Chapter Seven

1

SAN FRANCISCO

Jack had the awful feeling he was marking time. He hadn’t been in America for even twenty four hours but he couldn’t get away from the sense that he should be moving on; that what he was looking for wasn’t here. He’d already spent a lot of hours going over finances with David Eden and a local solicitor. That was all proceeding nicely, he’d signed his name to various different things, but this wasn’t what he was here for. The only thing stopping him leaving was the secondary premonition that the clue he needed was in San Francisco, if not the actual goal of his journey.

He laughed at himself; at how quickly he’d started taking this quest for his destiny seriously. His banal side told him he was only trying to distract himself from the fact that he was a killer; that he was a liar; that his travels were really an escape from the forces trying to track him down. But as he was starting to do with increasing proficiency, he ignored it.

Robert Catholic’s house in Beverly Hills was full.

There were dozens of people; maybe a hundred or more; all of them invited to come and view the estate of this great man it appeared that many had loved. Jack wandered through the rooms anonymously. He let himself drift, glancing at the items that were waiting to be auctioned: memorabilia from a long life shooting films here in America and abroad. Jack had done a bit of research. His uncle’s films had become synonymous with exotic locations, with cameras going far into territory rarely trod by others. Jack had watched a couple of them in the middle of the night when the jet lag had started to do strange things: a mix of genres and moods but always that gritty look and long wide shots of open plains and places that made him think of wildlife documentaries.

All the mementos from that time, from old props he had kept to original typewritten scripts, were going to be sold. The crowds were full of collectors and nameless dealers, but there were many famous people there too, celebrities, working their way past each item. It was more than a car boot sale... so much more. These people – not all of them, but most it seemed – had really known Robert Catholic, and here in his magnificent house, they were meeting not just to look at the material reminders of everything he had done, but to celebrate what he had meant to them. The air was filled with anecdotal tales about his indiscretions and practical jokes as well as stories of his kindness and gentility.

As Jack wandered through the crowds – not one of them it seemed, knowing that it was he now that owned all this grandeur – the sensations that came over him created a painting of this man he had never met. Robert Catholic wasn’t a perfect soul, but he was good and he was human, and he was loved... and that humanity, with every imperfection in the tales Jack heard, became perfect somehow in another way. It seemed, in those packed sunlit rooms that there was hope for the way people really were; that the flaws in their characters didn’t matter.

David Eden had been standing near the door, greeting people as they entered and sharing their experiences and their condolences. Everybody knew how close Robert had been to him. Now he was standing up on the balcony of stairs that rose from the centre of the huge lounge; just looking down on them all and smiling. Jack was the only one who noticed him. Eden saw that Jack was watching and winked. Once again he reminded Jack of Dominic and he felt a change in his demeanour. Something shifted in his heart, closing him off from what was going on. He smiled back at Eden before he turned away and made his way out onto the veranda at the front of the house.

It was nice outside; there was so much greenery. The climate here was very different from that of England but it was still spring and the flowers were blooming. He’d never seen so many. He wandered down the steps and toward the front of the grounds.

Down by the gates the upper class equivalent of bouncers were keeping sightseers away as well as the majority of the press. There weren’t a lot of reporters down there. Most of the buyers were inside now and a lot of them had already drifted away.

Jack got to the gates. He nodded at the tallest guard then slipped through and out onto the pavement. It was more peaceful down there. At that precise moment there weren’t any cars at all. He looked right, frowning. Someone was making a commotion.

A reporter was hassling a young woman in a summer dress and boots. She was telling him to get lost and trying to push his camera away but he was pressing her, shoving a hand-held recorder in her face. He wouldn’t let her get away from him. It was horrible to watch.

Jack started moving toward them.

2

The reporter wouldn’t stop pressing his recorder into Molly’s face, wrinkling his pig nose up as he pushed his head into her space. She shouldn’t have come; she realised that now. She was an idiot to think she could have made it through the whole ordeal without being recognised.

“Why are you here at your father’s house sale Ms Butler? Isn’t it true Robert Catholic disowned you and cut you out of his will? How do you feel to see all his money go to someone you don’t even know?”

She pushed all her strength into his shoulder. “Leave me alone!”

He thrust in again, dangerously close to her face. “What’s your reaction to the news that your mother may be going bankrupt?”

“I don’t care!”

She tried to walk away but he came after her, his recorder up at the side of her face, but someone grabbed him, pulling him short. Molly stopped and turned. A man was there, blond and muscular; attractive: holding the reporter’s coat. “Leave her alone. Can’t you tell she finds you irritating?” He had an English accent that came out as jarring until she recognised it; then she found herself liking it.

The reporter looked unbalanced for a second. The blond man folded his arms across his chest. He was wearing jeans and a collarless white shirt. He looked like the result of the homosexual affair between Michael Angelo’s David and Adonis. He glanced at her and she smiled. He winked back.

“Wait a minute...” The reporter regained his composure and lifted his recorder into the man’s face. “You’re Jack Catholic aren’t you? I saw the pictures of you arriving at the house last night. You’re the Englishman who’s inherited everything.”

Molly stared at him. The burst of hatred came that she had meant to feel, that she had come here for, but it didn’t feel right now; it didn’t feel real. There had been so much build-up to this moment and now she was here, she wasn’t prepared. She wasn’t ready to experience the emotions she had planned to when she saw him.

3

“How are you going to spend the Catholic billions?” said the reporter, stepping into Jack’s space, forcing him to move backwards.

“Er, I don’t know,” he stammered, off-balance himself now.

“What does it feel like to be rich?”

Jack glanced at the girl then back to the reporter. The reporter followed his gaze with his next question. “How well are you acquainted with Molly Butler? Are you aware that she is your uncle’s daughter? That she should have been the one to inherit the money instead of you?”

Jack stepped back further, confused. He hadn’t realised there had been a daughter as such. He hadn’t considered the eventuality of meeting her. She was beautiful but there was a change now in her expression from the one she had worn when he interceded on her behalf. She looked angry, but there was something else in her expression. She was staring straight at him.

“Are you aware that she has stated she disagrees in your uncle’s choice to leave the money to you; that she believes she should have had it?”

The reporter pushed the recorder right up to his mouth. Jack felt a tree come up against his back. He grabbed the machine right out of the reporter’s hand and pushed him away. Jack’s eyes were tiny and black. He held the Dictaphone at arm’s length, his other hand on the reporter’s shoulder, then calmly, he said, “I’m not going to answer any of your questions and neither is Ms Butler. You might as well leave us alone right now.”

He was at least a head taller than the reporter. There was fear in the little man’s expression, wiping out the cockiness, then the cockiness returned and the reporter snatched back his recorder and walked away.

Jack turned back to the woman. She was about ten feet away from him, watching his face. Her expression was still mask-like; he didn’t have words for what he read there. She frowned, turning her body half away from him.

“There,” said Jack, “we’re free again.”

“Great,” she replied, her voice sarcastic and low. “Thanks a lot.”

He sighed very quietly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

She started to move away.

“He was crazy,” said Jack.

Molly paused and smiled briefly. “Yeah.”

“Absolutely insane.”

She smiled again but it seemed forced. He stepped closer. “Don’t bother,” she said, moving further away. “Thanks a lot for saving me back there but basically I don’t really want to get to know you… Sorry.”

He stopped where he was, startled.

“He was right, by the way,” she said. “I do think my father was wrong to give you the money. It should have belonged to me and my brother.” She looked very sad suddenly but resentful that he was seeing it.

“I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. Maybe you’re right.”

She looked down at the grass at her feet. “But I’m not really,” she replied. “Because I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve a cent of his money.”

“Why not?” asked Jack.

“Because I’m responsible,” she said, turning away. “I’m responsible for what happened to him. For his death.”

She walked away under the trees. Jack stepped one or two paces after her, but that was all.

4

Sam showed the fake passport at the checkpoint in San Francisco airport and smiled warmly at the lady who examined it. For a moment his right eye watered and flickered but he winced it away before she looked up.

