Goodbye, Kate, page 23
“I like birds.”
He does? “You do?” That’s an answer I never would have seen coming. “Since when?”
“Since I was a child. Seven, eight maybe.”
My pulse picks up and my mouth drops open. I close it again as soon as I notice. He’s never talked about his childhood. Even as Simon he would brush it off as uninteresting.
“We had a neighbour, an old woman from down the street. She died, and I was kicking my football around on the pavement one day when her kids were clearing her house out. They brought out a pair of finches in one of those tall dome cages – completely unsuitable for finches. The daughter asked me if I wanted them. I’d never had a pet. I jumped at the chance. Left my ball in the street and ran straight home with them.”
Something warm and gooey swishes around in my chest, imagining Lincoln as a little boy, picturing his innocent face lighting up with excitement. What went wrong? “We?” I repeat. “Who did you live with?”
“My mother, and my stepfather – the last in a long line of many.”
I want to ask more questions, probe further, but I’m not sure where to begin. He had a family. He lived on a street with neighbours. He had pet birds. He’d been…ordinary. How did he end up…here? Like this?
He must see the quandary in my expression because he starts talking again. “We weren’t a happy family. We didn’t celebrate Christmas, or my birthday. We didn’t go on holidays or days out. My mother lived for everything, except me. Drugs, alcohol, government benefits. I was an inconvenience, as she reminded me daily. My stepfather was angry at everything – the world, my mother, me. He liked to express that with his fists. Mostly on her, sometimes on me if I wasn’t smart enough to get out of the way quickly.”
“I’m…so sorry,” I say. It’s not enough, but I have nothing else to offer.
His face remains disturbingly emotionless. “Don’t be. I knew nothing else. I didn’t yearn for a better life because I didn’t know one existed. I was happy enough in my own way, especially when I got the birds. Of course, Philip, my stepfather, didn’t like that. He snapped their necks two weeks later right in front of me.”
Gasping, I reach out and grip his shoulder. Although, I can’t help feeling I need the support more than he does. The rims of my eyes sting with unshed tears, yet Lincoln remains completely calm.
“I changed that day,” he continues. “Outwardly, I was still a child, but inside the first embers of rage had ignited inside me. Those birds were mine. They depended on me, and I on them, and he took them from me. I wasn’t strong enough to make him pay for that yet, but I vowed to myself the moment I was I would never let anyone take anything from me again. I would fear no one. People would fear me. I owed it to those innocent birds, and to all the other innocents getting fucked around by thugs thinking they can destroy anything in their path simply because they’re bigger.”
“My God, did you…did you kill him?” Was he the first kill when Lincoln was just a teenager? His own stepfather?
Lincoln snorts a humourless chuckle. “No. No, I didn’t kill him. I missed my chance when social services dragged me into care.”
I can’t believe he’s being so open with me. It fills my heart and scares me to the core in equal measures. I’ve never felt so close to him before, to anyone, not even ‘Simon’.
“I thought…well, I thought social services were there to help people.”
He flashes me a smile that actually makes me feel a little stupid, almost as if he feels sorry for me that I could be so naïve. “I was born beyond help, Sophia.”
I refuse to believe that, but I don’t argue. He’d only be too stubborn to agree. Besides, this is his story. His life. I have no right to pretend to know how he feels. “How did they find out? About the neglect, and abuse.”
“He murdered my mother.”
Fucking hell. “I…” My reply dries out on my tongue. Honestly, I’m not sure what I was about to say anyway. “Oh, Lincoln.”
“The sympathy on your face isn’t necessary. I was no worse off in care.”
“But…no better, either?”
“No. Group homes were comparable to living in a school occupied solely with every variety of playground bully you can think of. Foster homes were like gold dust once you were potty trained. I was sent to three in total. I ran away from every single one. Repeatedly. I didn’t want another family. Any family. Families abandon you. You can’t trust anyone.”
