t he know your name? Why does he call you Ignacio?”

  “Because his name was Ignacio.” Alison had come into the room, unnoticed. “In Spain, the eldest son is always named after his father.” She paused, frowning. “But if it is him how is he communicating with you? He died, Rupert. I saw him die.” But she bit her lip, remembering what Rafa had said - You cannot always kill these things.

  “I’m going to call your mother. I think it’s time we told you the whole story. But I need her permission first. I promised, you see.”

  ****

  “And then they fell on him – all the villagers – with pitchforks and scythes and anything else that came to hand. And when they stood back, those who had no weapons threw stones at his body.” Alison’s voice caught and she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

  Rupert, Samantha and Patsy were staring at her in horror. Heather was looking down at her feet, a dull blush creeping up her neck.

  “So,” Rupert said, “there is no doubt that he is dead.” It was a statement, not a question. Samantha moved closer to him and put her arm around his back.

  Alison glanced quickly at Heather, who was still staring at her feet. “No,” she said slowly. “I suppose not.” But she sounded uncertain.

  “So what do the dreams mean?” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “What am I supposed to do about it? Am I talking to his ghost or what?”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Alison said.

  Heather looked up. “What? You don’t believe in ghosts? You can believe in a vampire that sucks your fat, but you don’t believe in ghosts?”

  “I saw the vampire,” Alison said quietly, “with my own eyes.”

  “Anyway, if it’s not a ghost, what is it?”

  “Well,” Alison cleared her throat, “it could be Rupert’s sub-conscious creating his father from things he overheard.”

  Heather gave her a withering look and sat back with her arms folded. “He never overheard anything from me.”

  “He could have happened to overhear something. Children do.”

  Patsy blushed and took another sip of her gin. She had refilled the glass twice since Heather had arrived and was beginning to feel slightly reckless.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said.

  All eyes turned towards her. “Doesn’t matter?” Heather’s voice was almost a screech. “He’s having nightmares, he can’t sleep, he’s in the middle of his A levels and he’s a nervous wreck and you think it doesn’t matter?”

  “I don’t mean what he’s going through doesn’t matter,” Patsy cut across her. “What I mean is it doesn’t matter whether it’s the ghost of his father or something he’s conjured up from his imagination or even if his father is somehow still alive and communicating with him telepathically.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alison shudder. “What it actually is doesn’t matter because whatever it is the solution is the same.”

  She had everyone’s attention now. Heather and Rupert were gazing at her with a kind of yearning intensity.

  “He needs to go to Spain – that village.”

  “Caserones,” Alison supplied.

  “And see his father’s grave and say goodbye.”

  The two older women exchanged a glance. Heather raised her eyebrows. “Well, you’re the travel agent,” Alison said.

  IV

  He was standing on the mountain, the wind whipping at his clothes, looking down at the little village, and the shadow man was standing beside him. “Ignacio, my son,” he said. “You will come to me. You must come to me and set me free, and together we shall feed on the food of the gods.” He wanted to say, ‘That is not my name,’ but the words would not come. Instead he watched in horror as the man turned to face him and he saw his face for the first time. He saw his face . . . and it was his own!

  Rupert sat up in bed, wreathed in a cold sweat, barely able to hold in the scream. The sheets were damp and twisted around his limbs.

  Somehow this seemed worse than all the previous dreams.

  He knew that he was only dreaming this. It wasn’t really his dead father calling to him. And there was no doubt that his father was dead. His mother and Auntie Alison had told him. And just so there would be no doubt about it, after the villagers killed the Mantequero, Auntie Alison had said, they staked him and cut his head off. She hadn’t actually seen the last bit. She had turned away in horror and disgust and helped take his mother back down the mountain. But it seemed unlikely, didn’t it, that anyone could have survived that? Even Rasputin would have had a job to survive that.

  Once his mother had decided Patsy was right, she had turned into a whirlwind of activity. Within the hour she had booked their flight, arranged for her friend, Johan, to rent them one of his holiday villas, and ordered a taxi to take them to the airport. Then she instructed them all to pack a bag for a few days and be ready to go by three o’ clock. The plane would be leaving at seven and they had to be at the airport two hours before.

  Once Rupert had packed his bag, she had insisted that he went to bed, overriding his objections
that he would never sleep. He had been hoping to get on his laptop and research Caserones. He wanted to see whether it looked like the place in his dream.

  But his mother was adamant, insisting he needed to get some sleep before the journey.

  So much for that idea. After the dream he just had he felt like he never wanted to sleep again.

  “Rupert,” his mother called up the stairs, “are you ready? The taxi will be here in a quarter of an hour.”

  He got out of bed, leaving the sheet in a tangled heap, and headed for the shower. His bag was packed, his clothes were ready.

  “Down in five minutes, Mum.”

  ****

  “What did your Mum say?”

  They were on the plane. The sun had come up just as they had taken off and now they were high in the air looking down at the vineyards and cornfields of France.

  Samantha pursed her lips. “She wasn’t best pleased. She couldn’t understand why I would suddenly want to hare off to Spain without any notice. I thought about telling her it was a school trip for the Spanish class, but then I realised there was no way she was going to buy that, so I told her your Mum had got a last minute bargain and offered to take us. She was still a bit uncertain, but then when I said Mrs Winton was coming as well, she caved in and even gave me some holiday money. Look!”

  She had taken her purse out of her bag and pulled out a bundle of fifty euro notes. “Good God!” Rupert said. “How on earth did she get hold of all those euros after the banks had closed?”