Dozens and dozens of people thronged around him. The lady squinted at the picture, matching the side parting, beard and glasses to his own. She frowned. The name on the passport was George Barnardo; the beard was fake; he didn’t need the glasses; the hairstyle was different from the normal slick off his forehead.

He reran the worst case contingency plan through his mind. Now he was in San Francisco he was in a better position than he would have been if there was a problem in London but the airport was unknown and there were more armed guards. He wouldn’t have to hurt her. It would be unproductive and slow him down if anything. He glanced at the corridor past her booth toward the exit then back to her face. He smiled again. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes sir,” she replied, handing it back over. “Enjoy your stay.”

Sam beamed at her without registering his relief visibly then passed on through, sneering inside at her irritating accent.

This was another country now. The rules were new and despite profound similarities, he was in a weaker position in many ways though stronger in some. He was unknown and untraceable here, but he didn’t have the gun. He headed for the outer doors and a taxi cab, resenting the armed guards and the metal detectors.

There was grease on the inside of the taxi’s windows. The back seat was covered in a crumpled paisley blanket that didn’t finish masking the vomit reek. The driver craned round in his seat but Sam didn’t make eye contact. He gave the address of Jack’s uncle’s house and folded his hands, keeping his gaze down on the criss-cross of his fingers in his lap.

5

LONDON

“Come on General,” said Anna, “it’s time for bed.” She pulled the covers up to her son’s chin, his arms tucked underneath it, and brushed his fringe to the side.

“I don’t wanna go to sleep.”

“Well you have to. Come on, that’s a good boy.” She lent close and kissed his forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Can Daddy tuck me in too?”

“We’ll see.” She switched off the light and left him to doze off.

Greg was in the kitchen when she found him setting two cups of coffee on a tray next to a plate of biscuits. “Got some wake-up juice for you here to keep your energy up while you’re working,” he said. “Unless…” He touched the neck of a bottle of white wine on the worktop. “… you fancy a night of relaxation.”

Anna pecked his cheek. “How about half a bottle of wine and some tender love making then I work after you’ve gone to bed?”

“Sounds good to me.” Greg put the coffee aside and reached for a pair of glasses from the cupboard.

The two of them settled into the lounge. Anna turned the lights down and lit the flame-effect fire while Greg poured. Slumped on the sofa, knees tucked under her, leaning against him, she realised how edgy she’d been. With the first sip of wine the tension came up in a sigh that locked her muscles then relaxed them. This felt good; it was what she needed.

“You all right?” asked Greg.

“Yeah, I guess so; just tired. I’ve been going through Sam’s things from work, trying to get some ideas on what his movements might be; where he could have planned to go. I feel like I’m under a lot of pressure. For all I know he’s already left the country.”

Greg drank his wine silently.

“Are you okay?” asked Anna.

“I’m just thinking.”

“What about?”

Greg shifted, uncomfortable. Anna straightened up, taking the weight of her body off him so he could move freely. “Do you still have… feelings for him?”

“Sam?”

“Yes.”

Anna laughed, then when she saw Greg’s expression she laughed even harder, covering her mouth with the back of her fingers. “I’m sorry.” She tried to stop but she couldn’t. “No. Not at all.”

Greg was obviously off balance. “Are you sure?”

The laughter subsided to be replaced with something a lot darker. “Of course. I hate the man.”

“Okay.”

Greg drank some more of his wine but there was an atmosphere between them. He was holding back from speaking.

“What’s the matter darling?” asked Anna.

“You’ve never spoken much about him and I’ve never asked. I didn’t want to pry. It seemed like a part of your life you didn’t want to talk about. But…”

Anna put her hand on his knee. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just that… You married him and… you don’t seem to want to marry me.”

Anna stared at him blankly; then she started to laugh again. She threw her head back and bellowed it out, then she doubled forward, reaching to steady herself on Greg’s arm. He just looked at her, puzzled and slightly put out.

“Course I haven’t said I’ll marry you, you idiot,” said Anna. “You have to ask me first!” She continued to laugh.

Greg’s puzzled expression became a tentative smile. “Oh; right. Sorry.”

“You can be so dumb.” Anna squeezed his cheeks in her hands. “But that’s why I love you. The reason I don’t talk about what happened between me and Sam isn’t because I still care about him. I hate that bastard!”

Greg poured a second glass of wine. “Why? What did he do?”

Anna stopped laughing, her expression turning serious. “You really want to know?”

Greg shrugged. “Yeah. I do. If this guy’s as nasty as you say he is, I don’t understand how he managed to hide it from everyone for so long. And why would you marry him in the first place?”

“All right,” said Anna, standing up and walking over to the fireplace with her newly filled wineglass. “I’ll tell you everything.”

6

“I think I fell in love with Sam Decker the first time I met him,” said Anna. “I don’t care how big a cliché that is; it’s true.

She saw the deflation in Greg’s face and touched him gently. “Don’t worry love. That’s the last emotion I would feel for him now.

“This was seven years ago. I’d only just moved to London from Shropshire and I was still in the starry-eye stage about living in the capital. It was the opposite of Shrewsbury: heavy traffic, speed and bustle, people closed off but full of energy and purpose. I loved it.

“Sam was my first partner when I started with Tower Insurance. I’d worked for a little company before. Part of my job back there was to investigate potentially dodgy claims to see if there was any fraud going on but it was a minor part. There wasn’t a lot of big-time insurance fraud going on in Shropshire, believe it or not. Working for Tower, that became the whole of my job and I really enjoyed it. Like being a private detective but with job security.

“My first impression of Sam was that he was an old fashioned gentleman: polite, complimentary, sincere. He was thirty; clean cut, polished shoes, pressed trousers, waistcoat. He was clean shaven, his hair was slicked back, he wore cufflinks and a very expensive watch; a tie pin. None of his clothes were off the rack. Very neat, but it went deeper than first impressions. Everything about him said patience and care. He had obviously worked very hard to create a certain image and I responded to that. It didn’t hurt that he was good looking too.

“Now I’m only saying all this so you can get the complete picture, I don’t want to hide anything from you, and it’s important to get the contrast between how he appeared on the surface and what was underneath when I finally found out.

“I worked with Sam for a year and a half. He taught me how to deal with clients and witnesses, the best ways to set up surveillance or a tail, how to gather evidence in such a way that it doesn’t break down in court. It was great; and watching him work: that was amazing. Not a word came out of his lips that wasn’t perfect. He never lost his temper, never lost control of a situation. If he was questioning a client we suspected of falsifying a claim he knew exactly how to apply slow careful pressure so as to catch them in a lie. And he was athletic; no fat on him anywhere: sort of like a super investigator; a marvel to watch.

“And he was funny, really hilarious and gentle and thoughtful. He remembered everything we talked about; could refer back to conversations we’d had months before; not like some people, you know? He seemed to really care about what I told him. I really liked coming in to work, and we socialised a lot outside of work too, a lot of the time with Mike, the guy who became his partner after me and his then girlfriend, Elaine.

“Slowly I started to admit to myself that I was falling for him; big time.

“I didn’t plan to, obviously. I didn’t want to. Everyone knows that office romances are a bad idea, but I couldn’t help it. The reason it went on for so long before we finally got together was because I was trying so hard to resist his charms.

 “We made the connection one night after we had closed a case that saved the company an awful lot of money. It was high profile and was going to get us a lot of nods in the hall from high up people. We felt great. We stopped at his place because it was close and ate Chinese food we’d picked up and before I had chance to remember I didn’t want to fool around with a colleague we were kissing. Then we were in bed together.

Greg shuffled uncomfortably again. Anna felt sorry that she was saying this but didn’t stop to comfort him. She had to go on now that she had started.

“We saw one another for about three months before he proposed and all that time he still never put a foot wrong. He was charming and witty and he thought I was beautiful. I was convinced I was in love. When he asked me to marry him I said ‘yes.’ He wanted it quick and quiet: just a couple of friends and my parents; his sister Lucy. I went along with it. Everything was perfect.