For the first time, I find myself feeling nothing but deeply sorry for him. On the outside, he’s so brash. Impenetrable. He can be callous and cruel with no respect for human life. He enjoys hurting people, he’s told me as much, and although I can’t fully comprehend that feeling I think I finally understand the reason behind it. It’s not his fault. His internal wiring has been twisted and frayed so many times I doubt it can ever be completely repaired. The knowledge should scare me, but it doesn’t. Does that make me as damaged as he clearly is? Probably.
To Lincoln, emotion is fiction, a false fable people tell themselves to help them feel better. But now I see that, on the inside, Lincoln Hollis is just a broken boy who was never shown how. He was failed by the people who were supposed to love him unconditionally, guide and protect him. Then, he was let down some more by the people who were supposed to rescue him. Born as innocent as the baby next to him, he was dealt a bad hand. He has known fear, death, and violence since the moment he took his first breath in this unforgiving world.
Never love.
Never peace.
Never hope.
He’s not a robot. He’s not made of metal. He has a heart, he simply doesn’t know how to use it. I will show him. I will reroute those broken wires over time.
“You look confused,” Lincoln says, curling a lock of my hair around his finger.
Do I? I didn’t mean to. “I suppose I’m just wondering how Arthur and Rosemary fit into all this. You said they saved your life. Did they foster you?”
He ponders the question, furrowing his brow. “Unofficially, I suppose you could say that. Officially, David Weatherford has never been found.”
“They took you?”
“Yes.” Seeing the reaction, the horror in my expression, he quickly adds, “I went willingly. Like I said, they saved me.”
I don’t believe that. I’ll never believe that. “How?”
“I was fourteen when I ran away again from my final foster family, for what would prove to be the last time. I was doing pretty well. Almost three months I’d been out on the streets and remained undetected. I found a way to earn money, selling cannabis for a local scumbag. Never stupid enough to take it myself, of course. I’d seen what drugs had done to my mother. The business side of it, however, was too tempting to ignore. I needed money, people were falling over themselves to give it to me. If I ran into trouble, I could handle myself, fight my way out. It only took a few weeks for me to save enough cash to purchase a cheap train ticket to Manchester.”
“Why Manchester?” I interrupt, out of sheer curiosity more than anything. I want him to know I’m listening, that I’m interested, that I care.
“Bigger city. More places to hide, more opportunities to make cash.” Lincoln lifts an eyebrow and twists his lips, as if cementing the memory in his head before continuing. “When you’re on the streets you don’t have to look for work. It comes to you. The dealers, the criminals, they scour the parks, the shelters, and the shop doorways sniffing out the scent of desperation. I was smart, quick on my feet, out for revenge against anything and everyone. I had no problem making quick cash. Illegal cash, naturally, and not much, but enough to keep myself hidden.”
He stops for a while, just a minute or so. I don’t cut in, don’t offer any form of sympathy or shock. I simply wait until he’s ready, studying his face as it wrinkles with each recollection.
“I used to sleep in the bus station once the buses had ceased operating for the day. One night, autumntime, this posh kid, my age or similar, wandered through the depot. Must’ve been two, three, in the morning. He was tall, lanky, paler than a block of lard. He didn’t belong in that part of town with his expensive clothes and slick hair, and he knew it. He looked terrified. Clearly, lost. His downfall wasn’t only passing through Jackson Morrisey’s turf in the dead of night, but passing through clutching a designer record bag strapped across his body.
“Jackson and his friends were on this kid in seconds, his followers beating the life out of him while Jackson rummaged through his bag. I turned the other way, initially, wished they’d hurry up and keep the noise down so I could get some sleep. But… this kid’s cries.” Lincoln breaks off, clenching his jaw. “I’d been that kid too many times. He’d done nothing wrong. Took a wrong turning. Plus, I just wanted to get back to damn sleep. So, I left my sleeping bag and headed over, cocky as always, and told Jackson to knock it off. That’s when the gun came out, the first one I’d seen up close. I saw the power it gave him, the confidence in his eyes. He wanted, expected, me to be afraid, but I wasn’t going to hand that kind of control over to him. I wasn’t scared of anyone.
