Wronged Sons, The (23 page)

I realised there’d been an obvious correlation between Caroline’s death eighteen months earlier and the dark crescents that circled my dimmed eyes and my hollowed cheeks. The gums above my top teeth were red raw and my left cheek had developed a tiny visible twitch that only pulsated when my engine was running low on stimulants.

I looked so much more than my thirty-seven years, and double Darren’s. I had lost myself in the place where I’d gone to find me. The identity I’d assumed was consuming me. Yet it wasn’t enough to shame or coax me into re-evaluating my status quo. Instead, I walked away vowing to repair myself by eating more fruit and vegetables instead.

Besides, I had more pressing matters on my mind. In less than a year from my arrival in San Francisco, I’d snorted and drank my way through the remainder of the French publisher’s money and I was stealing from Mike the manager to boost my reserves. There were plenty of rooms for me to check guests in and out without including their names in the register. So they remained anonymous to all but me.

And grateful contributions from a drug dealer I’d permitted to ply her trade with discretion around the building also helped to swell my coffers. Nobody but she and I knew that the broken dispenser in the ladies toilets contained more than a hundred Tampons with plastic applicators packing half a gram of cocaine each.

Darren took gratification in being the centre of attention. He was boisterous; he was unpredictable; he inspired others to push themselves to explore; he was an expert purveyor of anecdotes, even if most of them were lies. He was a protagonist to my reactionary. And most importantly, Darren was impervious to Simon’s darkness.

But what eventually demolished my prison of fakery was a man I’d never met who’d come to find me.

December 2, 8pm

Once a month, I lead excursions down America’s west coast in a modified Greyhound coach Mike bought at an auction on a whim. For fifty dollars a time, hostellers climbed onboard the Purple Turtle for a sightseeing tour through Santa Cruz, Santa Barbara, Los Angeles and San Diego, eventually stopping over the border in Mexico’s Tijuana.

Mike had removed most of the buses’ seats and replaced them with mattresses; creating a portable hostel where guests could explore, sleep, and feel part of a mini community on wheels.

With my bag packed, my only requirement was a hearty breakfast before I set off on my next guided tour.

“Is anyone sitting there mate?” a British voice asked as I attacked a mountain of pancakes in the hostel’s busy dining area.

“Help yourself,” I replied, and looked up to find a shaggy haired man in his late twenties I hadn’t checked in myself. His smile reminded me of someone.

“Have you just arrived?” I asked. He was ravenous as he tucked into his scrambled eggs and hash browns.

“Yeah, about an hour ago. I’m bloody knackered. I landed in New York four weeks ago and have zigzagged my way up and down ever since.”

“That’s good going. Why such a whistle-stop tour?”

“I’m trying to find someone. You might be able to help, actually. Have you ever come across a bloke who calls himself Darren Glasper?”

A chill ran through me.

“Darren Glasper?” I repeated, making sure the amphetamines I’d just washed down with a pot of coffee weren’t making me hallucinate.

“Yeah. It’s not his real name, he’s been pretending to be my brother.”

Suddenly I recognised him from the family photographs pinned to the wall around Darren’s bed at the Routard. My first response was to throw my plate to one side and bolt, but his lack of hostility meant he didn’t know I was his man.

“No, the name doesn’t ring any bells,” I lied. “Why’s he been doing that?”

“That’s what I’ve come to find out.”

Richard Glasper introduced himself and explained how French police had informed his family of Darren’s untimely death from a weak heart five months after Brad and I discovered his body. We’d confirmed to them his nationality, but Brad was ignorant of his surname and I’d kept it quiet to buy myself time.

An impression of Darren’s teeth was sent across the English Channel, and only after his family reported him missing were both sets of dental records crosschecked and matched.

But it was already too late to bring his body home. A clerical error meant Darren was logged as a vagrant, and had been cremated as such. His family was presented with a plastic tub of ashes and nothing else.