“Then two days before the wedding I asked him about his parents. I’d been under the impression they were dead – he’d told me so – but when I met Lucy she made reference to them still being alive so I asked him about it. I was sure I had just misunderstood. It was a totally innocent question.

“But he became distant. He closed up; the charm vanished; his face changed. I don’t know how to describe it. It was like another man were looking out through his eyes, a man I didn’t know. His responses became short and hostile. I wasn’t trying to grill him but I was curious and he seemed to be hiding something. I couldn’t help trying to probe further. Then all of a sudden he changed again, becoming jovial, making out that he’d been joking, that I had misunderstood after all. Yes, his parents were still alive but they were going to be out of town when we were getting married and he didn’t see them very often anymore.

“It was queer and definitely my first warning there was something nasty under his surface, but like I said, he returned to normal, just as charming and kind as ever. After knowing him for so long it didn’t give me a big enough reason to doubt him.

“We got married two days later and went on honeymoon.”

Anna paused, smoothed her hair back from her brow then continued.

“Married life was an extension of the romance before; but slowly I started to get further glimpses into the man behind the façade that Sam perpetually held up.

“We weren’t partners anymore by this time but I saw a lot of him in the evenings and at weekends. The more time that passed, the more it started to seem as though he were under strain: just little clues; moments of weakness. We might have a tiff and the façade would drop again or he’d show a glimpse of himself when he was angry at something else. The charm he had always had around me diminished. It was still there around others or at work but the contrast I was getting at home allowed me to see just how odd his social behaviour was, how false. Then things like his attention to detail and efficiency started to grate with me. He was falling out of favour, slowly but steadily, and things that attracted him to me in the past started to become irritations. Calm and deliberate were transformed into cold and uncaring.

“And I started to tell him how I felt.

“At first he seemed genuinely hurt by the things I’d said, as though he didn’t recognise the changes that had come over him, but that inflamed me more because they weren’t changes. I had realised that this was the real Sam that he had only been hiding all along.

“Then his responses became more aggressive. He still kept his emotions tightly constrained but he didn’t hide the coldness anymore. He had the same blank soulless expression when he looked at me as he did when he examined evidence or catalogued files.

“I’d seen enough. I told him I wanted him gone; he had to move out. I didn’t want to see him again, ever. And he finally showed me exactly what he looked like under the mask.

“He hurt me. And then he… raped me. On our bed; like he had the right to. Then he left.

“I should have talked to the police but I didn’t. Right now I don’t have any clue what made me hold off. I should have. I didn’t tell anybody until you today. You’re the first person. But I did everything in my power to stop Sam working for Tower. I told people what he was really like, that his entire personality was an act, but his façade was too perfect.

“I heard him talking to a couple of the secretaries about me one lunch time in the staff room: nasty things he had invented about me. I heard him through the wall. He was crying crocodile tears and they all believed him. Everyone believed his side of the story. I got a reputation as a cold-hearted bitch around the office. I came this close to losing my own job. I would have if I hadn’t stopped saying bad things about him.

“It wasn’t long after that I met you and we moved in together. I tried to put it out of my mind. And being with you, and finally having Billy to raise, I realised it didn’t matter about Sam Decker. I was going to be happy to spite him.”

Greg nodded solemnly.

“I should have stopped working there,” said Anna, “found a new job. But I was going to be damned before I let him chase me away. I stayed just to piss him off; to let him know that at least one person knew what kind of sociopath he really was.

“And so he knew that when he finally messed up, I would be there to bring him down.”

7

Molly opened the front door on the early evening, but when she saw who was there the veins in her cheeks swelled as blood rushed up to fill them. She dropped her head to hide it, looked up again; down; and then she made eye contact with him; with Jack Catholic.

He actually looked beautiful in a way she had only rarely seen anywhere except in a woman. But he was masculine; that was absolutely definite, standing taller than her and with the enormous width of his chest and shoulders. He was smiling, his lips perfectly flat out as far as the edges, but there was a smudge of worry there too, a fear of rejection perhaps. His arms were down at his sides and there in his right, hanging loose, was a small box or something rectangular, wrapped up in a brown paper bag.

“Hi,” he said. “Sorry to bother you in the evening.”

Molly inhaled as though she were going to speak but held it, then she smiled, letting it out as a sigh and said, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. What do you want?”

He withdrew a little and she felt shame for being rude to this man that she didn’t even know.

“I brought you something,” he said, raising the parcel very very slightly, subconsciously, “and I thought maybe we could talk if that’s okay.”

Molly looked down at her bare feet. Once again she drew in breath as though to speak but paused. She didn’t know how she felt about him now. She didn’t know how to react. Then she heard Ruben’s voice behind her. “Who is it?”

She turned to face him. Jack peered past her to do the same. Ruben was about eight feet away, dressed in the same clothes she had seen him in the day before.

“Jack Catholic,” she said, wincing at the tension she knew was coming but Ruben surprised her, cracking a smile. It was off-centre and tilting, but it was a smile. He ambled past her, extending his hand, the smile broadening if anything.

Jack shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yes. I heard you were coming. My name’s Ruben; Molly’s brother. Your cousin in fact.”

Jack smiled. “I didn’t even realise you existed until a couple of days ago.”

Ruben continued to smile, but there was something Jack wouldn’t have recognised in his eyes that made it false. Molly saw it though. The smile dropped from his lips as though it had never been there.

For several moments neither of them spoke. Molly cleared her throat then the smile returned on Ruben’s face and the shimmer of it made it seem as though it had been there all along. “We’re about to eat,” he said. “Why don’t you come in? You could join us; it would be nice to get to know you.”

Molly stared at him, angry, but felt guilty and hoped that Jack hadn’t seen.

“Er… I wouldn’t mind staying actually,” said Jack. “It sounds nice.”

“Well that’s decided,” said Ruben and stepped back, fanning his arm in an arc to gesture Jack through the doorway.

A splash of foreboding hit Molly in the small of her back but she allowed her brother to take charge of the situation. He placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder and led him toward the back of the house. Molly closed the door and padded after them in her bare feet.

8

Ruben broke off to the right as they entered the dining room, pointing to an empty chair. Jack shuffled in the doorway until Molly came up behind him and he had to sidestep to let her through. She looked simply pretty in her summer dress, showing off her athletic form, her tanned skin. His eyes flicked down to the backs of her brown legs but he made himself draw back.

“This is probably too much trouble,” he began. “I shouldn’t impose like this on short notice.”

Ruben stopped in a second doorway concealed in a narrow arch in the cream plastered wall and clicked his fingers. “Not a problem cousin. It’s an honour for us to finally meet the great Jack Catholic.”

There was a shadow of malice in his face and voice; like out in the hall when he had only smiled with his mouth. He disappeared from view before Jack could really get a bead on it and when Molly crossed his field of vision it went out of his mind. She smiled at him but he could see how uncomfortable she was. The discomfort didn’t sit well with what little he knew of her and it didn’t mesh with what he picked up of her physical demeanour. She didn’t possess the aura of a person out of sorts with her environment and those sharing it. She looked as though at any other time she would have been as calm as anything.

“Have a seat if you like,” she said, taking one herself. Sitting was only a simple gesture, but for some reason it seemed suddenly difficult.

Ruben returned, grinning and took the seat opposite Jack. “All sorted,” he said. “There’s enough to make up an extra plate and Sharleen is going to sort it out. She’ll bring it in with the others in a minute.” He glanced at Molly. “I told you it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I guess.” She nodded noncommittally.

Ruben rocked back in his seat and pointed his mouth at the ceiling. “Mother!” There was movement above: footsteps, and a woman’s voice muffled through the thick floor and walls. This house wasn’t as luxurious as his uncle’s was but was still on a level above anything Jack had been used to in his old life. The room felt narrow but it wasn’t. The walls reached high and the lemony lighting drew the eye up to the apex of it. The door the three of them had emerged from was quite small but there was a huge pair of double doors at the end of the table to Jack’s left. Footsteps approached on the other side and one of the knobs turned.

