Goodbye, Kate, page 4
My jaw starts to wobble no matter how hard I will it not to. I don’t doubt his sincerity. He is capable of being as callous as he sounds. He already has been. He abducted me on the street! Breathing quickly through my nose, I straighten my back in a futile attempt to look brave. I have questions, I think, but I’m not nearly courageous enough to speak. Instead, I simply look at him, wondering where the man I’ve been living with for the last seven months has gone. He doesn’t even look the same. He’s dressed funny, in smart pants and a shirt and not his usual jeans and tee.
“You never wear pants,” I note. Such a ridiculous comment, but I’m too afraid to say anything else.
“Jeans are too restrictive when I’m working,” he answers.
“Working,” I repeat, nodding while I try to process his words. “And this is work? Kidnap, and…murder.” I say it slowly, carefully, quietly petrified of the man I thought I knew.
“Yes.”
“Not on a builder’s yard.”
“No.”
“But…you come home dirty. You’ve got a hardhat.” I realise how stupid I sound the second I’ve said it. It can’t be hard to buy a hardhat and rub some muck on your clothes. But wait… “And I’ve called you there, on site.”
“You’ve called a number. A number which someone is paid to answer to tell you I’m busy and I’ll call you back.”
It hits me like a thump in the chest. It’s true. I’ve never had reason to disturb him often at work, but I can’t recall a time when he’s ever been the one to answer when I have.
“So…” I run my tongue over my teeth in an effort to moisten my mouth, but it dries out again just as quickly. “Who would want to…kill me?” I almost want to laugh at myself because it seems so preposterous.
“My employers. You know them as my parents, Arthur and Rosemary Kendall, though their surname is, in fact, Cowan. I couldn’t disclose that to you, however.”
My jaw falls open and seems to lock into that position.
“They’re not, of course. My parents I mean. I don’t have any parents.”
“But…”
“Why?” he finishes for me.
I can only nod, and it’s so slight I’m not entirely sure I didn’t just do it in my head.
“Retaliation.” He draws in a deep breath and lets his gaze wander to the window. “Their son was killed. Burnt to a crisp when one of their storage lockers was targeted with a firebomb. He was just a kid. Fifteen.” He sounds…sad. Dare I say angry, too. He must’ve known this boy well, whoever he was.
“What’s that got to do with me? I-I don’t know any boy, or anything about any fire.” Is that why I’m still alive? Is this some case of mistaken identity?
“But your father does.”
My neck jerks back in surprise. This ordeal is making less sense by the second.
“He’s responsible. He sent his men to that locker. He took Arthur’s child, so now Arthur must take his.”
“His men? What do you mean, ‘his men?’ His…staff? Like, chefs?”
“Oh, Kate, stop being so damn naïve. This must be slotting together like some giant, albeit macabre, jigsaw by now. The pieces have been swimming around you all your life. The signs were there. Come on, now.” He sounds like he’s scolding me for being stupid and it hurts. I’m not stupid. I’m just a normal woman with a normal family, a normal dad who makes me feel better when I cry.
“Why do you think he moved his business down south, huh? So far away from you?”
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“To Kent, in a location so conveniently close to Dover.”
“Dover?”
He rolls his eyes. I’m frustrating him, and I don’t know why. “The port, Kate. He needs to be near the port.”
“I…”
“And the restaurant where you worked. Is it normal for a head chef to have a locked room all to himself?”
“Dominic?” How in the hell is he connected to all of this? Is anyone in my life who I thought they were? “He…he just likes his privacy that’s all.” Simon, if that’s even his real name, is right. I am stupid. Hearing that excuse aloud sounds absurd. No one gets privacy at work.
“If you were to bust that door down you’d find, I don’t know, fifty-mil worth of narcotics, at a guess. Weapons. More cash than you’ve ever seen in your life.”
“No.” I shake my head and I can’t get it to stop. Side to side it goes, making me dizzy. He’s lying. Or confused.
I need to get out.