“I punched him. He dropped the gun, which I picked up before he hit back. We tussled for, really, just a few seconds, before the loudest bang I’d ever heard in my life detonated in my ears. I knew what it was, I felt the pain, the pushback in my arm. My ears rang, spots hovered in my vision. And when I looked down, there he was. Jackson Morrisey. Bleeding out from his stomach. He wasn’t dead…yet. He was choking, convulsing, his mouth open so wide as he gasped for air it looked like his jaw had broken. The image of his face, the whites of his eyes bulging, shining under the streetlight, are seared into my memory for the rest of my life.
“I was fourteen years old, and I’d just murdered someone. Grown into a killer, just like my stepfather.”
“No…” I shake my head, palming his cheek. “That was an accident. You…you shouldn’t have even been there. You should’ve been in bed, ready for school the next day, waiting for someone to wake you up and make you breakfast and tell you they loved you before waving you off.”
He disagrees. I can tell by his face as he removes my hand and brings it down to his chest. “I wasn’t innocent, Sophia. I didn’t regret it. I still don’t. If I hadn’t intervened, Ronan would have been the one bleeding out on that pavement. Ronan was the innocent, not Jackson, and certainly not me.”
“Ronan? Is that the boy they attacked?”
“Yes. I didn’t feel myself drop the gun, or see Ronan pick it up afterwards. He had no clue what he was doing, but he used it to scare the other guys away, waving it around as if they were next. It worked. He had a busted face, a broken arm and fractured ribs, but he still managed to reach for his bag over by Jackson’s dead body and pull out a phone. More confirmation of his wealth – he had a mobile phone. Rare back then, for a kid in that part of town. He called his parents, sobbed and pleaded for their help. They arrived about an hour later. Their names were Arthur and Rosemary Cowan.”
I’m grateful to be lying down as my heart speeds up, struggling to pump the blood around my body. I feel lightheaded. Nauseated. That’s how they got him. They saved him from an accident, an act of defence, and twisted him into a merciless killer.
“Arthur looked at me like I was piece of shit, even after Ronan told them I’d saved his life. Rosemary, however, she…she kept staring at me. No one had ever looked at me like that before. A tiny part of me wondered if she cared, but then I realised I wouldn’t even know what that looked like and dismissed it while I waited for the police to arrive and cart me away. But…that didn’t happen. Arthur took the gun from his son, muttering something about prints and DNA. He made some calls while Rosemary hugged her boy. I had no idea what was happening. I know now that Jackson’s body ended up in various pieces, buried in different parts of the country.”
I wonder idly if that’s what’s happened to Maurice, if he’s been taken apart and scattered around Italy. Then, I wonder why I don’t feel physically sick at the thought. He didn’t necessarily deserve the ending he received, but the responsibility ultimately lies with him. He betrayed me. He went back on his word to Lincoln. He chose the wrong side.
“The next thing I knew we were being led towards a flashy car, like the kind of car I’d only ever seen on TV adverts or movie trailers. Rosemary was behind that decision. It’s never been said, but I know. She cares about me, in her own way.”
“And…Arthur?”
“Arthur cares about business,” he answers without needing to think. “I gathered that immediately, and I played on it, just like I’d done with every other lowlife on the streets. This was on a much grander scale, of course, but the basis of the game is the same. I gave him what he wanted and got what I needed in return. I was reliable, intelligent, a fast learner. As I aged he trained me, saw my capabilities, began to value me. I had no fear. I was incapable of regret. He’d been gifted with a blank canvas to fashion however he saw fit, unlike his sons who’d been shown too much affection already. They’d been weakened by emotion. Marcus didn’t count, he was a baby. And although Ronan grew into his potential eventually, he’s more…administrative. He’s highly skilled. Very smart. He tried working in the field once, against my advice. It cost him the use of his arm.”