The door only opened a crack; the lithe figure that appeared looked like a little girl because of her contrast to the giant doors. She was slender and wan with very straight, very long blond hair. She left the door ajar and came through, dressed in a multi-layered gossamer outfit, wearing an expression of perhaps jaded cynicism. She was a lot older than Molly and Ruben, despite the initial girlish impression. She had to be their mother.

“We have a guest,” said Ruben, in a loud voice. The sound of it startled her and she showed a glimmer of fright when she looked up, first at him, then across at Jack. She stared, blankly, for several moments, then in a domino topple, half a dozen different emotions strobed across her eyes and face.

Jack had never seen her before but she knew who he was instantly. That was immediately clear.

“It’s Jack Catholic,” said Ruben. “Why don’t you say hello?”

Like Molly, she was immediately uncomfortable. “Hello. I wasn’t aware you were coming.”

“This is your Aunt Jennifer, Jack,” said Ruben.

He half rose, extending his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Jennifer hesitated then took it. “I’m sorry if I appear surprised. I’ve heard of you but didn’t expect that we’d meet.”

They all took their seats as the maid entered with a tray of soup bowls. She was round and black with apple-shiny cheeks and shoulders. Unlike the others, she didn’t know who he was but there was a slight furtiveness to her eyes as she tried to place his face and work him out. No one spoke while she was in the room. Jack wondered if coming was a mistake but told himself it was the honourable process. He was an outsider, coming in from another country to steal the money they felt should be theirs. He didn’t feel right not meeting them properly; trying to be friendly.

The maid left. Jennifer and Molly started on their soup. Jack fingered his spoon, looking into the pale yellow liquid.

“We’re trying to enjoy Sharleen as much as we can at the moment,” said Ruben, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung over the back rest. “She won’t be with us much longer.”

 Jack had a bad feeling where this was going.

“Ruben, please,” said Jennifer. She looked Jack in the eye and tried her best to smile. “Jack doesn’t want to hear about that.”

Ruben reached for his spoon, muttering under his breath. “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

“Ruben!”

Nobody spoke. The atmosphere was frosty and thick. Jack hadn’t touched his soup yet. He reached for the brown paper package he’d brought with him.

“Er, I brought along a present. Just to say hi. It’s…” He opened the wrapping and passed it across the table to Jennifer. “It’s just a box of chocolates; nothing fancy.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“Yes, very kind,” said Ruben, “though I expected something more in line with a diamond tiara. Or perhaps some of that fantastic memorabilia you were selling off today that belonged to our dad.”

“Ruben, stop!” Molly got to her feet.

He grinned and took a mouthful of soup. “My apologies. I wouldn’t want to be rude to our guest now would I?”

Jack pushed his bowl forward and stood. Jennifer looked afraid of what he might say. Ruben took another sip.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience Jennifer,” said Jack, “but I think I ought to go.”

“All right.”

Neither Molly nor Ruben said anything more. Jack paused, waiting, but the moment lengthened, becoming awkward again. He stepped round his chair and walked to the door he came through. Behind him came the scratch of a chair on the hard wooden floor.

Somebody was coming after him.

9

 “Jack!”

He stopped, hand on the front doorknob. Molly approached from behind and came close. She touched his upper arm and turned him round. “I’m sorry about that.”

Jack shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“And I’m sorry I was rude earlier; at the house sale.”

 “I’m sorry I didn’t bring a diamond tiara,” said Jack.

Molly giggled and he smiled too, the tension dissolving.

“How about I take you for a drive or something?”

“A drive?”

“Sure. I’m not hungry anyway. Are you?”

His stomach did feel empty but he didn’t mind a little fib. “No. Not at all. That sounds great.”

“Ace. Wait here while I get by boots and keys.”

She disappeared up the impressive staircase. Jack watched her go, feeling bad again for thinking her legs were sexy in that dress.

Someone cleared their throat nearby. It was Ruben, standing in the doorway. He was leering now, no attempt made to disguise his hostility. “She’s got a pretty little package, ain’t she?” Jack looked away. “Don’t feel bad. Cousin to cousin’s perfectly legal.” Ruben’s footsteps came closer. “You know you’ve made my mother cry, coming here like this.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“No; I’m sure. Course not. Not a friendly fellow like you.”

Jack turned to face him. “Look I’m sorry about the money. I guess your father had his reasons for not writing you into his will but the decision was nothing to do with me.”

There was an old scar above Ruben’s right eye. He scratched at it and said, “I’m sure. But you’re still going to keep the money; aren’t you? And now you’re taking my sister out. All very nice.” Ruben looked to the right and then back at Jack and said, “Just be careful what you believe. Half of what she tells you will be a lie.”

10

“So… who are you Jack?” asked Molly.

She looked across at him briefly, not long enough to focus on his features, then turned the wheel of her Porsche to the right, heading down onto a more major road. She was wearing her boots again now and an old brown flying jacket over her dress. The roads were very dark with overhanging trees but she liked that. She’d always preferred driving away from the streetlights.

Jack laughed. “Creepy question. And scary too.”

“Why exactly?” She felt at ease with him again; light. It was like a game this conversation. She felt as though she were pretending to be a shrink.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Because if you ask me who I am – and I’m assuming you mean where I come from and what I’m like – well; without anyone here to corroborate, I can say anything I want. I can reinvent myself before your very eyes. I could wipe away anything from my past I didn’t... I didn’t like; and make myself out to be nothing but nice.”

“And are you?”

“What?”

“Nothing but nice?”

He grinned. “Of course. I’m perfect.” They both laughed.

A complicated intersection came up. Molly couldn’t turn to look at him for several moments.

“And why is it scary?” she said, “That I should ask you to explain who you are?”

“Because... Because then I have to either lie or tell the truth. And telling the truth about yourself means standing back and looking at the things you’ve done. It means being objective.”

“And that frightens you?”

“Yes… I guess it does.”

“I suppose it depends on the things that you’ve done.”

She barely heard him say, “Yes.” 

She thought about that herself for a moment: about what she had told him on the sidewalk outside her father’s house earlier in the day.

They reached the coastal road and Molly accelerated, feeling unconcerned and relaxed. “So tell me about it,” she said, “assuming you’ve got your story ready: fictional or otherwise.”

Jack laughed. “Okay.” He stared out the side window for a few moments; at the sea perhaps, that dropped down away from the road over craggy rocks, and into the black seawater. Molly glanced out past him too. The horizon was still and immutable, as always.

“My dad was very religious,” said Jack. “I was brought up that way. I can recite whole reams from the Bible if called to do so at dinner parties.”

“Which frequently happens I’m sure.”

“It does actually.” He cleared his throat and then laughed. “He was very strict; I don’t know; it’s difficult to judge all that stuff if you haven’t lived lots of different lives. But, my mother too – well, both of them – they encouraged me to do whatever I wanted in life. He had plans for me to go into the clergy but realised very early that that wasn’t what I wanted.”

“What did you want?”

“To be an artist. My dad bought me everything I needed. He set me up in London where I could pursue it. He did so much to help me… before he died. And you know; I never understood the full extent of the sacrifices he’d made, him and my mother, until after they were gone. At the funeral... I spoke to a neighbour of ours; a really beautiful old lady who knew them well. She told me all about the things that had happened without my knowing it; the losses they’d endured to keep my life on course.” Jack looked sad for a moment.

“Anyway, he said, “I lived in London off money I’d received as part of a dodgy life assurance scheme of my mother’s. I made friends, I drew sketches for free magazines; I even painted the interior of a friend’s bar. I made a bit of cash. Then the money ran out, the decision to push my art all the way before dividing my time to find a serious job finally letting me down. And then I got evicted, and then I learned of the money from your father; and then I came here.”

“And that’s the whole story?”

