Araluen (56 page)

Emma had been watching him closely all night. She’d seen the threat of madness from the moment Franklin had arrived. All night she’d been willing the old man to stop aggravating Michael. Couldn’t he see that his grandson was at breaking point?

Franklin feigned innocence. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Where’s who?’

Michael didn’t answer. He slammed his glass down on the table. It shattered and cut his hand but he didn’t notice. He ran into the downstairs bathroom smashing open the door but Karol wasn’t there.

‘Mankowski!’ he screamed, and when he came back into the lounge room he looked demented. Franklin rose from the table.

‘Michael … ’

But Michael didn’t even see him. He raced up the staircase still screaming. ‘Mankowski, you bastard!’

As he disappeared into the upstairs master bedroom, Franklin remained standing, staring up at the landing. The others remained seated, silent. There was nothing anyone could do. Emma stared at the old man. His face was set and stern. Was there no compassion in him? Couldn’t he see that Michael was sick?

In the upstairs bedroom, Michael was frozen to the spot. Karol Mankowski stood opposite him, as implacable as ever.

‘It’s a nice place you’ve got here, Michael,’ he said quietly. Michael said nothing. His chest was heaving and his breath came in rasping gasps. ‘Big bed,’ Karol added.

Finally, Michael found his voice. ‘What are you doing, Mankowski? Why are you spying on me? What is it you want?’

‘Just taking a look around, Michael. The door was open. I didn’t think you’d mind … ’

‘Get out!’ Michael screamed. ‘Get out of my house!’ Karol shrugged and nodded and walked towards the door. ‘Get out! Get out of my house!’ Michael kept screaming and he wanted to attack the man, to tear him to pieces. But Karol paused at the door and looked at him for a second and he didn’t dare. Even in his madness, he could recognise the danger in Karol Mankowski.

Karol left and Michael stood for several seconds. He could hear himself sobbing with rage. He pulled open the top drawer of the dresser and took out the Walther .32 calibre pocket automatic. As he stood there, staring at it, a shred of reason returned. What was he going to do with the gun? Was he going to go downstairs and blow Karol Mankowski’s brains out in front of his grandfather and the others? Gradually, his sobs subsided. No, he thought frantically. No. One day … One day …

The plans for revenge were clearing Michael’s brain. His grandfather had sent Mankowski to spy on him. One day he’d send him again. One day Michael would find Mankowski in his home. And he’d shoot him. Justifiable homicide. ‘I thought the man was a burglar,’ he could hear himself say. No court would convict him. The fantasy was perfect and Michael finally felt himself enough in control to join the others. He must, he told himself. He must face them and somehow get through this hideous night.

He returned the gun to the drawer and, slowly, he walked out onto the landing. His guests were still seated, silently waiting for what was going to happen next. Franklin was still on his feet, staring at the landing. Beside him stood Karol Mankowski.

At the sight of Karol, Michael felt his rage returning. ‘Get that man out of my house, Grandfather,’ he said tightly as he walked down the stairs. ‘I will not be spied upon in my own home.’

‘Karol was merely looking around, Michael, there was no need for such an exhibition of … ’

‘Get him outV
Michael screamed as he clung tightly to the railing of the staircase, blood dripping from his cut hand.

Franklin’s eyes were gleaming with his own madness. He was sickened and enraged by Michael’s outburst. The boy was indeed insane, he thought. How had it gone this far without his knowledge? Beneath Franklin’s rage was a deep and terrible grief. This was his grandson. His only male heir. The man who was to inherit the Ross empire. He’d worked for sixty years to hand the reins over to
thisl
He maintained his control and made one last desperate bid.

‘Karol, would you take Helen home, please,’ he said, his eyes locked into Michael’s. ‘And I’d be grateful if the rest of you would leave now. My grandson and I need to talk.’

‘No!’ Michael let go of the railing and walked to face the old man across the table.
‘You
go!’ He was losing control again, he could feel it.
‘You
go. You get out of my house and take that man with you!’ He knew his voice was hysterical, he could feel himself shaking and he was spitting in his rage but he couldn’t help it. ‘Get out! Get out! Get
outV
He slammed his fist on the table. A half-full bottle of wine fell on its side and several more glasses shattered.

At this final outburst, everyone rose from the table, galvanised into action. Stanley took a hold of Michael’s arm, Emma, Mandy and Helen rose for sheer fear and Karol moved closer to Franklin. Only Franklin didn’t budge. He remained staring back at Michael and the steel glint of old flashed in the faded blue eyes.

