Deception!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  It was after six and the reception was in full swing, when Suzanne met up again with Megan, at the entrance to the marquee.

  ‘There you are! I was wondering where you’d got to! Come and meet Nigel. I’ve told him all about you and he’s looking forward to having a chat.’

  Suzanne knew several of the local runners were being sponsored by Sunshine Supplements, so wasn’t surprised to see Nigel Atkinson holding court to a group of admiring youngsters. He was a huge man, towering over the heads of most of his companions. His muscular arms strained against the material of his short-sleeved shirt. This was a man who spent many hours in the gym, by the look of it. He clutched a pint glass of water in one hand which he was waving to emphasise a point as they arrived. When he saw the two women approaching, he put down his drink and held his arms wide in welcome.

  ‘Hello, Megan, baby, how’re you doing?’ His accent was pure New York; even Suzanne was able to recognise that, and was surprised, as Megan had told her Atkinson came from Florida originally. ‘And this must be the reporter from the big newspaper in England.’

  ‘Hey, Nigel, I’ve told you before, there’s more to the United Kingdom than England!’ Megan put her hands on her hips and emphasised her Northern Irish accent, but her boss just grinned at her and blew her a kiss.

  ‘Chill out, Megan,’ he said, ‘I know there’s more to our transatlantic cousins than England—but let’s face it, London’s where it’s at!’ Then turning to Suzanne, he held out his hand. ‘Ms Jones, I’m delighted to meet you. I understand you want to interview me about our new baby?’ Suzanne nodded her head and was about to go into her freelance reporter’s act, but Atkinson didn’t let her get a word in. ‘Not today, honey,’ he said, waving his hand dangerously close to her face, and causing her to take an involuntary step backwards. ‘Today we’re all off duty. We’ll get together during the week and sort something out. Give Megan a ring on Monday morning; she’s got my diary. Now, let’s party.’

  Atkinson called a waiter and gestured to Suzanne to help herself from the tray of drinks he was carrying. Then the boss of Sunshine Supplements turned back to his audience of seemingly adoring fans, his visitor from the United Kingdom apparently forgotten. Suzanne didn’t mind. It gave her the chance to observe what was going on, see if she could pick up any tips about Nigel Atkinson that would help her in her role as a reporter when she finally sat down to interview him.

  But his banter and overbearing personality soon became wearisome. She had just decided to finish her drink and head back to Charlie and Damien, when her attention was drawn to a new arrival in the marquee.

  When she first noticed him, the man was standing looking out across the sports field and all she could see was his back, which was bent and stooping. His iron grey hair cascaded down his back to well below his shoulders and was held in place by a beaded headband. How quaint, she thought, like a throwback to the 1960s. And then the man turned around and she was surprised to see a truly ancient-looking face, leathery from sun-tanning, and heavily wrinkled. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Suzanne couldn’t place him.

  As she watched, Nigel Atkinson walked across with the same expansive smile he’d given her earlier and put his arm around the man’s shoulders. He towered above him and had to bend to talk to him over the surrounding hubbub. Still smiling, Atkinson turned to face the view outside, his momentum carrying his companion with him. It looked for all the world like two old friends admiring the view, yet Suzanne got the distinct impression that wasn’t what was happening at all. She edged closer to the entrance and was just in time to hear Atkinson hiss, ‘...shouldn’t be here. You’ll be recognised. Go home.’ In one smooth movement he released the man, took his glass of wine away from him and gave him a push. The man stumbled slightly, righted himself and looked over his shoulder at Atkinson, before turning and shambling off into the night. Atkinson handed the second glass to a passing waiter and strolled back to his guests. But Suzanne thought she saw a fleeting look of fury on his face before he switched his smile back on.

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘You okay, sweetheart? You’re very quiet.’ Her father’s voice broke into her thoughts, startling Mercy and making her almost drop the cup of coffee she was cradling in her hands as she stared out of the window. He must have seen her reaction, for he reached out and touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ She steeled herself not to flinch, adopting the dutiful daughter look she’d been practising for more than a year.