Jack looked at her. “Such as it is, yeah. A bunch of decisions that led to places. I don’t know. Maybe they were bad decisions. You do your best; it doesn’t always work out as you planned.” He became thoughtful but said no more about it. “What about you? Who are you?”

Molly pulled the car up at the side of the road. There was a patch of dirt here where the road curved. The barrier to protect motorists from plunging over the edge was brand new. There hadn’t been one there at all when she had come up last. She got out the Porsche and walked over to the edge of the cliff. The wind was up again, rising off the ocean and whooshing up the cliff-side. It touched her hair and her face. It touched her clothes.

Behind her, the passenger door slammed. “Molly?” Footsteps on the gravel came slowly up to her left flank. She stared down into the white water at the base of the cliff. Jack stopped behind her. She could feel him there. “Are you okay?”

She ignored his words, hearing only the concern, and yearning for something that had been missing now for years.

“My father ran off the road here,” she said. “His car went through the barrier right on this spot and shot out into space. It fell through all that air... All that air. It shot down with my father still inside and crashed into the water. He died.”

“Are you okay?”

She shook her head. “No. Not really Jack. I haven’t been for a long time.”

She stepped closer to the edge. There were stubs of grass reaching out into the cold where the dirt dropped away. There were bare rocks below. The tide was out now. If she fell she probably wouldn’t even hit the water.

“I keep imagining the car going over,” she whispered, almost to herself, “except with me inside instead of him. I picture the scream coming from my mouth as I fall through all that space. All that space, and on the way down I can see what’s coming; I know what’s happening to me. I try to hear the scream that would come out of my mouth. And the worst thing? The worst thing is that I’m not sure there would be a scream. I think maybe I would be in a horrified silent panic. My body would be rigid; I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes, but I wouldn’t be able to scream either.”

“You shouldn’t think about those things Molly.”

She turned to Jack and there was so much concern and affection in his eyes. She lifted her hand and touched his cheek, the faint stubble invisible but slightly rough. For a second he looked confused from her touch, then she saw that his eyes were moist and the rush of empathy caught her, raising tears of her own.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing.” He folded his arms and moved away.

Molly turned back to the sea. The wind was even stronger now. It was building. “The car’s still down there,” she said. “They only removed the body.”

Jack came closer again.

“That’s partly why I’ve been thinking so much about him now. Because of the car.” she smiled self-consciously. “And because of you: because I knew they were looking for you; that you were coming.”

“Why the car?” said Jack.

“They’re bringing it up,” she said. “Next week. David Eden has paid for it to be done.” (SALLY – DOES THIS SOUND RIGHT TO YOU?) The waves were nothing but spray. The rocks were completely black. “And I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid somehow that all the demons will rise with it when it comes to the surface. I’m afraid that the truth will be known about what happened the night he died; that everyone will see me finally for what I am.”

“And what’s that?” asked Jack. “Who are you Molly?”

She turned and looked at him. “I’ll tell you.”

11

The taxi pulled in across the street from Jack’s dead uncle’s house.

“Wait here please.” Sam handed over the fare so far and twenty dollars extra.

“Sure thing,” replied the driver.

Sam got out of the car and walked across the street: huge house visible above the trees in the darkness, black stripes running up in mockery of English timber-framed buildings; sixty, seventy yards from gate to house; gate nine feet high and spike-tipped; fence equally high but climbable if it came to that; electronic intercom and video camera on the gate itself.

Sam walked up to it, smiling benignly. He pressed the button and waited through the pause, scanning through the trees at the house: no clear visible view of anything on the ground floor.

The intercom burst and crackled. An old man’s voice said “Yes?”

“Hello there sir,” said Sam, maintaining his smile as part of The Lie. He tilted his accent, making it sound immediately American. “My name’s Josh Winthrop. I wonder if you could help me. Jack Catholic gave me this address as his current habitation, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“He has approached me as a contact here in San Fransisco. for his paintings. Wants to see what he can do about selling some of them.”

“Right…” The old man sounded sceptical. Sam lowered the pressure.

“Is Mr Catholic home at the moment?”

“No.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

The video camera whirred, zooming in. “May I see some identification?”

Sam turned away and walked back to the cab.

There was no danger of Jack recognising him if the view from that camera had been taped – neither one of them had met the other – he wouldn’t know what Sam was there to do, but there was no other information to be gleaned for now.

Sam got back into the taxi, avoiding looking at the fat man in the front.

He needed somewhere to stay now. He needed something to eat.

He could return tomorrow. He had all the time in the world.

12

“I went round to see my father on the night he died,” said Molly.

Jack listened patiently, conscious of the emotion that floated just beneath the surface of her eyes.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her hair dropping down to cover her face. They were sitting in a park now, not too far from where Jack was staying, deep in its centre, the darkness and trees all around them. There was a bench in a little clearing and they sat at either end of it, the length of the dark wood between them.

“You met my brother Ruben,” she said.

Jack nodded.

“Well neither one of us had seen my father except on TV for at least eight years. I don’t remember anything I ever did with him really, even as a child; except maybe something to do with the ocean. I can’t remember.” She shook her head irritably.

“Everyone knew how rich he was. I suspect you’re the only family member nowadays who has any idea how much there is. Well… it became known in the gossip columns, from some slip or bribe or something, that my father had changed his will, leaving it all to his family in England. Ruben came to me. He told me that we had to go and make peace with him before it was too late or we wouldn’t get anything. So I went with him to see my father,” she said. “I went to make up with him.”

“Because of the money?”

Slightest whimper of tears from her lips, from her hidden face. “I don’t know. No. I don’t think so. I just wanted to see him. I didn’t care about the inheritance.” She lifted her head. “I still don’t Jack; not really. I wouldn’t care if I were as poor as everyone else. If my mother’s accountant is right I probably will be very soon. But the money is important to me in a way Jack. It’s important enough that I hated you until I actually met you; not because of anything you had done but because he had chosen, however indirectly to give you his legacy; not me. I wanted him to love me. The money was just symbolic of that. It still is.” She laughed. “I would have been just as messed up if you had inherited a pressed flower in the old family Bible that I put there with him as a girl!”

Jack moved closer to her across the bench and reached for her shoulders. He put his arms around her as she crumpled very quietly against his chest. He held her close, her spirit gently pulsing within his arms as though there were no physical form there at all. Between his fingers this ethereal substance drifted up to form a kind of halo, illuminating them both. It glimmered on the rough bark of the trees. It gave light and colour to the feathers of the birds that looked down on them. He so deeply wanted to put paint to it. He wanted to capture this vision his mind’s eye was seeing: the lovers arm in arm on the bench, locked together in comfort and despair. He wanted to capture this ethereal light that only he could see in a medium that everyone would understand.

“I’m okay,” whispered Molly, close to his chest. She lifted her torso up and he gently released her. “I want to go on telling you what happened.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She put both hands on her face and held them there, then she took in a deep breath and swept them up over her head, wiping her hair clear. The tears had released her. There was a strength in her eyes now that hadn’t been there before, and a relaxation. She looked happier and more in control of what she was feeling.

Jack withdrew, conscious of her scent as it rose from the flesh revealed at her chest and from her legs. It wasn’t the scent of perfume but an aroma more pure and physical. It was the basic aroma of her skin, the tiny pheromone releases of chemical attraction. She turned to him and in the darkness he could see the gratefulness in her eyes in the faint glint of light against black.

“We went to see him, Ruben and I. I didn’t know exactly why I was there. I wanted to meet him as I was now; as an adult; to know him as he really was instead of how my mother had always portrayed it. I was so conscious that it had all been propaganda. Everything I knew of him was second-hand.”

Jack nodded. “Maybe he was evil and maybe he was good...”

“But I just wanted to see for myself. That’s it.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the bench, gazing up into the trees. “Ruben and I arrived at his house. We identified ourselves at the gate. He made us wait before he let us in without saying a word. I guess he was afraid to see us too.

“He invited us in and got drinks for us and he sat us down in that vast lounge he had with the staircase jutting out above it. We were dumbfounded. We’d expected an ogre and he was the nicest man I’ve ever met. We talked for over an hour; it was great.”

