Three Wishes

  “Oh, hello, Danielle, I was…” Lily paused then asked, “Are you all right?”

  Lily stopped speaking and Fazire heard her voice was concerned as she lost all track of their quest and asked after the girl who was looking at her with such venom. Fazire wanted to grab Lily back but he stayed where he was in order to let her do what she needed to do.

  “No, I’m not all right,” the girl snapped. “What are you doing here, Lily?”

  Fazire found himself thinking these people who lived here weren’t very kind and caring at all.

  Lily hesitated, somehow not surprised at this reaction from the woman, then she went on. “This is a little embarrassing but I had to leave town unexpectedly and now that I’m back, I went to Nate’s and his doorman says he doesn’t live there anymore. I was just –”

  The woman didn’t allow her to finish, her face changed to what looked somewhat sly and scheming to Fazire but he lost those thoughts at the next words she said.

  “Nate’s dead,” Danielle informed them coldly.

  Then, without further ado, she slammed the door right in Lily’s face.

  Lily stood staring at the door, frozen to the spot.

  Fazire stood behind her, just as frozen.

  And then, after what seemed like an age (and Fazire had lived many of them so he knew exactly how they felt), slowly she turned and stopped and simply stared down at him, every bit of colour had drained from her face.

  Two years ago she’d lost her beloved grandmother. Barely two months ago she’d lost her parents. Now her new beloved boyfriend, the romantic hero that was supposed to sweep her off her feet and at the sound of their meeting and courtship he certainly did that, and love her more than the earth was dead.

  She was twenty-two years old, pregnant with only a genie to call family.

  And the expression on her face showed every bit of that pain and agony.

  Fazire ascended the two last steps and carefully put his arm around her fragile, tense shoulders.

  “Let’s get home,” he murmured to his Lily-child.

  She didn’t move. In fact she seemed rooted to the spot.

  Then she whispered, “But Fazire, where’s home?”

  He had no answer for that, for he didn’t know.

  Then it came to him.

  “Wherever we make it, my lovely.”

  PART TWO

  Chapter Four

  Nathaniel

  There were no genies in Nathaniel McAllister’s life.

  Nathaniel’s father died before he was born. A knife fight in a pub brawl that had started because of his father’s bad temper and penchant for fisticuffs and ended with him in a pool of his own blood.

  Not that Nathaniel’s mother, Deirdre, would have known that was his father. It could have been one of three, maybe even four, candidates. She did figure it out in a hazy way as he grew older and she’d look at her son and had some recollection of that drunken, drug-fuelled night with his tall, lean, muscular, good-looking father.

  Without genies or a parent who wasn’t inebriated or incapacitated due to drugs all the time, Nathaniel learned early how to take care of himself. His mother was usually sleeping it off when she should have been getting him up and getting him cleaned and fed. Instinct and survival taught him to do the most basic tasks and he could never remember a time that he didn’t do all of those things for himself. Indeed a great deal of the time he had to steal from his mother’s purse or, somewhat more dangerously, one of her lover’s wallets, to go to the news agent and get himself some milk and food. If his mother didn’t have any money or there wasn’t a lover around, which was often in the case of the former, but luckily, depending on how you looked at it, not the latter, sometimes he had to steal the milk and food from the news agent. However, he learned quickly to pick ones further away from home.

  Nathaniel McAllister learned everything quickly.

  His mother got him into school though and he liked it there. He was smart, very smart. He knew this because the teachers told him so. Even the headmaster brought him into his office to have what the head called “a chat”. They tried to tell his mother. Nathaniel, they said, should go to special schools. He was far, far brighter than most children, far more advanced, even perhaps a genius. Nathaniel remembered everything, absolutely everything and he only needed to be told or shown once and he had it down pat. They said he was remarkable. They called him “gifted”.

  Deirdre had no money for special schools for her son and no interest in her son at all, gifted or not. So there were no special schools for Nathaniel. There was nothing special for Nathaniel.

  Thus forced to learn like normal not gifted children, Nathaniel became bored and restless. The teachers tried to help but there was only so much they could do. He didn’t skip school, not at first that came later. Being at school was better than being on the streets and definitely better than being at home.

  Deirdre was a rather remarkable beauty and remained that way a lot longer than others would have, regardless of the booze and drugs she poured, swallowed, smoked, snorted or injected into her body. She might not have taken care of her lungs, nostrils, veins and liver but she took care of her appearance. She also had the advantage of her good, strong Scottish blood. She attracted men like a magnet and used them as best she could for whatever money, food, pills, drink or anything else she could get out of them. She allowed them to use her, debase her, abuse her, push her around and hit her, so these things would stay available in as much abundance as possible. She also allowed them to push around her son who, after awhile, got pretty damned sick of it and learned to dodge the fists agilely and later, defend himself skilfully with his own.

  Finally, when Nathaniel was eleven, she got herself a man who stuck around awhile. This man was named Scott. Scott hung around mainly because he liked Nathaniel or Nate, as he called him. Scott was the kind of man who recognised the promise in the boy and thought he was destined for great things. Or the kind of great things that came about in Scott’s world.

