Payback, Page 4

  But before she could finish, Frank snapped back at her. “She was my daughter, Karla. I’ve got the right to know why she killed herself.”

  Feeling like she’d been slapped, she sat back in her seat and took a deep breath.

  Why was he taking his feelings out on her this way? All she’d try to do was help him.

  Finishing his coffee with a quick gulp, he punctuated his next words with stabs of the cup. “He may have more bloody money than me. Have a bloody flash house and car. But she was my daughter, not his! He’s got no right to hide things from me this way.”

  Karla felt her eyes widen as Frank’s words bombarded her. She hadn’t seen him act this way before, and it frightened her. His face was so alive with emotions, reddened. His breath coming in short grunts. She was afraid to speak in case it made matters worse.

  Frank finally seemed to get a grip of himself, replacing his cup on the saucer with a tight, embarrassed laugh. “Sorry. I guess all this has got to me much more than I thought. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you like this. Forgive me. Please?”

  Karla nodded, aware that his temper hadn’t gone away, that it still simmered just below the surface.

  “Why don’t you go up to bed,” he said, “I’ll stay here and have another coffee. I need to make a few calls anyway.”

  “No, it’s okay, I’ll stay and keep you company. You shouldn’t be on your own right now.”

  “I said I need to make a phone call,” he repeated in a tight voice.

  Frank’s tone left her little choice, so picking up her handbag, Karla walked from the lounge without a word.

  Back in the hotel room she sat on the edge of the bed and thought hard. Finally she opened the bedside cabinet and took out a sheet of paper and a pen. Then, with an impatient flick of her hair behind one ear, she pursed her lips, bent over the paper and began to write.

  *

  Frank’s black mood had lifted, which made him feel a little better. So, after finishing a second cup of coffee, he decided it was time to build some bridges with Karla. From the way she’d left, it was obvious that she hadn’t believed his flimsy excuse of staying to make a phone call.

  The soft carpet muffled his footsteps on the walk down the long corridor to the hotel room, bringing back memories of his recent visit to Mandy’s bedroom. Swiping the electronic lock open, he pushed back the door, plastering a big smile across his face. It quickly faded when he found that the room was empty.

  His A mobile was sat on the bedside cabinet!

  Damn it. He’d left it charging when they’d gone down to the lounge. See where lying gets you, Frankie boy? She must have thought you a right moron when she spotted it.

  Assuming that Karla had gone downstairs to look for him, Frank sat on the bed, rubbing his face. He had some real apologising to do. He’d been really out-of-order loosing his temper the way he had. Swinging his feet up and laying back on the pillows, hands behind his head, he pondered what the hell Marcia and her husband were trying to hide from him.

  Then a sudden thought struck him, and he jerked upright, scrambling off the bed in his haste to reach the closet beside the en-suite. Karla had hung their things there when she’d unpacked, but now only his clothes were hanging on the rail.

  It wasn’t until he’d taken a more careful look around the room that he spotted the note draped across the top of the TV. Picking it up he began to read.

  Karla had written, that in the circumstances, she thought it best to get the next flight back to Scotland on her own. There were more words, but he couldn’t make them out through the tears that blurred his vision.

  Crumpling the hastily written note in his fist, Frank tossed it across the room, his mind suffused with a sudden coldness.

  “Well fuck you too. You bitch!” he muttered.

  Crossing to the small fridge, he pulled out a miniature whisky bottle, and with a final, “Fuck you!” sat back on the bed, flicking between TV stations, unable to concentrate on any one programme for more than a few minutes.

  Having drained the small whiskey bottle, he went back to the mini-bar for another.

  Much later, Frank tried ringing Karla, but she’d switched her mobile off, so he left a message to contact him urgently. Then, in need of a proper drink, he left the hotel and caught a taxi to the West End, asking the cab driver to drop him off at a club that didn’t need a membership.