“It broke my mam’s heart,” Richard continued. “A year later we started getting these weird cheques from some French book publisher, and then the police told us my brother’s name had been flagged up in New York for overstaying his American Visa. The address he gave of where he was staying was a youth hostel. The manager checked his photocopied records and someone using Darren’s passport had been staying there.”

I nodded along as he spoke, but inside, I was furious with myself for not having the foresight to cover my tracks. Not for a second had I ever considered my deception would come back to haunt me. I moved my hands under the table so Richard wouldn’t notice them shake.

“My mam was convinced there’d been a mistake and Darren was alive,” he continued. “But the police investigated and were adamant he wasn’t. She didn’t believe them. We contacted the Youth Hostel Association and city by city found out this fella had been travelling and using my brother’s name for the best part of two years. And the manager of Seattle’s hostel reckons he speaks to Darren regularly here. They have some kind of recommendation deal between them.”

I cleared my dry throat. “What are you going to say if you find him?”

“It’s not what I’m going to say, it’s what I’m going to do,” replied Richard, his eyes narrowing. “That bastard destroyed me mam. She went to her grave with a broken heart believing her youngest lad didn’t want anything to do with us. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put an end to this.”

“Well, the best of luck,” I replied as I rose. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have an excursion to organise.”

“No worries mate, nice to meet you. If you hear anything, you’ll let me know yeah? I’m in room 401.”

“Of course.”

I left my half-eaten breakfast where it lay, and forced myself not to run to get to my bedroom. I crammed my meagre belongings into my rucksack then headed to the bathroom and Richard’s room to ensure he would never bother me again.

*

As the Purple Turtle trundled down the Pacific Coast Highway, I knew that living vicariously through a person who no longer existed had left me exposed. I’d thought I had created a new life for myself by erasing my identity. But it wasn’t my life to build upon; it had belonged to somebody else.

And there was another person’s life I was about to change too. As we stopped in Santa Cruz, I phoned the San Francisco police department and informed them of a British man who was working his way around the country’s hostels dealing drugs. His name was Richard Glasper and they’d find him at the Height Ashbury hostel with a dozen cocaine filled Tampon applicators hidden in his suitcase pockets.

It was in Richard’s best interests for it to happen that way. I wasn’t alarmed by threats of what he’d do to the person posing as his brother. I was afraid of what I might do to him if he confronted me. And it would have certainly happened if I’d stayed.

I had sucked so much marrow out of America that there was no bone left to feast on. The trip was almost complete and I knew I couldn’t show my face in San Francisco again without being unmasked.

Tijuana, Mexico

December 4, 2pm

I had no qualms about leaving my party to fend for itself without a driver or navigator once we reached Tijuana. If I’d taught them anything in my workshops, it was that the most successful travellers were the most resourceful ones.

With my dollars converted to Pesos, my rucksack strapped to my back and my passengers distracted by a Tequila bar, I slipped away to Highway 1-D in search of the Baja coast.

Within minutes, Simon Nicholson had been brought back to life to share the back of a pick-up truck with a dozen wooden crates of watermelons.

***

Today, 4.15pm

He wasn’t stupid. He’d presumed, if not expected, her to have found love at some point. In fact it would’ve been peculiar if she hadn’t.

But now his replacement had an identity and it didn’t sit comfortably with him. To hear her talk of this ‘Tom’ with such fondness; for him to have slipped so easily into his shoes, his house and his bed… he couldn’t help but resent the man. He’d stopped loving her long before he left, so he was surprised by how it made him feel. Almost jealous, he conceded. His temples began to throb.

He knew he had no right to judge what she did with her life or who with. But allowing a stranger to play father to his children irritated him.

Would you have preferred it if I’d stayed alone forever?” she asked suddenly, as his expression betrayed his thoughts.

“No, no,” he stuttered, “of course not.”

The aching in his head grew more impatient and demanded attention. But her unrelenting stare that analysed his every gesture meant he couldn’t check his watch to see how late he was in taking his tablets, without her asking why.