  Scott was not wrong or at least not entirely wrong.

  He gave Nate “jobs”. Jobs that he would pay Nate to do sometimes even as much as twenty pounds.

  Usually it was just taking packages and dropping them off at places or with people. This happened all the time in the light of day, even during school hours, or the dead of night. Although no adult in their right mind, although Nate knew very few adults in their right minds, would send a boy of eleven out in the early hours of the morning on the dangerous streets of London, Scott had no qualms about this. Nate was fast as lightening and learned quickly to melt into the shadows, not to mention he could take care of himself. Nate was young and knew no fear.

  And Nate was very, very smart.

  One night, months after Scott came into Nate’s live, the drop did not go well. Nate sensed the danger with an instinct that was not only bred but born in him. He was cautious, he was quiet and he became invisible as he watched. When he knew the drop was a bust, he exited the scene swiftly and without being seen. Instead of panicking, he kept a cool head, found one of his many hiding places and stashed the package.

  When he went home, Scott was livid.

  “What do you mean you didn’t do the drop? Mr. Roberts is going to lose his fucking mind!” Scott had shouted.

  Nate had never seen Scott angry. He did not find this disturbing, there was not much that bothered Nate. He had long since learned to roll with the punches, often literally.

  “You didn’t lose it did you?” Scott demanded to know.

  Nate shook his head. Nate didn’t talk much. Nate had also long since learned to keep his mouth shut.

  “Do you have it?” Scott asked.

  Nate shook his head again.

  “Is it safe?” Scott yelled.

  Nate nodded his head.

  Scott made some calls. He was talking on the phone in a respectful, frightened tone that Nate had never heard him use. When he was done, he turned on Nate.

  “Take me
to the package.”

  Nate again shook his head. He wasn’t stupid enough to give up one of his hiding places. Even at eleven, nearly twelve, he figured he had a life yawning before him where he’d need many hiding places.

  “That wasn’t a question!” Scott shouted.

  “I’ll get the package, bring it to you,” Nate offered, “just tell me where.”

  Scott stared at him.

  Scott, no fool (or at least not entirely a fool), knew that Nate was a tough customer. That was why he liked the kid. But Nate didn’t know what this was about, how important this was. Nate had absolutely no idea how much trouble Scott was in.

  Watching the boy Scott knew he had no choice. He got on the phone and made hasty, embarrassing explanations. Then he had his orders.

  Nate would, himself, bring the package to Mr. Roberts.

  When Scott shared this with Nate, Nate shrugged. One drop, he thought, was the same as another.

  Making certain sure he wasn’t followed, Nate went to get the package and took it where Scott told him to take it. He was surprised when, on the grimy, dirty street corner, there stood an elegant, shining, long limousine. For some reason Nate didn’t fear this and boldly approached the car.

  The window rolled down slowly but Nate saw no one inside.

  “Bloody hell, Scott. A kid?” Nate heard a rough, male voice say from inside.

  “Mr. Roberts,” he heard Scott’s frightened voice.

  “Get out,” the rough voice came again.

  “But, Mr. Roberts –”

  “Out.”

  That one word should have scared Nate, the tone in which it was said would have scared anyone else. Nate just calmly got out of the way of the door.

  Scott alighted from the car and looked down at the boy.

  “Sorry, Nate,” he said quietly then he took his chance and ran.

  Nate never saw Scott again.

  “Get in the car.”

  Nate, being a very smart boy, did as he was told.

  He sat opposite a man like no man he’d never seen before. He had thick, brown hair and assessing brown eyes and an angular, hard face. He was wearing a suit. Not the shiny, cheap kind of suit, a suit that looked like money. He had a nice, flashy watch and Nate could tell even his hair was not cut at the kind of barber that cut Scott’s (Nate’s mother cut his and not very well).

  Nate also had very discerning tastes. He just didn’t know it at the time.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked.

  “Nate.”

  “Your full name.”

  He didn’t hesitate. He also didn’t fear this man.

  “Nathaniel McAllister.”

  “That’s better.” The rough voice held approval. “How long have you been doing Scott’s drops for him?”

  Nate shrugged.

  There was silence. Nate sensed something in the car he didn’t understand. It didn’t frighten him but another person would have been afraid, definitely a kid and also most men.

  Nate, however, sat comfortably and waited.

  Finally, after watching him awhile, the man said, “I paid Scott three hundred pounds for every drop you made.”

  This penetrated the ironclad shield Nate had around his emotions and reactions.

  Instantly, Nate got mad and it showed.

  “How much did he give you?” the man asked.

  Nate shrugged again but this shrug was different, this was a jerky, angry shrug. It was a good thing that Scott never saw Nate again.

  The man sat there watching him. Nate struggled to settle his emotions. The struggle didn’t last long. When he’d conquered his anger, the man smiled.

  “I’m Mr. Roberts and from now on, Nathaniel, you work for me.”

  * * * * *

  And he did. For a year he worked for Mr. Roberts. He did drops, he delivered messages, he stood look out. He did a lot of things and got paid a lot more than twenty pounds.

