‘A deficit of love?’ said Boxer. ‘But, Christ, doesn’t she understand that we’ve done everything we possibly can, given the jobs we’ve got?’
‘Why should she? She was just a kid when you went globetrotting, saving people in Mexico, Pakistan and Japan. Why should she have to grasp the reason her parents don’t come to see her play football, act in the school play, do her stand-up session at the Comedy Store—’
‘Do her what?’
‘You didn’t know that, did you? They had a school’s night at the Comedy Store. She did a set. It went down a storm. She did it for me a couple of nights ago. She’s good. As you say, a lot of aggression to work out there.’
Boxer sipped his coffee, rocked in his chair, watching his mother smoke her cigarette in the most luxuriantly enjoyable style.
‘I’m no different. I haven’t exactly been there for her as a grandmother. Had my own problems, as you know,’ she said, wiggling her cigarette, tilting her wrist. ‘But I don’t make any demands on her. She doesn’t call me granny. I don’t expect her to. I just see her as another girl, or rather, a young woman. I like her when she’s being attractive, and dislike her when she’s being unpleasant. But I’ve recognised that I don’t have the right to expectations. That’s the destructive thing about families. If the child doesn’t live up to your expectations, then you’re unhappy and so is the child.’
‘But we weren’t, I mean aren’t, a destructive family,’ said Boxer. ‘Not like your crazy dad.’
‘You weren’t violent, that’s true, although it sounds as if Mercy can be threatening.’
‘Probably under a lot of provocation, and she had a destructive father, too,’ said Boxer. ‘My father didn’t do anything to me. He murdered your business partner and ran away.’
And killed something in you in the process, thought Esme, but for once didn’t say it.
‘And you didn’t take that as a rejection?’ she said. ‘I know I did. And that’s what you’re handing down to Amy. You were away a lot, but that was your choice. You could have decided to be there for her, but you weren’t, probably because your father abandoned you.’
‘She seemed very happy when she was small,’ said Boxer, aware that he sounded defensive, reeling with the guilt. ‘It’s only since she became a teenager she’s been so impossible.’
‘You decided to spend more time with her, but it was too late, Charlie. She’d already started protecting herself. You weren’t around, Mercy had her own problems and she’d chosen a certain career path. What’s a child supposed to do? And once those barriers are in place . . .’
‘So what do I do now?’
‘Try to form a relationship with her with no fatherly expectations. Don’t expect love when you’ve done very little to engender it. Treat her like any other young woman. See if you like her. See if she likes you. Take it from there. I reckon it’s your only chance.’
Frank D’Cruz was pacing the corridor outside Alyshia’s room. He was nervous in a way that he’d never been before. He’d been told, even when Alyshia had heard his debrief was over, that she still hadn’t wanted to see him. Isabel had been able to persuade Alyshia to give him a hearing, only after she’d told her about a three hour discussion she’d had with her ex-husband once he’d got out of Thames House.
But there was another reason D’Cruz was finding it difficult to go into the room. He knew Deepak Mistry would be there at her bedside. Part of that three hour discussion had been about Deepak and how he’d successfully made his case to Alyshia, which hadn’t reflected well on D’Cruz.
D’Cruz hadn’t seen him since the day before he’d fled from Konkan Hill Securities in December last year. On Thursday morning, three days ago, as he was being driven to Thames House, he’d heard a news report about a suspected gangland murder of an Indian mafia don on Primrose Hill. Now he had to go into this room, look Deepak Mistry in the eye, accept him, and then win over his daughter.
He knocked, went in. Deepak Mistry stood, not as if ready to flee, but more as her protector. D’Cruz looked at his daughter in her hospital gown and realised that he hadn’t seen her since December last year either, and it came to him in that moment how much he’d missed her. How much he’d sacrificed in his rage.
He went to her and she accepted a kiss, but did not embrace him. Her restraint was palpable and painful to him. He shook hands with Mistry, made eye contact, let him know that there should be nothing between them now.