  ‘It’s fine, Tata; you didn’t scare me. I just didn’t hear you coming in.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, but is anything wrong? I don’t like to see you like this.’

  If only he knew what’s really going on in my head, she thought, But how could he? He’d been her father for thirty-five years, but had only known her for such a short time. There was so much he wasn’t aware of.

  She wasn’t quiet at all. Inside she was a seething mass of emotions: excitement, anticipation, and just a tiny touch of fear. Her first race as a veteran. She wanted this so badly; what if there was someone there who was even better than her?

  When Hawkins disturbed her, she wasn’t, as he thought, just staring out of the window. In fact, although her eyes were apparently trained on the view outside, she was actually visualising the route for tomorrow’s race, imagining what it would be like to take part, to the cheers of the local supporters and, hopefully, the respect of the visitors. So not quiet at all; apart from on the surface.

  Now she turned away from the window and followed him across to the large white leather sofa in front of the empty fireplace. She curled her legs under her in the opposite corner and smiled at him.

  ‘You were late in, last night. How did the dinner go?’ she asked. Hawkins had invited her to accompany him to a dinner he was hosting for some Chilean business associates visiting Brazil, but she’d pleaded a headache and stayed at home. The last thing she needed was a heavy meal just before a race weekend. Her father grimaced and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It was okay. The usual business dinner, too much food, far too many toasts. You didn’t miss anything. Are you feeling better, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit of pre-competition nerves, I guess.’ It didn’t hurt for him to think her a little vulnerable. It made him even more solicitous than normal. Hawkins showed few emotions; but she suspected he felt guilty about abandoning her mother. Well, he must do. Otherwise, why would he have gone to so much trouble to find her and bring her over here to Brazil? And a little guilt did no-one any harm.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’ His words pulled her out of her reverie once more.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘This competition, tomorrow’s race. You don’t have to take part. If it’s too much for you, you can always pull out.’

  ‘Would you? If you were me, would you pull out?’

  ‘But, honey, that’s different. I’m a man. We have to do things all the time that we don’t want to, that we’re frightened of. It’s what we do. But no-one’s going to think any the less of you if you pull out. You’ve had a huge change in your life; it’s bound to affect you somewhat. No-one would blame you!’

  ‘No, I couldn’t possibly. But it’s fine. I don’t know why I talked about nerves. I’m perfectly okay.’

  He stared at her in silence, and she coolly held his gaze, determined not to show how his scrutiny disturbed her. Then he nodded and grinned at her.

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure.’ Then he held up his finger. ‘Wait a minute, I’ve just had a thought. How about if you throw the race?’

  ‘I don’t understand; what do you mean?’ She was genuinely puzzled; it was a term she wasn’t familiar with.

  ‘Well, go ahead and compete from the start. There’ll be loads of people milling around. Run for a kilometre or so, then when you get to one of the quiet streets, have a bit of a tumble. You will have competed, tried your best a
nd can then retire gracefully, leaving the others to run the rest of the course.’

  It was as though he’d punched her in the chest and for a few seconds she found it impossible to breathe, so hot was the anger surging through her. How could he suggest that? How could he think she would even consider such an action? She was going to compete and she was going to win. She stared into the fireplace for a moment, waiting for her own heat to die down. Then she stretched, uncurled herself and moved towards him, a warm smile plastered across her face. She bent to kiss his cheek. He took her hand and held it to his lips.

  ‘You’re very sweet,’ she said, ‘but you don’t need to worry about me. I really am perfectly okay.’ And she strolled out of the room, only allowing her simpering smile to slip once she was halfway up the stairs.

  They had passed the 35 kilometre marker moments before. Mercy was leading the veteran women’s field by nearly ten seconds and was beating all but a handful of the male veterans as well.

  Then three things happened at once. A cat streaked across the road in front of her and she swerved to avoid the flying ball of orange fur. A voice in the crowd screamed, ‘Lucky, no! Come back,’ above a furious barking sound. She paused, momentarily, glancing in the direction of the shout, then her legs were bowled from under her as she collided with the large Alsatian running across the road in pursuit of its feline enemy.