  Deirdre was thrilled. Nate began to pay the rent on the flat, paid all the bills on time and there was food in the refrigerator on a normal basis. Now she began to steal from him.

  He didn’t mind, there was plenty to go around or at least a hell of a lot more than there used to be.

  At twelve years old Nathaniel McAllister was the bread winner, the man of the house. He’d been that way since he could remember, really, cleaning, tidying, holding her hair back when she’d overindulge and vomit in the toilet, dragging her in and putting her to bed when she passed out in the hall.

  But now he was really the man of the house.

  She, unfortunately, became stupid with their or, more to the point, Nate’s good fortune. She bragged to anyone who would listen that her boy was working for Mr. Roberts.

  She wasn’t proud of his genius or of the budding good looks that were stamped on his features or the tall, lean strapping boy he had become but she was proud that he’d become a gangster’s errand boy at eleven years old.

  This pride caused her death.

  Drunk and bragging to her new boyfriend, an out-of-work, good-for-nothing lazy bum – or at least that’s what she called him, over and over again and very loudly. Her son worked for Mr. Roberts. Her son brought home lots of money. He bought her dresses, got her vodka.

  Considering her boyfriend was drunk, high, stupid and mean he didn’t take to this very well. He got fed up with it quickly and squeezed the breath out of her throat until there was no more which, of course, made her shrill voice stop. Then he took another, very large snort of cocaine that Nate’s money had bought and he drank the rest of her bottle of vodka and he waited for Nate.

  Nate didn’t even have to walk into the flat to know something was wrong but he did anyway. She was his mother. He’d been taking care of her for his lifetime. It was habit.

  He opened the door and saw his mother’s lifeless body. That was all he needed to see.

  Her boyfriend made a grab but didn’t come close.

  Nate was so quick, he was vapour.

  He vanished.

  For a week.

  And missed two scheduled drops.

  Seven days later they found him, picked him up and took him to Mr. Roberts.

  He sat in the back of the limousine. He’d seen Mr. Roberts twice since they first met; both times he’d been friendly and cordial.

  Now he was not.

  “Would you like to tell me what’s going on, Nathaniel?” Mr. Roberts’s voice was very cold and Nate knew this was no request.

  “Me Mum’s dead.”

  This was met with silence.

  Then, “My Mum, Nathaniel.”

  Nate turned burning eyes to his employer. He didn’t miss her, really, but she was all he had.

  “My Mum,” he repeated sarcastically perhaps the only living soul besides Mr. Roberts’s two children who had the courage to speak to him sarcastically.

  Instead of making him angry, Mr. Roberts found he admired this in Nathaniel.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “Don’t got one.”

  “Have one, Nathaniel.”

  “That either.”

  Mr. Roberts stifled a chuckle. It was no time to chuckle.

  “Aunts, uncles?”

  Nate shook his head.

  “Your grandparents then.”

  Nate looked at him, square in the eye and declared, “No one.”

  In his line of business Mr. Roberts learned to make quick decisions.

  He liked this boy. There was something about this boy. Something special.

  Mr. Roberts made a quick decision.

  Decision made, he declared, “You’re coming home with me.”

  Chapter Five

  Nathaniel

  Victor and Laura Roberts adopted Nathaniel McAllister.

  He did not take their name, that was his decision and they allowed it.

  He wanted to remember where he came from, he couldn’t forget. He had to remember always what he was, who he was so he would never go back.

  It woul
d have been easy to forget with his new life.

  It was almost like a genie came out of a bottle and gave him his every wish.

  They were rich. Victor and Laura (he never called them Mum and Dad, even though Laura wanted him to) lived in a beautiful home on a street where all the houses were gleaming white, all the railings were glossy black and all the window boxes were filled with redder than red geraniums and trailing green ivy.

  They had two children, Jeffrey and Danielle.

  Jeffrey hated Nate with a passion.

  Danielle loved him just the same.

  Conversely, the first was a godsend, the second was a nightmare.

  Jeffrey and Danielle had everything they ever wanted, everything they asked for, everything they desired. They had two parents who loved them and spoiled them too much, way too much. They had a beautiful home, beautiful clothes, food to eat that they didn’t have to steal or cook and servants to put clean, fresh sheets on their big beds and even iron their expensive clothes.

  They’d never needed, they’d never been hungry, they’d never stole, they’d never dodged a punch thrown by a grown, drunken man and they’d never held their mother’s hair back while she vomited.

  Jeffrey knew from Nate’s rough accent just who he was and where he came from and he never let Nate forget it.

  Never.

  And this was good, Nate didn’t want to forget.

  Jeffrey’s voice was posh from schooling at special schools. Jeffrey was the same age as Nate but would have lasted about two seconds in Nate’s old neighbourhood. Jeffrey knew this and Jeffrey knew his father knew this.

  Jeffrey’s father, he understood (though he was never told), had been like Nate when he was younger. Victor, Jeffrey had heard his father tell his mother one night, saw himself in Nate. Victor admired Nate. Jeffrey thought his father even doted on him and he was not wrong.