‘Look at you, boy,’ he said. ‘Look at you. You’re disgusting.’

Michael couldn’t unlock his eyes from the old man’s, but suddenly there was no attack left in him. His energy was spent and he didn’t resist Stanley’s restraining arm.

‘You’re sick,’ Franklin said with revulsion. ‘You’re a junkie.’ Michael’s body started to sag. He felt himself cave in and allowed Stanley to ease him into a chair. ‘An excuse for a human being,’ Franklin continued relentlessly. ‘You’re no kin of mine.’

Michael started to sob. He couldn’t help it. Things were going on in his brain. Grandpa Franklin. His hero. He saw The Colony House. He saw the main doors, the car waiting … ‘Got your football boots?’ … The pride when Grandpa Franklin came to a game.

‘… You’re no grandson of mine,’ Franklin was saying.

Michael’s sobs grew louder.

Suddenly, Emma could stand no more. ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Stop it! Can’t you see he’s ill?’

For the first time, Franklin’s eyes left Michael’s. ‘Of course he is,’ he said scathingly. ‘He’s sick, poisoned by his own diseased mind … ’

‘You don’t know a thing about his mind,’ she said and, as Michael bent his face to the table, she took his head in her hands and cradled him to her waist. ‘You don’t care about his mind and you don’t care about him! All he’s ever been to you is the next step in the Ross dynasty – he’s never been a person at all.’ Visions of Julia – ‘He’s an evil man’ – and Penelope – ‘All he wanted from me
was sons’ – flashed through Emma’s brain as she held her brother close to her. ‘You don’t care, you’ve never cared,’ she said. ‘You’re a tyrant!’

She waited for Franklin to fire back at her but he didn’t so she turned her attention to Michael. She sat beside him and embraced him, his head on her shoulder and, for a moment, there was a deathly stillness.

‘Apparently I’ve been unaware of a development here,’ Franklin said quietly. ‘You obviously feel you have some rights to interfere in a personal family matter.’ His voice was scathing, patronising. ‘As his lover surely you could have had a little more influence over his drug addiction – ’

‘I’m not his lover!’ She shouted it. In the stillness, her voice was jarring. And she knew she couldn’t stop herself. She knew she had to say it. She had to shock the old man out of his complacency, she had to prove to him that she knew him for the tyrant he was. ‘I’m his sister,’ she said.

The words hung in the air. And she was glad when they did. Glad that she’d halted the old man’s venom. He looked at her for what seemed an eternity. Everyone did. Everyone except Michael, whose head was sunk against her breast. Like a child. He was no longer sobbing. He could have been sleeping. ‘My father was Terence Ross,’ she said. ‘I’m your granddaughter.’

It seemed an eternity before Franklin spoke. And when he did his voice was strange, subdued. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you are.’

He could see it as clearly as if it were yesterday. His mind played tricks on him lately. Sometimes he couldn’t remember whether he’d kept an
appointment that same morning. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what he’d eaten for breakfast. But the long-ago yesterdays were vividly etched in his memory. And he recalled that afternoon, that hot summer afternoon when he’d come home to find a young woman waiting with Penelope.

‘She won’t say what it’s about,’ Penelope had announced, thin-lipped. And then the girl had told him. Even when they’d challenged her she’d sworn it was Terry’s child she was carrying. And Franklin had believed her. Just as he now believed this girl who sat before him, holding his grandson in her arms. The defiance in Emma’s eyes could not be ignored. It was the same defiance he’d seen in the girl that afternoon. And they were the same eyes.

After the initial shock, he wondered at the fact that the knowledge didn’t come as a greater surprise. It explained Emma’s strange belligerence towards him from the outset. But why had she kept her secret? To protect her mother? To protect herself? ‘We do not recognise bastards in this family.’ Yes, Franklin could still hear himself saying it.

So many questions to be answered. But he was tired. Too tired to ask them now.

‘It’s time we went home, Helen,’ he said wearily.

While Mandy fetched their coats, grateful for an excuse to leave the room, Franklin once again addressed Emma.

‘We need to talk. May I see you tomorrow?’ Emma didn’t reply, she wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Perhaps in the afternoon, at the studios, you and Michael together?’ He glanced at his grandson.
‘That is, if he’s well enough by then.’ There was no malice in his voice. He was too tired for malice.