“And your mother?”
“Stop,” I beg.
“Never wondered why you didn’t go to a funeral, or why she doesn’t have a grave you can visit?”
“Please…” My head’s still shaking, causing the tears bubbling on the rims of my eyes to roll down my cheeks. “My dad didn’t want me to be upset,” I argue, every word cracking on my lips.
“Still? Even after all these years? You’ve never asked him? Googled the ‘car accident.’” Through misty eyes I see him air-quote the words car accident. I need him to stop. I can’t take any more.
“There was no funeral, Kate. She has no official grave. Your mother was murdered, likely disposed of by one of your father’s men.”
“No, no, no!” I’m on my feet and darting towards the bathroom before I finish yelling, bile clawing at my throat.
Hovering over the toilet, dry heaves rip through my body. My stomach aches. My throat stings. My head throbs. Everything just…hurts. I don’t know what to do, what to believe, how to get out of this godforsaken hellhole.
Part of me wonders if I do know the truth as I start to remember my dad’s scary-looking ‘friends’ who used to visit the house when I was little. Or the way he’d often try to get rid of me under the guise that he was busy working, which he was I suppose…just not the kind of business I imagined. The…oh my God… The gun I stumbled upon under his mattress when I tried to build a castle at about seven years old. He took it swiftly, told me not to play in my parents’ bedroom, and then said it was an old toy from when he was a kid. I believed him. I believed him and then forgot about it. Why wouldn’t I? He was my dad. Dads knew everything, and grown-ups didn’t tell lies.
I trusted him.
I trusted Simon.
Now…I have nobody.
“Kate?” Simon’s hand clasps gently over my shoulder.
I shrug away from him immediately. “Don’t touch me.”
He does as I ask, or rather, as I demand. “You know now, don’t you? That I’m telling the truth.”
Ignoring him, I rush to the sink and rinse my mouth before splashing my face. I’m too hot. I’m dizzy. Everything hurts. Eventually, I stand straight and put my hand on my hip, trying desperately to fake the confidence I so wish I had. “I’d like to hear his side, first.”
“No,” is all he says. He’s so aloof and calculating. Even though I don’t think he’d hurt me, well, any more than he already has, he still scares me.
“He’s my dad. He won’t let anything happen to me.”
“Try telling your mother that.”
An audible gasp shoots from my throat, but then I swallow any words that may have followed. Because…he’s right. I don’t know who I’m dealing with. I don’t know who my father is. At least Simon’s been honest with me…eventually. Somewhat. Hopefully.
God. Like that makes him a decent person.
“You’re so different,” I say, raking my gaze up and down his body. His face is the same. Angular, stubbled, dark blue eyes. His light brown hair remains in the same short back and sides cut with the longer, rugged top swept to one side. His physique is perfect, as always. But… “You hold yourself different. More rigid. You talk different, so short and deep. You’re not my Simon anymore.” The thought punctures my heart. I loved him, and he’s gone. He’s standing right in front of me, yet he isn’t here.
“I was never your Simon.” The words catch in his throat a little which, bizarrely, makes me relax. It’s the first sign I’ve seen of him being human, of being capable of emotion, possibly even regret. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
“Is that even your name?”
“No,” he admits. For a moment I think we’re back to infuriatingly terse answers, but then he continues. “My name is Lincoln Hollis. My birthday is on the first of August, but Arthur and Rosemary, mainly Rosemary, celebrate it on the same day as you - twenty-first of March, which is the day they saved my life. Also, the day I first killed someone. I was fourteen. And that’s enough for now.” He turns away, leaving me utterly stunned, yet bizarrely…sad for him, and then he pauses by the door. “We’ll be leaving when it gets dark. I have some supplies for you through here.”
Supplies?
Before he disappears completely, I feel a sudden urge to call him back. “Si…Lincoln?”
His shoulders stiffen at the sound of his name, but he stops regardless. He doesn’t speak though.