“You…” I hesitate, summoning the right words because something doesn’t make sense to me. “It sounds like you…care about Ronan.” There was a lightness to his voice when he spoke about him, a warmth almost. I don’t understand it. He may have been an innocent ‘posh’ kid who needed rescuing all those years ago, but not now. Not if he’s actively working for his murderous father.
“He’s my…friend.” He speaks the word with apprehension, but I don’t think it’s because he’s unsure whether Ronan is his friend. I think it’s because he doesn’t feel comfortable with the idea of having a friend at all. “I call him Toff. You heard me talk with him in the car.”
Now I’m really confused. “But he’s helping you - us - isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like this.” I push myself up into a sitting position too quickly, creating a headrush that almost drags me back down.
Lincoln joins me, pressing a hand to my thigh. “Toff has wanted control of his father’s business for several years now. He’s not a concern for us.”
Laughter fuelled by disbelief cackles in the back of my throat. “Oh, he wants his business? Not justice. Not the right thing. That makes him just as bad! Why do you believe he won’t stab you in the back?”
And he has the audacity to call me naïve?
“I’ve known him half my life,” he says with absolute certainty. “But don’t think I’m not prepared for him to cross me. I find the probability highly doubtful, but not impossible. I know what I’m doing, Sophia.”
That makes me feel better, somewhat, although I’m sure my face doesn’t show it.
“I know it may not be pleasant for you to think about,” he continues. “But the crimes committed by the likes of your father and Arthur Cowan are always going to be in demand. We can’t eliminate them, but we can try and put more…civilised…people in charge.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Lincoln sniggers. He actually sniggers. “I know how that sounds, believe me. Take your father and the trafficking side of his operations.”
A violent shudder rolls through my body. I can hardly bear thinking about it. When I do, Giulia’s face inks itself onto the back of my eyelids.
“That will never go away. As long as there are men and women out there who are desperate to get away from terrible situations, there will be men like your father willing to exploit them. Trafficking is huge business. It brings in enormous revenue. We can’t eradicate it, but there are men like Ronan who are willing to transport those people and ensure they get moved onto something better.”
“For profit,” I spit, disgusted by the idea.
“Well, of course. It would make no sense otherwise. He’s not a humanitarian, but he’s not a monster, either. He’ll make less money, no doubt. And, no, those men and women will never get to have a four-bed detached in the country with two pet ponies and holidays in Mauritius. They’ll likely end up with cleaning jobs, living in a flat above a takeaway, which isn’t fair, but life isn’t fair. They’ll be safe. They won’t be sold into prostitution or slavery. They’ll be sent to the destination they’ve paid for and left with the opportunity to make their own way. What happens from there is on them, not Ronan.”
It amazes me how he can see such a situation as so black and white. I want to be angry with him, repulsed by his views…but then I think of Giulia and how much happier I think she’d have been with something as simple as a cleaning job and a flat above a chip shop. Granted, she wasn’t smuggled into Italy I don’t think, but the principle is the same. They used her as a slave, treated her like shit, plied her with junk to keep her compliant and beat her when she wasn’t. My best guess is, if someone like this Ronan guy could’ve got her to the UK, away from those vile gangsters, she’d have had the opportunity to live a decent life. One without fear. And maybe she’d still be alive…
There is no right answer. Not for us, anyway. There are too many bad people in the world. If the good ones can’t clear them all out, then maybe letting the mediocre criminals have a shot is the next best thing.
Mediocre criminals. Christ. “I can’t believe this is my life,” I mutter aloud, unintentionally.
“I’m sorry, Sophia. Truly.”
Scooting closer, I look him in the eyes, allowing myself to get drawn into those pools of blue like I always do. My heart sinks. I think they have the potential to drown me one day if I stare too long. The worst part is I’m not even afraid, because no matter what he says, I know he’d jump in after me.
“I don’t need you to be sorry. I only need you to believe me.”
Lincoln tips his chin, silently questioning me.