Mandy returned with the coats, Stanley opened the main doors and Franklin, Helen and Karol left.

‘Let’s get him up to bed,’ Stanley said when they’d gone and he heaved Michael over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Michael groaned and started to gag slightly. ‘Better grab a bucket or a bowl just in case,’ Stanley instructed Emma. ‘And Mandy, could you clear up some of that broken glass?’

Emma fetched a plastic basin from the laundry and followed Stanley up the stairs.

As Michael was unceremoniously dumped on the large circular bed, she looked around at the room. She’d never seen the master bedroom before. It was unashamedly designed for an orgy. What worlds of fantasy had Michael been weaving for himself in his nightly drug-induced state? She felt guilty that she hadn’t spent more time with him, made more effort to protect him from himself. She’d known he still used drugs but, when he’d become irritable with her nagging, she’d done the easy thing. She’d stopped. She shouldn’t have. He was her brother and she loved him. He deserved more from her.

Michael groaned again. ‘I think he’s going to sleep it off,’ Stanley said, ‘but you’d better get a couple of towels just in case.’

While Emma disappeared into the bathroom, Stanley loosened Michael’s collar, took off his shoes and covered him with a doona. He needed to keep himself occupied, he needed time to absorb
the truth. His mind was still in a state of shock. Emma was Michael’s sister! He’d always thought they were lovers. No time to think about that now, he told himself. Later. He could think about it later.

‘Thanks,’ he said as he took the towels from her. He placed one underneath Michael’s head. ‘I don’t think he’s going to throw up but that’ll help with the mess if he does.’ He found himself avoiding her gaze. ‘Want a lift home?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m going to stay with him.’

Stanley stopped being busy for a moment and looked at her. ‘I think he’ll be fine.’

‘What if he does throw up?’ she argued. ‘He could choke on his own vomit – people have done it before. Besides,’ she added, ‘we know that it’s more than a few drinks too many. He’s had a bad trip and I don’t think he should wake up on his own.’

Stanley wasn’t at all sure that it was a good idea. ‘Do you want me to stay with you?’

She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’ Then when he continued to look dubious, she smiled gently. ‘I think I can look after my own brother, Stanley.’

He busied himself again, spreading the second towel over Michael’s chest. She sensed his avoidance. ‘You were pretty shocked by the news, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah, I guess so,’ he nodded. There was an awkward pause. ‘Well, I’ll be off now. I’ll drive Mandy home.’

‘Stanley.’ He stopped at the door. ‘Thank you. For everything.’

‘Call me if you need me.’

Emma bathed Michael’s cut hand. Then she sat on the bed beside him and wondered at what she had done. And she wondered at what tomorrow would bring. Would she go and see Franklin as he’d requested? Why not? There was nothing she had to fear from him – he was a very old man. So why did she have such misgivings? She knew why. Old man or not, there was still fire left in Franklin Ross. Penelope’s words still rang in Emma’s ears … ‘He’ll destroy you’ …

Oh no, he won’t, she told herself. What could he do to hurt her? Nothing. There was nothing she wanted from him, so there was nothing for him to take. He would not destroy her. And, if there was any way Emma could prevent it, he would not destroy his grandson either, although for some perverse reason he seemed bent on doing so.

Beside her, Michael stirred. He opened his eyes. Although they looked a little bloodshot and weary, they were clearly focused. ‘Emma,’ he said.

‘Hello, trouble,’ she smiled. What was the point of being angry with him? He looked so vulnerable. She’d read him the riot act tomorrow. ‘Feel all right?’

‘Fine,’ he answered. ‘I’m fine.’ He started to sit up but his head screamed at him. ‘No, maybe I’m not.’

She eased him back onto the bed. ‘Lie down, Michael. You’ve drunk a bottle and a half of vodka – no wonder you’ve got a headache.’

‘Shit,’ he said. Then he put his arm out across the bed. ‘Lie down with me, Emma.’ She did, nestling her head against his shoulder, and together they stared up at the ceiling. ‘I made a fool of
myself, didn’t I?’ Michael could remember confronting Karol Mankowski in the bedroom. And he could remember the gun and his plan to one day kill Mankowski… yes, that was a good plan. Then he could remember glasses smashing and a screaming match with his grandfather across the dining table. But that was all.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you
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made a fool of yourself.’