‘Maybe I should leave you two to talk,’ said Mistry.
‘No,’ said Alyshia. ‘You’re part of this. We’re both going to listen.’
D’Cruz went to the window, peered through the blinds for a moment and turned to face them, hanging his head.
‘I realise I’ve done some great wrongs,’ said D’Cruz, with total solemnity. ‘Great wrongs. And the greatest of wrongs I have done have been to those closest to me. I am sorry. I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I would like to try to put some things right. I have decided to set up a charitable foundation to look after street children in Mumbai,’ he said, ignoring Alyshia’s raised eyebrow. ‘And I would like you to come back with me to Mumbai to run it. And if it would suit you, I would also like Deepak to be involved in some way.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve been talking to Mum.’
‘As you know, she is the centre of all goodness in my world. She has spoken and I have listened,’ said D’Cruz. ‘I have also decided to stop the escort agency and encourage Sharmila to work with the Mahale family’s AIDS awareness programme.’
They looked at him. He stood with his back to the window, held out his hands, palms upwards, the charisma streaming out towards them from his fingertips.
‘What?’ he said.
Driving Amy back to Mercy’s house in Streatham, Boxer found himself trying to work his way into this new idea of a relationship: not being a father.
‘I’m thinking of having a dinner tonight with Mum in an Iranian grill just off Edgware Road. I’d like you to come, if you’re up for it?’ he said, thinking how odd that sounded.
‘Yeah, that sounds good.’
‘I know you haven’t seen much of your friends while you’ve been staying with Esme, so if you want to see them first, that’s fine. I’ll tell you where the restaurant is and you can make your own way there. The place is nothing special, but the grilled meat is fantastic. It’s bring your own booze, too, so it’s cheap, cheerful and relaxed.’
‘OK, great,’ said Amy, nodding while texting Karen.
They arrived in Streatham. Amy took her case upstairs. Boxer joined Mercy in the kitchen. It struck him now, after that merciless conversation with his mother, just how sterile this house was. It was brightly painted, nicely furnished and very neat, but it didn’t feel lived in or welcoming. There wasn’t the usual crap around that he associated with family life. He realised with a pang that Mercy had never had a real home. Her father’s house had felt like a barracks while her own had something of an aparthotel about it.
‘What you looking at?’ asked Mercy.
‘Nothing,’ he said, taking a seat.
‘What’s the scene with Amy?’ she asked. ‘Her greeting was almost civil.’
‘A new strategy,’ said Boxer. ‘I’m pretending not to be her father.’
‘Is this some counselling from that great expert on family matters: the drunken hag?’
‘She wasn’t drunk, hasn’t been drunk, according to Amy.’
‘They’re in the same coven, those two,’ said Mercy. ‘How did I come out in the parental review?’
‘We both scored nought out of ten, but with mitigating circumstances,’ said Boxer. ‘Your brutal dad and my absent one.’
‘Right, so we’re just acting out the family scenarios we’re familiar with,’ said Mercy, sounding bored. ‘It’s easy looking down from the hallowed heights of Hampstead, but I can tell you it’s different down here in the mean streets of Streatham.’
‘Her theory is that you should treat her li
ke a young adult who’s staying with you.’
‘You mean I get rent?’
‘You’ll probably find she could pay off your mortgage.’
‘Is she coming tonight?’
‘I asked her and she’s accepted.’
‘We’re all so bloody grown up.’
They were upstairs in the Iranian grill. The chair Boxer had kept for Amy stood at the head of the table, empty. Occasionally Mercy glanced at it and then at Boxer, and shrugged. The chair remained like a silent rebuke. Except that, in his new role as ‘non-Dad’, he refused to allow it to develop into anything as powerful as a rebuke. He decided that she’d preferred the company of her friends. He wasn’t going to let it get to him. They ordered their food, drank the wine Boxer had brought. Mercy was looking festive. She had make-up on, which was rare, and the gold stud earrings he’d bought for her on one of his trips. She was wearing some multi-coloured African cloth, which she’d had cut into a mini-dress, with a shawl to match. Her foot nodded against his shin.