Silence for a moment then Jack asked, “So what went wrong? Why did he die?”

Molly looked away. “He got up to fetch more drinks,” she said, her voice quiet. “I sat waiting for him to come back, thinking about all the time there had been between these meetings, since the last time we had seen him, and I realised suddenly that I was absolutely livid. I felt betrayed; that all this kindness had come too late.

“Ruben looked at me across the room and leered. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He didn’t care about our father ignoring us. He saw only the money. That was when I realised... That was why I had come too; subconsciously. I was there for the cash.

“I didn’t care anymore about his actual love. I wanted the love he should have given us before and because that wasn’t possible, I wanted the money and nothing more than that. I was that evil. I was as bad as everybody thinks I am.”

Jack took her hand. It was shaking. “No you weren’t.”

“I was!” Molly got to her feet and turned to face him, spinning round fast. “You weren’t there! That was exactly what I wanted Jack! I wanted what you got! When my father came back in with that smile on his face, I started shouting at him. I accused him of all the pain he had put us through. I called him a liar and heartless. I screamed at him exactly as I’d always wanted to. Ruben grabbed my arms, trying to restrain me before it went too far. My father didn’t say anything at all. I’ve never seen anyone look like that. I’ve never known such loss.”

Molly turned away again, looking off through the trees.

“I walked out,” she said. “Ruben came with me. He didn’t know what else to do. We drove home in complete silence. Ruben went inside and I went to see my friend Gaston because I needed to talk it through. The next day I woke up and I knew I’d committed an act of betrayal myself. I understood... everything. But when I tried to make contact again that morning I found out he was dead.

“He’d gone driving on the coast road after we had left him and he had driven off the edge of that cliff and died.”

Jack was very quiet then he said, “What about your brother? Do you hate him for what he made you do?”

Molly turned back and smiled. “No. I could never hate Ruben. However bad he gets I know him too well. There’s nothing he could do that I couldn’t eventually forgive; and I know my own culpability. My father would be alive right now if I hadn’t said the things I did.”

“But how can it be your fault that he drove off the road all by himself?”

“Because I had broken his heart Jack, just like my mother did. He wouldn’t have been thinking straight, he wouldn’t have been concentrating, and that was down to me.”

Jack stood up. He put his hand on her shoulder and led her away from the bench. “Let’s get out of here. Come on.”

13

“So who’s your friend?” said Jack. “You called him Gaston?”

“Uh huh,” replied Molly, enjoying the conversation. The path was wide, grass on either side for twenty yards and then thick bushes or trees. It was very quiet. “I’m doing a book with him. He’s French and he needs a translator. He speaks good English but writing in another language is entirely different. Lives near Nice in the southern French Alps.”

“So that’s what you are, a translator?”

She grinned. “I guess so, if I’m translating a book.”

Jack laughed. “What’s it about?”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “He researches unsolved murders around the globe. He’s noticed a pattern among over a dozen deaths in various countries and created a hypothetical serial killer to explain them. The book’s part fiction/part fact. It’s the story of this killer, travelling round murdering people.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It can be grisly at times, the acts of violence are described quite grittily, but it’s a good work and Gaston is very charming; he’s also quite good looking for an older man. He’s in his sixties now, but I’ve never met a greater authority on murder.”

Jack was quiet for a while, thinking again about whatever secrets played around in his head.  His brow was set and rigid.

“You all right?” asked Molly, feeling better now she had talked about her father. She was still unsure why she had been able to discuss those things with him but getting them off her chest had removed what felt like a backpack full of rocks.

Jack sighed. “I’m fine. I was thinking about murder. Do you think it’s possible that you’re born to do it or that it’s all down to the way you’re brought up? Do we really have a choice when it comes to the moment?”

“You mean do we really have free will?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” replied Molly. “I know that I hated my father because my mother brought me up to; but in the end, when I became an adult, I also think I should have been able to make my own decision.”

“But aren’t the ways you go about making decisions determined by the same things I just said? I’m not sure that we really get any choice at all.”

“You should talk to Gaston,” said Molly. “He could tell you all about it.”

“Is he staying here at the moment?”

“Not anymore. He’s gone back to France.”

Jack shrugged. “Shame. That would have been interesting.”

The moon shone down through the trees. It was starting to mist and a halo was forming around it.

“Look at that,” said Jack, pointing up. “It makes me want to go and get my paint and brushes and get to work.”

“Did you bring them with you?”

“Yeah; and my paintings too. They’re all at my uncle’s house.”

“Are they good? I mean, what are they of on the whole? Still-life or landscapes?”

“Portraits... and scenes that I imagine. I like to paint dark things like images of misery; but I try to paint them with light.”

“What do you mean?”

“I always try to look for the light in the darkness; the hope; the purpose.” He smiled self-consciously. “I guess I’m trying to save the locations in them.”

It was getting chilly. Molly did the zip half way up the front of her jacket. “Have you ever sold any?”

“Not in a big way, not really, but I want to some day. I’ve always wanted to.” He gazed off into the mist. There were lights up ahead, street lamps and shop fronts. It looked safer. “Can you imagine how magical it would be for someone to buy a painting that you made, to love it to the extent that they wanted to have it on their wall every day for years and years? I put so much of myself into each one, it’s as though they would have a part of me up in their homes. I can’t think of anything that would make me more proud.”

He looked at her and grinned, once again a little shyly. Molly smiled back.

Then Jack’s whole face crumpled with pain and he dropped to the floor.

Molly turned round. There were two guys dressed in leathers: bikers. Jack was on his knees, hands out on the ground, head hanging. One of them had a stick; the other grabbed the shoulder of her jacket, pulling her back.

She called out Jack’s name. A gun was forced into her face. They were demanding money. The one with the stick smashed it down on Jack’s back. He cried out as his arms buckled; then they struck him again and Jack’s head hit the floor.

14

There was pain through Jack’s head and down his spine. The concrete was hard against his face. A man was shouting. Molly screamed for help. There were hands in his pockets, rooting round. One of the men was yelling for quiet. He was shoving his gun into Molly’s face.

Jack forced his hands against the ground under his chest and heaved himself up. The club smashed down into his shoulder again but he didn’t stop moving. He was on his feet.

There were two of them. The one with Molly was facing away. The one with the club smashed it against Jack’s chest, drew it back for another strike then swung it forward. Jack grabbed it and wrenched it out of the man’s hands.

Shock and fear covered the man’s face that turned to venomous anger. Jack drew the club down by his thigh. The man pulled out a knife and lurched forward, going for a stomach stab. He started to call out to his friend. Jack brought the club up and mashed it into his face. He stumbled, flailing round with the knife, trying to slash at Jack but Jack brought the club vertically down. The man buckled. Jack struck him again as hard as he could and the shudder ran up his arm to his shoulder.

Molly screamed. Jack span round. The other man had one hand round her throat. His gun was jammed into her cheek, bending her head back. Jack grabbed the back of his hair. The gun jerked up and went off. Molly screamed again. The man stumbled backwards, losing his balance.

Molly go!”

She was frozen, petrified.

“Go! Now!”

She staggered away. He couldn’t see where she’d run to but it didn’t matter.

The man with the gun swung it round and pointed it at Jack. Reacting instinctively, he swiped the gun to the side with the branch. It went off again, taking a chunk out of his flailing shirt. He whipped the club back. It glanced the man’s face. He tried to bring the gun round again. Jack smashed him in the middle of his forehead.

He brought the club down over and over again onto of the his head and his chest. The man fell to the ground but Jack kept going, barely in control in his terror and desperation to protect himself and Molly. Each blow sent a shockwave up his arms and into his chest but he couldn’t stop himself.

When he finally managed to, the deed was done.

He could barely catch his breath but he could see clearly what was before him.

Both men lay still.

Perfectly still.

15

Jack stood above the bodies, watching them. Neither one of them breathed. He kept his eyes on them, not blinking for a second in case he missed something. The club was still in his hand.