She’d taken discreet pleasure in watching him recoil as she’d spoken of Tom. Even adulterous, gutless murderers can feel envy when hearing how replaceable they are, she’d learned, and she smiled to herself.

However, she remained alert to the potential danger of the man even if she was no longer as scared as she had been. She even felt a slight sense of relief when he admitted how Caroline’s death had eventually plagued his conscience. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

She understood why he’d used drugs to deal with his conscience; she’d used alcohol to cope with his loss. But who or what were ‘the others’ he spoke about? He could only have been referring to her and the children and how they were dead to him once he’d left. Another insult. No matter what he had to say during the rest of that day, being written out of his history would be the one thing she could never forget or forgive.

“Are you and… I forget his name… still together?” he asked.

“No, Tom and I are not. Although we’re still good friends,” she replied, proud of that rare feat.

“What did you mean when you said I ruined it all?”

She glared at him. “Things began to break down between Tom and I when I discovered you were still alive.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Northampton, Twenty-One Years Earlier

February 16, 11.25am

My eyes darted back and forth, examining every red brick and lick of mortar of Fabien’s shop front.

Even after Margaret and I signed the contracts, it still hadn’t sunk in that the boutique now belonged to me. Somewhere along the line, I’d become the owner of a shop I was once too frightened to step inside.

“Well done girl,” came Margaret’s voice from behind me. “You have no idea how proud I am of you.”

I did actually because I was so chuffed with myself, that I couldn’t stop grinning. But I wasn’t daft. It was all very well taking over a business with a proven track record; but it was going to take gumption and elbow grease to keep it a success.

I continued making a range of my own clothes, either at home or in the back room of the shop while Selena worked front of house dealing with its day-to-day running and charming the clientele.

Emily started showing an interest in my work like I’d done with my mum’s. Even when she got under my feet or slowed me down, I refused to follow the example I’d been set. She wasn’t even six when I began teaching her to sew on buttons and chalk up hemlines. And I’d encourage her to help me pour through fashion magazines looking for inspiration and keeping up with current trends.

While Robbie found a new interest in computer games and Tom taught James another new song on his guitar, I cherished the time Emily and I spent together. But at the same time, I pitied you for what you’d lost.

August 1, 1.40pm

Silence didn’t come to the cottage very often, but when it did, I welcomed it like an old friend.

Tom enjoyed taking the kids out on his own every now and again and it gave me a few rare hours without the TV blaring or the sound of a football banging against the garage door. So while the rabble was at the park, I fulfilled a long delayed promise to myself to clear your clothes from our wardrobe.

I’d thought about it several times over the last few months when Tom came into our lives. But it always seemed such a daunting prospect, like throwing another part of you away. And even if you were to miraculously reappear on our doorstep, I didn’t think it would be for a change of shirt.

So I closed my eyes and opened the wardrobe door. Then one by one, I carefully removed your things from the wooden hangers, folded them up neatly and placed them into plastic bags I’d earmarked for Oxfam.

Each item brought with it a forgotten memory, like watching you unwrap a new jumper I’d bought for your birthday, or a shirt you’d worn to a party. Around my hand I wound the blue striped tie you’d had on for your first appointment with the bank manager to ask for a business loan. I’d tied you a Windsor knot because your hands shook too much to do it yourself. I lifted the lapels of your brown corduroy jacket to my nose and found a vague trace of your Blue Stratos aftershave.

I’d expected to break down in tears but I felt warmth, not sadness. I was giving your clothes away, not you. The bags were spreading across the floor when the telephone rang.

“Could I speak to Mr. Nicholson please?” a gruff male voice asked.

“I’m afraid my husband has passed away,” I apologised. “Who’s calling please?”

“My name is Jeff Yaxley, I’m a warden at Wormwood Scrubs prison in London.” That piqued my curiosity.

“Mr. Nicholson’s father died a few months back and I have one of his possessions he asked us to send his son,” he continued.

“Arthur’s dead?” I asked, shocked. “Sorry, did you say you were calling from a prison?”