‘So,’ said Mercy, rolling up fresh herbs and yoghurt in flatbread, ‘what are you doing with yourself now that it’s all over?’
‘I’m preparing to move The LOST Foundation into some new offices near Marylebone High Street.’
‘And how much is that costing you a month, or are you working out of a shoebox?’
‘Zip,’ said Boxer. ‘And it’s two hundred square metres. A satisfied client let me have it.’
‘What it is to be in the private sector,’ said Mercy. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I meant. What I meant is: how’s it going with Isabel? Or should I say: how’s it going to go? Have you seen her since . . .?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Boxer, pouring more wine. ‘I’m giving her space to see if she wants to continue . . . the thing.’
‘Ah, yes, the thing,’ said Mercy.
‘You know how it is.’
‘Do I?’ said Mercy. ‘I haven’t had a thing in ages, although if I’d been as mad as you, I might have found myself having “a thing” with a crack dealer called Delroy Dread.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Yes,’ she said, putting her hands to her face, letting out a high-pitched giggle. ‘He flirted with me and I found myself flirting back. You should have seen the muscles on him.’
‘I think Skin had a thing for you, too,’ said Boxer, ‘playing footsie with you in the interview.’
‘Pity,’ said Mercy wistfully, ‘that my only admirers are drug dealers and murderers. Why’s it that only criminals think I’m hot? And what does that say about you?’
‘Me?’ said Boxer nervously, checking her for insight, but she was more occupied by her food.
‘What is it about bad guys?’ said Mercy, sipping her wine.
‘Perhaps they like a bit of strictness,’ said Boxer. ‘Anyway, what I meant was, now that Alyshia is safe—’
‘Oh yes, the gorgeous Isabel might feel very differently about her knight in shining armour.’
‘You did a lot more than I did to get Alyshia back.’
‘Thanks for the recognition from the private sector.’
‘No, Mercy, you did a great job.’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking at the empty chair, but not shrugging this time, seeing her failure sitting there. ‘There are things I’m good at.’
They drank more wine.
‘So,’ said Mercy, unable to leave it alone. ‘Isabel?’
‘Didn’t I say?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m in love with her.’
‘That might be difficult for you, Charles Boxer,’ said Mercy, hurt, his words slicing through her.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I’ve never wanted a woman more in my entire life than Isabel Marks. She . . . she’s . . . she’ll . . .’
‘She’s got all the right tenses, anyway,’ said Mercy, annoyed with herself for always hiding her feelings behind humour. ‘She must remind you of the mother you never had.’
‘When are you going to meet the father you never had?’
‘That’s our problem,’ said Mercy, grinning, reaching across to hold his hand. ‘If we hadn’t been such lost souls, we might have stayed together.’
He squeezed her hand, thinking: Jesus, Isabel was right. Mercy still hadn’t let him go. Was she living in hope? He looked at the chair again, as if that, in his mind, was all that was left of their relationship.
‘Shall I call her?’ asked Mercy.
But, despite the feeling of humiliation trembling at the outer limits of the hole in his chest, he wouldn’t let her.
Finally, just as the plate of lamb kebabs arrived, someone asked if they could take the chair. They nodded and saw it removed to a table where it was introduced into another family and was sat upon by a young girl, who turned and smiled at them. And they realised that all their parental expectations were tied up in that wretched chair.
They left the restaurant and went to hail taxis on Edgware Road, where the Lebanese men were sitting outside the cafés, huddled in their coats, smoking their hookahs. He put Mercy in a taxi heading south, crossed the road and took another heading north.
His mobile rang. Isabel. His heart leapt.
‘How’s Alyshia?’ he asked.