Molly was gone. He couldn’t see where she was; it was dark all around him. There was a street lamp about thirty yards up the path. In its light he raised the branch: the makeshift club which they had used to beat him and that he had used to kill them both.

He couldn’t believe it had happened again. He hadn’t meant to kill; he had meant only to protect Molly and himself.

He thought about Lucy and about Molly. He thought about his miraculous survival and the destiny he had started to really believe was waiting for him.

The metaphorical darkness was like a hurricane, coming closer and closer to those around him. He couldn’t let it touch them. He couldn’t let it touch her.

He looked at the bodies one last time, felt a shudder of crushing regret, like his life was going completely out of any semblance of control, then he moved away. Only three days earlier everything had been normal.

He started jogging along the path the way Molly must have run, calling her name, the branch still in his hand. There was a pond on the left of the path, covered in leaves and rubbish, trees hanging low all round it close to the water. He paused in his search for her and threw the branch as hard as he could out into the middle, then he went on calling her name, only briefly considering the ease into which he had started covering this dark part of his life up.

16

Molly leant against a tree; the bark pressing through her jacket into her back. Jack’s voice came through the foliage. She peered round the trunk. It was a little misty now. The treetops weren’t visible; it made them look topless, like pillars. She called back out to him. “Jack!”

“Molly!” He was getting closer.

“Jack!”

His silhouette formed in the mist, filling her with relief. He jogged up and took her arms in his hands. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “What about you? What happened?”

She couldn’t make out his face at all. “They ran away. They’re gone. Let’s get out of here.”

“We shouldn’t have come here at night.”

He nodded. They started making their way back to the path. It was difficult to see where it was now in the mist but it came through eventually, a silvery track gleaming in the murk.

“I can’t believe that happened to us,” said Molly. He didn’t reply. “Jack?”

“Sorry. What?”

“I’ve never been mugged before.”

“No.”

“Are you okay?... Jack? What’s wrong?”

 “Nothing. I’m fine.”

They reached the very edge of the park. The row of shops was dotted with restaurants. The windows were all lit up with warm colours. They looked beautiful, especially in the mist. In the centre, next door to one of the restaurants, was an alley, pitch black against the lights. It cut the row of shops in two. Molly gazed at the windows for a while, just thinking about nothing, then she touched Jack’s shoulder. “I’d better be heading home. I’ll drop you off.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I might just head in there and get a coffee or something.” He pointed to the restaurant next to the alley. “I need to think about some stuff.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “It’s been really nice Jack. I’m sorry now for everything I thought about you before.”

“Don’t be. I’m not as nice as all that.”

“Sure you are. You just saved me didn’t you?”

He extended his hand. “Bye.”

“I’ll seeya.” She took it and stepped up close to his chest, then on impulse she extended her neck to bring her lips toward his mouth. Jack kissed her cheek briefly and pulled away, seemingly oblivious to the movement, not noticing her intent. Then he winked at her and crossed the road.

 17

The restaurant was fairly crowded; tables filled all the available floor space. There was a bar raised up on a platform down the far side. People were eating noisily and talking very loudly at the same time. Jack made his way through, his thoughts increasingly cloudy.

A woman was sitting at one end, dressed in a close approximation of an evening gown, a shawl hanging off her elbows. She had a half empty glass of what looked like Martini and looked disappointed when Jack walked in. He decided to keep away from her. He sat further up near the centre of the bar, next to a man in a suit.

“What can I get you?” said the barman.

“Just a Coke,” replied Jack.

The man on the seat next to his turned to him and smiled. “Are you English?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

Jack took his drink and paid the barman. “Nice to meet you. It’s always good to see people from back home when travelling.”

“Mmmm.” The man had an empty plate in front of him. He laid his knife and fork together very carefully, his fingers lingering longer than might have been expected. The barman took it away.

“So why are you eating alone?” asked Jack.

“I’m here on business,” replied the man.

“What kind of business?”

“I’m in insurance.”

“You’re not going to try and sell me a policy are you?”

The man smiled. “No. I’m not a salesman, I’m an investigator. And anyway, I’m not here because of that.”

“No?”

The man withdrew slightly. There was a little tension in his expression for a second as though he were considering something, then he said, “I’m here to find someone.”

“An old friend or something?”

“No,” replied the man, smiling crookedly, a little more relaxed now and grateful perhaps for the opportunity to explain himself to a stranger. “I’m here to find the man who killed my sister.”

Jack’s eyes widened. His voice became quiet. “Really?”

The man grinned at Jack, eyes flicking across his face. “No. Not really.” He brushed a lick of hair into place off his forehead.

The barman laid down a slip of paper for the man to sign. Jack watched his hand very carefully as he spelled out his name in rapid strokes.

Sam Decker.

Lucy’s brother.

Thousand’s of miles away from where he’d committed the crime, and now, here was the one man who could be sure it was him. The coincidence was phenomenal but it was really happening and it was another sign. The man beside him was here to kill him or bring him to justice; he was an avenging angel sent to bring him down; and he didn’t realise that his companion was the very man he wanted to find.

Jack took a slow drink, keeping his eyes on Sam. He wondered if he should just tell him who he was.

“So, what are you doing here in San Francisco?” asked Sam.

“I’m a tourist.”

“And what makes you go to a bar alone?”

Jack pictured the bodies of the muggers in the park. He pictured Lucy lying against the hearth. “Just thinking, that’s all,” he said. “It’s good to be by yourself sometimes.”

Sam paused and then nodded.

“Do you believe in God?” asked Jack.

Sam frowned. “Absolutely not.”

“I do. I sometimes wonder how much of our lives he can see.”

“The standard belief is that he can see everything isn’t it?”

Jack sighed. “I guess so.”

“It’s irrelevant,” said Sam, “whether he exists or not. You do what you have to do to survive. Morals don’t come into it. If you’re damned when you die then that’s just the way it is.” Sam took a long drink of his beer.

Jack turned his glass round and round on the counter. “Are you saying that you’d kill to survive?”

Sam looked at him, eyes vacant. “No. I would never kill. Murder is the lowest crime. Never ever do it.”

“But what if you were going to die yourself?” pressed Jack, “What if you’d been betrayed? What if you became so angry you couldn’t stop yourself?”

Sam stared at him; then instantaneously his expression completely changed. The humour and politeness that had been there vanished. His eyes were grey.

“You’re him aren’t you?” he said. “You’re Jack Catholic. You murdered my sister.”

Jack nodded his head and whispered, “Yes.”

18

The tension rose like a slug into Sam’s temple as though there were a blood clot in his brain: deep deep pain like he was being cut with a knife as far as the bone.

This was it. This was the moment.

His eyes flicked to the right and left. The mirror behind the bar gave an inverted view of the crowd of potential witnesses. So many people; no gun; Jack was younger than he was; ten years younger; and bigger: blond hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders beneath his slightly soiled white shirt. Sam memorised every mark and trait.

Jack was thinking about the people here too, obviously. Neither one of them wanted to face the other in this type of location.

“Let’s go outside,” said Jack.

Sam nodded, keeping his eyes on him as they stood.

The two of them walked toward the door. There were people in the way. An elderly man and his matronly daughter. He and Jack waited for them to sit before they continued. The darkness through the front door was like the edge of the world. The pressure in Sam’s forehead was intense. Jack was in front. He reached out and opened the door, holding it for Sam.

Then he stepped out too.

19

Jack turned the corner into the alley at the side of the restaurant and Sam followed just behind.

It was very dark. There was a layer of moisture from the mist over the bricks and the tarmac, tinting the colours darker but giving them a sheen that glimmered in the light from out on the street. A row of dustbins on each side was filled with restaurant scraps. Overflow rubbish was piled next to one of the bins on the left.

“I know you want to kill me,” said Jack, “despite what you said inside. I know you want to.”

From behind him, Sam didn’t say a word.