  Pushing aside the hands that reached out to help her, she pulled herself to her feet and checked there was no damage. Then she started running again. Several competitors had streamed past her as she lay on the ground and although she fought her way back, one runner at a time, there just wasn’t quite enough of the race left.

  Feeling the weight of the silver medal around her neck, Mercy gritted her teeth and applauded with everyone else as the new champion received the gold.

  At dinner that night, Mercy displayed her usual calm exterior to the outside world, especially to her father, but inside a fire was raging, bubbling up and threatening to spill over at the slightest provocation. How could she have lost? She had trained so hard, practised every day; the gold medal should have been hers. That damn dog, running out like that at the wrong moment. Was it deliberate, she wondered, or just a mistimed, ill-fated accident?

  But she blamed herself really. She shouldn’t have been put off by a simple shout. In a crowd, there would always be someone making noise, coughing, laughing or talking too loudly. Athletes were trained to ignore distractions like this. She should have looked where she was going, then she could have avoided the dog. No, she had no-one to blame but herself. Although that didn’t mean she wouldn’t cheerfully strangle the young owner if she bumped into him in a dark alley.

  Next time, it would be different. She was determined about that. She was not going to be beaten again. And the only consolation was she wouldn’t have to wait a whole year before getting her revenge—and that was how she thought of it—revenge for the slight of being pushed into second place. There were marathons in lots of cities, all over South America, and other parts of the world as well. She would just have to pick her next target.

  ‘Shall we start with champagne, sweetheart?’ Her father’s words pulled her out of her daydream with a start and she looked around, taking note of her surroundings for the first time. Usually, when they ate out, it was in one of the barbeque restaurants, complete with fire pit and waiters wandering around with joints of meat on giant skewers. But tonight, Michael Hawkins had decreed they would go somewhere different, somewhere special. ‘After all,’ he’d said, ‘it’s not every day my little girl is a medal winner, now is it?’ And although Mercy had cringed at the idea of her father, several centimetres shorter than her, referring to her as little; and despite the fact that at thirty-five, it was many years since she had been considered a girl, she had readily agreed to his suggestion. From tomorrow, she was going to be on a strict training regime, including diet, but tonight she wanted to be treated, to take her mind off her humiliation, as she considered the silver medal to be.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Tata. I would like that,’ she said now. The waiter bowed and walked away across the polished, shining floor towards the bar. The restaurant, located on Rua Augusta, São Paulo’s most exclusive shopping area, was small, discreet and, she assumed, very expensive. She’d never been anywhere like this when she was growing up—in fact, she was fairly sure there wasn’t anywhere like this in Mozambique—but she’d quickly learned that Michael Hawkins liked to live the high life and to treat those around him whenever he got the chance. She’d fleetingly felt guilty about the people she’d left behind, but she’d pushed her conscience to the deepest recesses of her mind and learned to enjoy her newly acquired standard of living.

  There were only a dozen tables in the room, separated by enough space to allow private conversations, but close enough to provide an intimate atmosphere. The table linen was crisp, white, with the discreet logo of the Michelin-starred chef in the centre. The cutlery and glasses sparkled from the extra polish they would no doubt have received just before being laid out; and the china was plain, white, but always with a slight twist in the design. The waiters were polite and friendly, but never intrusive. Mercy loved this place—and was grudgingly touched at the thought of her father for trying to celebrate a success even if she didn’t see it as such.

  It was only as they were finishing a delicate peach dessert, with melt-in-the-mouth meringues and a contrastingly tart lemon sorbet that Mercy realised her father had been very quiet throughout the evening. He’d been attentive to her needs as always; he’d shaken hands with a couple of acquaintances who stopped at their table on their way out; and he’d discussed each dish with her as it arrived—continuing her all-round education that had been an aim of his since she arrived in Brazil—but there was definitely something amiss. Now he placed his spoon on the empty plate and stared into space.