  The taxi dropped Frank at a Greek club off Regent’s Street, and he made his way down some stone steps to a large restaurant under the pavement. It was hot and loud, and as he entered, a dark-haired, slightly tubby girl, was belly-dancing her way around the long tables. Two waiters were sweeping the remnants of broken crockery from the floor, ready for the next round of plate smashing.

  Pushing between long tables, which were mostly full of men cheering on the dancer, Frank found himself a small table tucked away at the back of the room. Most of the customers seemed to be eating humus and finger-food from dishes scattered across the table tops, so he decided to order the same, along with a bottle of house red and some sandwiches. Settling down to enjoy the show, he slipped a ten pound note into the dancer’s waist-band as she writhed in front of him.

  As Frank sipped his wine, the club’s atmosphere began to bring back memories of nights he’d spent at the Nite-Lite. It had been different there of course, the dances more tasteless and seedy. This dancer seemed to take a great delight in entertaining the crowd, and was far better than the striptease girls his old boss had employed - with their unfulfilled sexual promises that never materialised.

  Second bottle of wine almost empty, Frank wondered whether to order another or go back to the hotel. Feeling a bit light-headed, he caught the arm of a passing waiter and ordered a pile of plates. Smashing them on the floor brought a wave of freedom, and for the first time since the funeral, he began to relax.

  A few hours later, while searching through his wallet to pay the bill, Frank spotted the small SIM card tucked away in front of his credit cards. Pausing, three twenty pound notes half-extracted, he sat back down and tucked them away again. Then holding the card at opposite corners between thumb and forefinger, he twirled it round and round.

  Frank didn’t know an awful lot about mobiles and wondered if it would fit in his own phone. Only one way to find out. Prying open the back cover, he replaced his SIM with the one he’d found in Mandy’s drawer. A surge of excitement had him sitting forward when he turned the mobile back on and he was able to access Mandy’s numbers.

  The list was long - mainly girl’s names.

  Probably school-friends.

  Frank ran down the contacts but none stood out, and his initial excitement began to fade.

  Life was never that easy.

  How often had he said that to himself during his years in prison?

  Pouring himself another drink, Frank picked up the mobile and looked through the menus until he found the Call Log. It showed two people whom Mandy had constantly been in contact with during the weeks before her suicide. One was a girl called Rachael - the other a boy named Gary.

  Satisfied, Frank finished his wine with a flourish, dropped sixty pounds on the table and headed back to the hotel.

  *

  Karla sank back in the taxi seat and sighed, wondering whether she was doing the right thing. Before leaving the hotel, she’d called Marcia, and now she stared into the black night, bottom lip clamped between her teeth as the indecision flooded through her. What had possessed her to make such a call? It could only have been desperation. Without asking, Marcia had seemed to understand why Karla was ringing her and brushed off her apologies, quickly inviting her over.

  Paying off the taxi, Karla turned towards the house, wondering if she really wanted to learn the truth about the man she loved so deeply.

  Yes, she did, very very much.

  Straightening her shoulders and taking a deep reviving breath, she headed towards the front door. This was the moment of truth - the moment she found out why Frank wouldn’t
commit to their relationship, such as it was.

  But nearing the door, Karla abruptly stopped, stomach churning with dread. No she couldn’t do this.

  She turned, about to hail the taxi before it drove off again – when the path was flooded with light from the opening front door.

  Chapter 7

  The morning was cool and overcast. Frank ate his breakfast beside a large window overlooking the hotel garden. He was depressed, deflated and lonely. Karla had gone back to Scotland and wouldn’t return his calls, and he’d slept very badly, tossing and turning all night, disturbed by vivid dreams.

  Crunching his way through a slice of toast, he tried to push the memories away, but they kept forcing themselves back - drawing him along corridors that echoed with hollow footsteps into a green painted room where conversations were anything but private.

  Marcia had dumped him there - amongst the families, rowdy children and sticky-topped tables - cutting him out of her life forever. The memories were still fresh, as though they’d happened only yesterday, and they still hurt.