“Was any of it real?” I don’t think I need to elaborate for him to know what I mean. It can’t have all been a lie. An act. So many tender touches, all those lingering looks, embraces, silly jokes and laughter – bellyaching laughter… I refuse to believe that was all fake.
Lincoln loiters in the same spot, completely motionless, for a few long, tense seconds. There’s a palpable pressure between us, filling the distance. I can almost feel him even though he’s nowhere near. He blows a sigh through his nose and drops his head. “I…I don’t know.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m left alone in the grimy bathroom, panic welding my feet to the floor.
What’s going to happen to me?
Simon is gone. His body is here but it’s not him. It’s painstakingly clear with every move he makes and every word he speaks. The man in the next room is a stranger, and he scares the crap out of me.
I find myself fiddling with my engagement ring, my thumb rubbing over the thin gold band around my finger, as it often does when I’m nervous or bored. Looking down at it, I feel a wave of fresh grief. The pretty ring used to make me smile as I’d proudly stretch out my hand to admire it. Now, it’s heavy with lies, weighing down my arm and making me feel sick. The sight of it disgusts me. Looking away from my hand, I rip the fraudulent band from my finger and throw it into the toilet before pulling the chain. I don’t bother seeing whether it’s flushed away or lingered at the bottom of the bowl. I never want to see it again.
Instinct screams at me to find a way to my dad. Despite what I’ve been told, he’s still my father. He’s always protected me. And, well, I’ve known him all my life. I still don’t know the whole truth, and I’m not sure I trust Lincoln to tell it. He was sent to kill me today. Okay… Even if that’s true, that doesn’t explain the last two years of our lives together. He’s giving me his truth. I want my father’s version of it, too. Hell, I want some damn evidence! I can’t take anyone’s word on what I’ve heard. My life was normal a few hours ago. Uneventful. The worst crime I’d ever seen being committed was somebody jumping a red traffic light, and now I’m hearing about drugs and guns and murder being carried out by my own bloody father and the man I planned to marry!
Ambling over to the door, I close it and rest my head against the wood. I need a few minutes alone. Knowing Lincoln can’t see, I let my tears fall freely, yet silently. They’re hot against my cheeks, cooling when they drip onto my chest. I want to leave. I don’t like it here. I don’t even know where here is.
And then I step back, my lip quivering, and notice one of those Safety Procedure notices hotels have stuck to the back of the door. Only this one…is in another language.
En cas d’incendie :
Quittez la chambre quand on vous conseille de le faire.
Alertez les sapeurs-pompiers sur le 112.
“D’incendie… Incendie.” I run my finger over the word I remember learning in school. Incendie. Fire. That would make this French. Mind you, Incendie could mean something else in a different language for all I know, but the words look French-ish. There’s no point in reading the rest of the notice. I don’t know what any of it says anyway, or why it’s here. Seems like whoever owns this place can’t afford decent furniture, or someone to clean it, so perhaps they can’t afford English signs either. Maybe they landed a cheap batch off the back of a lorry. That’s the only reasonable explanation, seeing as we’re not in France.
Holy…
No.
He’s not…
“Lincoln!”
Chapter Four
Lincoln
When Kate calls my name from the bathroom an uneasy quiver climbs up my spine. My name taints her sweet tongue. The sound of it only serves as confirmation that she’s finally been dragged into my world.
Only when the door to the shoddy bathroom opens with a loud creak, do I realise that I haven’t answered her. “Lincoln?”
I wish she were still sedated. “Yes?”
She sounds so confused. Afraid, even. A couple of days ago I would’ve been picking her up and twirling her around the kitchen, telling her how much I loved her. I never expected to enjoy that experience as much as I did. Sometimes, I’d forget I existed. Sometimes, I was Simon. When it was just the two of us, locked inside for a whole weekend, watching movies or arguing about dirty clothes on the floor…the horrors I’ve lived didn’t exist. It was relatively easy to forget about the people I’d killed, the dangerous situations I’d been in, or the reason I even knew Kate. We were just two people, picking up laundry.