“And you’ll have your chance,” continued Jack. “But I want to talk to you first Sam. Lucy told me things about you. I want to talk about what she said.”

He heard metal scrape against metal very quietly behind him and to the left. He started to turn then something smashed against the side of his face.

Jack staggered to his right. His leg crumpled slightly but he was still on his feet. Sam was just a shadow to his left, then the shadow burst and lengthened; it contracted and the massive metal thing crashed against Jack’s head and back. His right leg gave way, his knees came forward too slowly; they hit the tarmac. His hands out to save his head, barely stopped it connecting with the ground. His mouth was hot, his face was wet; he gagged, spitting liquid over his lips. Sam dropped the dustbin lid. It clattered into the crease at the foot of the wall then stopped moving.

“Wait,” gasped Jack, holding out his hand.

Sam’s foot dug into his side, lifting him clear off the ground.

He was on his back. The kick came again. Sam stepped away, circling round near his feet. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, a sneer in his voice. “I don’t care why you did it. I don’t want to hear your pleas of sorrow or bullshit about forgiveness.” He kicked Jack again, across the cheek this time. “I’m just going to kill you and then I’m going to walk away.”

Jack put his hand out to get up. Sam kicked it clear. The tarmac came up against his face and he gasped from the jet of pain. Then another kick came, in his gut. Sam was laughing. Another. But Jack was getting up. The beating didn’t matter. Another blow: fist to his face. But he was on his feet now.

Blood was coming from a cut above his eye, breath exploding from his chest. Sam was only a couple of feet away. He was staring at him; staring as Jack straightened up. Sam’s head shook just a fraction, his eyes were cracked and wild. His slick hair was all over the place. Jack stepped forward, the breath raising and dropping his whole body.

The tiny array of muscles in Sam’s jaw tightened, then he shot forward, his fist driving at Jack’s face. Jack stepped back, bringing his own fist up; his left. Sam overshot. Jack’s smashed hard into the side of his face.

He twisted, left arm whipping back. Sam staggered. Jack grabbed the collar of his overcoat then brought his fist up into Sam’s stomach. He brought it up again, then he took hold of the front of Sam’s shirt, drawing him close and drove it straight into Sam’s cheek. His body was whipped from Jack’s grasp and as he released his fingers Sam hit the tarmac and rolled, out of control.

Jack stood still. Sam’s chest and stomach were still moving with his breath. He was alive; nothing more than winded and stunned. There was pain in Jack’s head and down his back, adding to the battering of the mugging.

He stepped backward, still watching Sam. He looked down at his hand – fingers curling, wet, flecks of blood in his palm – and he knew that he could kill this man now. He could kill Sam. There was no one on the street; no one would see him do it; Sam wasn’t moving. He had tried to kill Jack; it would be self defence.

Sam was gasping for air, trying to turn his head, face against the wet ground, he brought his eyes up to stare straight into Jack’s. He could barely catch his breath and was struggling to get his hands to lift him.

There was nothing to stop Jack finishing it now, but he took another step away, then he turned his back on Sam and left him lying there... not because of pity or remorse, but because he knew what Sam was now. He wasn’t a man in the simple way despite his physical form and mind and background. He had become something symbolic; something Jack needed.

He was the avenging angel sent down to stop Jack from going on with his quest. He was an ever-present opportunity for God or Fate to stop him if that was what was meant to be.

Either Sam was going to hunt him down and kill him, or he wasn’t going to succeed. Either way, Jack realised… so be it.

20

Molly turned over onto her back in her sleep, the covers down around her waist. Fingers that weren’t her own touched her wrist and her eyes flicked open.

Jennifer, her mother, was standing beside the bed, dressed for sleep herself but with a white bathrobe resting on her shoulders. “Molly,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

Jennifer sat down beside her on the bed. The mattress shifted and stretched from the extra weight. She was smiling, her eyes very sad, blond hair held in place by a black band but dropping down still to her shoulders.

“It’s okay darling. I’m sorry to wake you. You have a visitor and I just wanted to talk for a second.”

Molly raised herself up to sitting, her shoulders against the soft cushioned headboard. “Who is it? Who’s here? What time is it?”

“It’s after midnight,” replied Jennifer, “and Jack Catholic is at the door.”

“Jack?”

“Yes.”

Jennifer raised her arm and gently ran the back of her fingers down Molly’s cheek. A quiet laugh came to her lips. “He’s very like your father.” She glanced toward the window and the tree beyond. The curtains were never closed in Molly’s bedroom and the tree was always enormously present, summer or winter. “Not in his looks so much as in his way, but he’s very handsome too.”

Molly didn’t nod but she agreed. “What did you want to say to me mother?”

Jennifer’s brow furrowed and then relaxed. She looked straight into Molly’s eyes and then away again as though she couldn’t hold the gaze. “I wanted to say sorry Molly. From your father, not from me. I wanted to apologise for him… because he never got the chance.”

“Mom?”

“He did love you darling. I know he did. Like I do. He loved you... and I know he was sorry at the end. I know he wanted to close the space between you as much as he wanted to close it between him and me.”

She smiled. There were tears in her eyes, and then Molly was weeping too. They closed their arms around one another and held tight. Then very quietly and soberly, Jennifer pushed Molly away and said, “Now Jack’s waiting for you downstairs. You’d better go and see him.”

21

Molly entered the lounge.

At first, there was no sign of Jack at all, then she saw his foot, extending into view from the other side of a very high-backed chair. She circled round until she could see him.

“Jack? Are you okay?”

He looked up at her and she gasped. He was bruised and cut. His clothes were damp but clean. There were strands of medical tape holding the cut on his forehead closed. His hair was wet but brushed back.

“Is that all from the mugging?” she said, “You looked okay afterward. What happened?”

Jack leaned forward and grimaced from the movement. “I just got caught in another fight. David Eden patched me up.” He grinned. “I’m fine, really.”

“Why have you called so late? What’s wrong?”

Jack leaned back into the chair. He was dressed in a white sweater and tan slacks, dull brown shoes on his feet. He had a navy blue overcoat nearby, hanging over the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry I came in the middle of the night but I really wanted to say goodbye.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Something’s come up. I have to. Things have changed and I need to get away to find something I’m looking for.”

“What?”

“An answer.”

“To what question?”

Jack got to his feet. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Molly frowned.

“I wanted to ask you a favour though,” he said.

“What is it?”

“The friend you told me about,” said Jack, “the Frenchman.”

“Gaston?”

“Yeah. I was wondering if you could give me his address in France. I’ve been thinking about what you told me about him. I’ve been thinking about lots of things. I’ve been walking for hours.”

She let him continue, closing her arms around her chest.

“I want to talk to him about his research. I think it could help me.”

“He researches killers,” she said. “How could talking to him help? Is it something to do with your paintings?”

She could tell he was lying when he said “Yes.”

“What’s going on Jack?”

He turned back to her. “I can’t tell you Molly.” He paused, clearly thinking things through. “A couple of days ago I started painting a self portrait. I didn’t get to finish it. A lot’s happened since then. My whole self-image has changed. I’m not sure I can draw it from memory anymore.”

“Jack…”

“I just need Gaston’s address and telephone number,” he said. “I’ll contact him. I need to leave the country and I need you not to tell anybody where I’ve gone.”

She stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “Okay. Wait here.”

She went through to the kitchen, into the quiet of the rest of the house. There was a pen and paper on the side. She copied down Gaston’s full name and where he lived in the southern Alps from her address book then she took the paper back through.

Jack had his coat back on. It was very long. His arms were folded. He took it from her without saying a word then he said, “I have to go. I’ve managed to get a seat on a late flight to Nice but I’m cutting it close.”

Molly looked at him, something dropping away in her stomach. “You’ll be back,” she said.

“Maybe,” he replied and then he looked sad too.  

She led him through to the front door. They paused on the threshold. He took her hand. She squeezed; then she put her fingers on his shoulder, gently guided his head down to hers – no misunderstanding this time at all – and put her lips to his.

Then he was gone. 



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