  Now his daughter had done the same thing, sending him a letter full of hate. And then . . . then committing the final, irreversible act of rejection. She had killed herself.

  Why was everyone in his life so keen to dismiss him this way? Why did they all want to hurt him? Even Karla was slowly but surely trying to cut herself off. What had he done that was so terrible?

  Dropping the remains of the toast crust onto his plate, Frank lowered his head, determined not to lose it here in front of everyone. He would come to terms with his rage, as he had in the past - if for no other reason than he knew exactly what he’d done and that he’d have to live with the consequences for the rest of his life.

  Determined to push such soul destroying thoughts aside, Frank turned to the window. A grey squirrel ran its jerky way across the thin offshoots at the tip of an oak tree on the far side of the garden, almost falling as it swayed back and forth in its eagerness to reach the next branch. He smiled, thinking that his own life was reflected in the squirrel’s desperate attempts to reach a new place - that his own cover of lies and half-truths would be too thin to carry the weight of disappointment Karla was bound to feel if she ever found out the truth.

  His fleeting smile disappeared, replaced by a grimace. He’d been to this place before and had worked his way through it - many many times - and he would do it this time. All he needed to do was find out why Mandy had killed herself, then he could get his life back on track, rid himself of this guilt that blackened every thought, every action.

  Frank didn’t - couldn’t - wouldn’t - believe that Mandy had committed such an act just because she’d found out what he’d done all those years ago.

  In his nightmare last night, Mandy had come to him, called from the end of a long tunnel, voice child-like and innocent as it echoed along the twisted walls. He’d run towards her, but no matter how hard he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to reach her. For every step he took, she’d retreated two, and he’d been forced to watch her move farther away, growing smaller, arms outstretched, begging him to save her.

  Frank had woken in a sweat, sitting bolt upright in bed, heart hammering, Mandy’s cries still echoing in his ears. Fighting down disgust and fear, he’d tried to drive that last dreadful scene from his mind - the image of her body exploding into a bloody mess as the train slammed straight through it, her entrails splattering his body.

  As Frank staggered from the bed, he unconsciously brushed at his chest, trying to dislodge a nightmare that existed only in his mind. The next twenty minutes were spent repeatedly scrubbing himself under a hot shower.

  Ordering another coffee from the waiter, Frank sipped the hot liquid, deep in thought, until finally deciding what his next move should be. Pulling out his mobile, he tapped at the keys with a renewed vigour.

  “Hello is that Rachael?” he said when the call connected.

  “Who’s this?” The girl’s tone was diffident, wary.

  “Sorry to call you out of the blue like this, but I’m Mandy’s father - her real father that is. I was wondering if we could meet after you finish school today? I’d like to talk to you about Mandy. Somewhere public if you prefer. And if it would make you feel any easier, you could always bring a friend.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “From Mandy’s mobile.”

  The girl’s voice took on a suspicious edge. “She didn’t have a mobile. She broke the screen and was waiting for it to be repaired.”

  The line went dead.

  Frank swore quietly, lowering his hand to the table, fingers whitening where they clutched the mobile so tightly. Eyes closing, he wondered why everything suddenly seemed to be going so wrong in his life - why he was being dogged by his own private little cloud of doom.

  After finishing the coffee, he sent Rachael a text explaining that he’d found Mandy’s SIM card in her bedroom, and that all he was trying to do, was find out why she might have killed herself.

  Five minutes later his mobile bleeped. It was a message from Rachael - short and to the point.

  3 at KTs caf.

  Letting out a long sigh, Frank smiled. At last things were starting to go right.

  About bloody time!

  *

  Karla luxuriated under the water pounding her back, the hot needles easing the tension from her shoulders. She hadn’t slept well, her mind constantly rehashing the conversation she’d had with Marcia.

  What was she to make of what she’d learnt?