  ‘Tata, is anything wrong?’ she asked. There was no answer and she had to ask the question a second time before he gave a start and turned back to her. He reached over and patted her hand. As always the gesture put her teeth on edge and she resisted the urge to snatch her arm away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mercy, have I been neglecting you?’

  ‘Not at all—it’s been a wonderful evening—but you seemed distracted. I wondered if something was worrying you?’

  He exhaled sharply and shook his head.

  ‘Not really. It’s just that I saw someone today in the crowd at the sports field. Just a face, for a moment that I’m sure I’ve seen before. Someone from the past, I think. I can’t remember when or where. But somehow, I feel it’s someone I’d rather not bump into.’

  Mercy and Michael Hawkins had spoken very little so far about his time in Mozambique and the circumstances leading up to her birth to Grace Gove in the slums of Lourenço Marques. Mercy knew a little bit of the story—she’d heard it often enough from her mother when she’d had too much to drink. And that was a conversation she would make sure she and her father had one day soon—when she decided the time was right. But there was also a thirty-year gap that so far he’d failed to fill for her. Now she looked questioningly at him, wondering if he was going to let her into some of his secrets at last. But apparently not.

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. It’s probably one of those doppelgängers we hear so much about.’ He glanced around and beckoned to the waiter, making the internationally recognised sign for the bill. ‘Right, let’s get you home. If you really are starting training again straight away, you’re going to need your beauty sleep.’

  As they walked across the restaurant to the door and waited for the car to be brought around to the front, Mercy looked thoughtfully at her father. She wasn’t sure, but when he said ‘nothing to worry about’ it sounded to her like he was trying to convince himself, rather than her.

  PART II

  CHAPTER 7 (West Yorkshire, August 1955)

  I was fifteen when I ran away from home. I considered myself an
orphan from then on.

  It was ten years after the end of the war and Britain was starting, finally, to climb out of the mire and make something of itself. Rationing had finished. People were in work. It should have been a good time. But with my father, it was never going to be.

  Stanley Hawkins was a miner from West Yorkshire. He was a real man’s man; worked hard, earned his money, expected his dinner on the table when he got home—and woe betide my mother, Ethel, if it was late, or not cooked to perfection. We kids learnt to hide on a Friday night when he spent half the week’s money in the pub on his way home from work. My mother was always there, waiting, when he came in—and had the bruises to show for it the next day. I never once heard her raise her voice to him or try to fight back. She was so weak, so pathetic!

  The only thing my father really loved was his music. He played the trumpet in the local marching band and every Sunday throughout the summer we would go and watch him play in the park or at galas around the county. I would make sure I was at the front of the crowd when he first marched past, waving and cheering him on, then I would disappear and meet my mates until it was time to go home. But my mother and my sisters would stand and watch him every time, all afternoon, come rain or shine.

  Then in 1950 there was an accident at the pit. I remember standing with my mother and the other women at the pit head for hours. There was a terrible silence hanging over the crowd, no-one uttered a word. And then they started bringing out the bodies. My mother was trembling and her mouth kept moving silently. I think she must have been praying. Such a silly woman, I thought. Can’t she see this is the chance for us to get out from under his rule and start enjoying life? Everything is so much simpler for a child, isn’t it?

  My father was one of the last to be brought out. He was still alive, but his legs were crushed and one of them was hanging off. When they chopped it off just below the knee, I prayed he would die and leave us in peace, but the old bugger was stronger than all of us and he survived. For months there was peace in the house. Of course he shouted still, well sometimes anyway; but he was too weak to do anything else and my mother’s bruises faded. Then one day he was well enough to get out of bed and it all started again. But now he was around the house during the day as well. And every Sunday we still had to go back to the park and watch the band play. My father would start out each time excited at the chance to see his old mates and listen to his beloved brass band—but it would always end up the same way. He would become morose and unhappy at having to stand in the crowd, but he couldn’t walk without his crutches; couldn’t march and play the trumpet at the same time. He would slope off to the pub with the rest of the musicians afterwards and come home hours later in a temper. And once again my mother would bear the brunt of his anger and frustration.