But Monday always came.
“Where are we?” Kate asks. There’s a pitch to her tone that tells me she already has suspicions about our location.
I’m sitting on the bed, facing the window, and I don’t turn to face her. “Amiens. France.”
The shallow gasp that leaves her mouth is faint, as if she tried to hold it in. “But…how?” Her perplexity is understandable. Unconsciousness messes with your sense of time.
“I drove us here. I kept you sedated throughout the journey.”
Silence falls while she tries to process the news. It doesn’t last long…unfortunately. “That’s impossible. You could’ve killed me!”
“Yes,” I agree. No point in lying. The drugs I used can be lethal if not monitored with complete accuracy.
“And…the border? How did you…”
“I know people.”
“Right.” She scoffs. “Of course. Silly me.”
The mattress springs squeak as she sits down behind me. “You…slept with me. Fucked me over and over, knowing I didn’t have a clue who you were. Did that amuse you? Turn you on?”
The subject change appears from nowhere. Hearing such words come from her mouth, her usual vivacious tone now dark and low, thick with venom… It disgusts me. “No.” I felt none of those things. I was turned on, of course, but not because of the deceit…because she’s fucking beautiful.
“Did you fuck others, too?” She chuckles without humour. “Sure you did. You might’ve been my fiancé, but I wasn’t yours.”
“No, I didn’t.” Relationships have never been of interest to me. They serve no purpose. Waste valuable time. They’re a burden. Even a quick fuck with a random stranger entails a light amount of conversation I’d rather not bother with. I have urges, needs like any other man, and Kate satisfied those. I had no reason to go elsewhere. Initially…
After a few months, I didn’t want to go elsewhere. I don’t know why. Convenience. It must be.
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
Finally, I turn to face her. The first thing I notice is that her engagement ring is missing. The sight makes my heartrate spike for a moment which is…odd. I dismiss the feeling immediately. “What you believe is irrelevant to me. Everything I have told you today, and from today, is and will be the absolute truth.”
We don’t have time for this. She needs to get ready. Standing, I turn around and fish the carrier bag out of the black holdall at the foot of the bed.
“That’s a…lot of money,” she notes, her jaw falling open as she cranes her neck to peer inside the holdall. “Being a fake builder pays well, it seems.”
She’s nosy. I’ll need to keep my eye on that. “Here,” I say, passing her the carrier bag. “You need to get ready.”
Kate is correct. I do, in fact, have a lot of money. Far more than the several bundles stuffed into my bag. Arthur Cowan does pay well. The figures surrounding a man like that run into the millions. Moreover, I was his top man. He trusted me with many of his financial arrangements, collecting taxes, recovering debts. Over the years, I have had, and made good use of, ample opportunities to skim a little cream from the top of the very large pot of milk, saving some for myself. It’s a betrayal that would be punishable by death if discovered, but I knew what I was doing. I always knew this day would come eventually, a day when I would be forced to break my allegiance to the Cowan family and start afresh on my own. For that, I would need capital, enough money to take me into hiding and remain a ghost for the rest of my life. There’s only ever been one person I could truly count on.
Myself.
For a moment, Kate simply stares at me, like she’s trying to decide whether to argue. She doesn’t. Good decision. She takes the bag and rummages inside, pulling out clothes first – black jeans and a white vest. After laying them on the bed she sits the fresh underwear on top of them, and then her eyes narrow as she pulls out the next item. “Hair bleach?” she asks. “And…scissors?”
“Changing your hair is optional, but recommended,” I tell her. “And I want those scissors back when you’re finished.”
“You expect me to cut my own hair?”
“I recommend it,” I repeat.
Huffing, she shakes her head and starts shoving everything back into the carrier bag. The internal conflict battling inside her is evident on her face. She doesn’t quite know whether to be afraid of me, or angry with me. I imagine she’s both. “My fish,” she begins as she rises to her feet. “Did you arrange for them to be taken care of?”