  Marcia had been extremely open about her and Frank’s breakup, and the reasons why she hadn’t let their daughter have any contact with him for all these years.

  Too open in some ways, because what Marcia had shared had shaken Karla to her very core - leaving her cold and numb.

  Karla had been surprised when Marcia had invited her over, but surmised that the woman probably felt as guilty about her daughter’s death as Frank did, and needed somebody to talk to. It never entered her head to question why that task had fallen to Karla and not the woman’s husband.

  Marcia had welcomed her with a smile, leading the way into a large, comfortable kitchen, where they sat at a table and made small talk - how good the weather was this summer, how the price of petrol was hitting the country’s recovery, all the inconsequential tittle-tattle strangers used when they first meet.

  They were still wary of each other and the conversation was strained. Until Marcia unexpectedly blurted out, “Do you love him?”

  It took Karla a moment to recover, then she nodded.

  Marcia gave her own stiff little nod and Karla suddenly realised that for all the years that had passed, this woman still nursed deep feelings for Frank.

  “He’s a bit of a charmer, isn’t he?” Marcia said. “But be careful, things happened to him in prison that changed him. And not for the better either.”

  Karla felt a jolt straighten her spine and her brows lower into a tight frown. “Prison?” she said.

  “You didn’t know?” Marcia’s wide eyes reflected her surprise . “Oh damn, I’m so sorry Karla. I just assumed —”

  “Are you telling me that Frank was in prison?”

  Marcia nodded, her embarrassment obvious.

  “Why? What did he do?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. Look I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ask him about that.”

  “But you can’t just leave me hanging like this!”

  “And I can’t tell you either,” Marcia said, her gaze fixed on the floor.

  “Was it for something serious? At least tell me that.”

  Marcia shrugged. “If it helps at all, he claimed he was innocent, that he’d been set up by his boss.”

  Karla felt as though she’d been plunged into a bath of iced water, hardly able to breathe, even think. She sat and stared at the wall for a long moment, then grasped at the little hope Marcia had given her.

  “Well if he says he’s innocent, then I believe him,” she
said. “Whatever else Frank is, he’s no liar.”

  Marcia’s gaze hardened. “I suppose so, but they all say that, don’t they. Show me one guilty prisoner!”

  Karla didn’t miss the bitterness in Marcia’s voice and finally had to accept that even if this woman did believe in Frank’s innocence, she wasn’t going to admit it - to herself or anybody else. If she truly believed that her daughter had committed suicide because Frank had ended up in prison, she wouldn’t be able to face the fact that it had all been a terrible mistake - that Frank may well have been innocent all along.

  They studied each other for a long moment, both ill at ease, while Karla desperately tried to think of something to say.

  “Is he happy?” Marcia asked, catching Karla off-guard.

  “Sorry?”

  “I don’t mean right now, of course. But before he heard about Mandy. Was he happy?”

  Features softening, Karla leant forward, touching her fingertips to the back of Marcia’s hand.

  “Yes, I think so. He’s made a new life for himself up in Scotland. He started his own courier service a few years ago.”

  “And you - are you living together?”

  Karla felt her face flush and shook her head. “No.”

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He must love you very much.”

  “Well if he does, I’m afraid he hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.”

  “He will. Give it time.”

  “Can I ask you something personal?”

  Marcia nodded and withdrew her hand, her gaze hooded, as though she knew what might be coming.

  “Why don’t you believe Frank when he says he was innocent?”

  Marcia stood, crossing to a kitchen cupboard. She came back with two glasses and a bottle of port.

  “It’s all I’ve got I’m afraid. Would you like one?” she asked.

  Karla didn’t feel like drinking but said yes, in the hope that it would keep the conversation flowing. Marcia removed the cork with a squeak that emphasised the quietness in the room, then poured them both a drink.

  Karla became aware of the rich scent drifting up from her glass and took a sip as she waited for Marcia to answer her question. Well?” she finally prompted, discomfited by the extended silence.