‘She’s fine. She’s recovering well. She’ll be out tomorrow. I’ve left her at the Bupa Cromwell with Deepak and I’m at home on my own. I’d like to see you. I think we should have a talk.’
He redirected the cab to Aubrey Walk, staring straight ahead, mouth set. He knew what ‘having a talk’ meant. Maybe Frank’s warning about him had finally brought Isabel to her senses and this was going to be the brush-off. He felt sure she would have the lightest of touches, but it wouldn’t make any difference to the hole expanding in his chest after two rejections in one night.
He paid the cabbie, made his way past the fake Georgian façade to her door, feeling the emptiness now, both inside and out. He rang the bell.
She opened the door for him and he knew instantly that everything was going to be all right. There was no hesitation. She opened her arms and he walked into them, heard her gasp in his ear as he held her to him and kissed her neck.
They sat with the bottle of scotch and the ice tray, their hands threaded across the kitchen table, smiling, on the brink of laughing.
‘How’s it going between Alyshia and Deepak?’
‘I don’t ask. He’s still here. They talk,’ said Isabel.
‘And Frank?’
‘I think she was struck by his remorse and surprised by his magnanimity, but under no illusions about his capacity for change,’ said Isabel. ‘What about Amy?’
‘I’m trying a new approach and it seemed to work at first, but now I realise it hasn’t. Not for her, but for me.’
His phone rang, he checked the screen.
‘Mercy,’ said Boxer. ‘She’d only call if it was important. I’ll have to take it.’
He listened, blinked, said nothing, dropped the phone, looked to the window, where he saw through their cheerful reflection to the darkness beyond.
‘What is it?’ asked Isabel.
‘Amy’s gone,’ said Boxer. ‘She left a note on her bed. The last line was:
“YOU WILL NEVER FIND ME.”’
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank everybody who helped me with this book especially my old school friend, Robin Clifford, who introduced me to a number of people working in the private security company industry. Those I spoke to have asked to remain anonymous. What I can say is that, to a man, they were extremely impressive people with what struck me as an unimpeachable moral centre, unlike a number of characters in this novel.
My thanks, too, to my old friend Steve Wright, who reported to me a conversation he’d had with his then six year old son, Calum. This was introduced into the mulch of my cerebral composter and ten years later got worked into some barren patch where it has produced this fruit.
There is no such thing as an unedited book. This one went through qu
ite a few processes even before it saw the light of day. When it did finally come out into the open I was grateful to have Andrew Kidd on hand to give me some very valuable editorial notes. Most of these I incorporated into the text prior to the novel being submitted, which undoubtedly affected its positive reception.
There are days when writing can seem like the most exquisite torture ever conceived by the devil himself. Hours of writhing on a skewer of your own invention to produce a few droplets of sweat, which fall to the page and blur the four words you’ve managed to wring out of your severely gnawed pen, can seem like a terrible way to earn a living. On the other hand, hitting the vein and getting a gusher, with the brain motoring faster than the ink flows and the stack of blank pages falling visibly as they’re filled with wild imaginings, can make it all feel worthwhile. I have paid rare visits to these extremes while spending most of my time in the ground in between and I can tell you that the one thing I’m deeply grateful for is not to be doing it alone. I would therefore like to thank my wife, Jane, for cajoling me back to sanity while I’m writing, for her infinite patience and perceptions in the editing process, for the endless shoring up of the edifice once the work has gone and for her love, which I value above all else and return with all my heart.
About the Author
Robert Wilson has previously worked as an archeological tour guide in Crete, a shipbroker and copywriter in London, an exporter of bathrooms from Portugal to Nigeria, and as the MD of a sheanut gathering operation in West Africa. He writes from an isolated farmhouse in the Alentejo region of Portugal where he has completed ten acclaimed crime novels including the CWA Gold Dagger winner, A Small Death in Lisbon.
www.robert-wilson.eu
Also by Robert Wilson
The Ignorance of Blood
The Hidden Assassins