Sins of the Father: MANTEQUERO BOOK 3 (3 page)

“What for?” Rupert looked completely baffled.

“What for what?”
“Why are you putting make-up on?”
“Well, you know.” Samantha spread her hands in a vague gesture. “I want to make a good impression.”
“She’ll love you. And anyway why ever would you paint a different face on top of your own beautiful one?”
She stopped dead. He said it again. He said she was beautiful. She stared at him, lost for words.

“You are beautiful.” He took her face in both his hands and gazed
intensely into her eyes. Then — and she was never sure afterwards who initiated it — they had their arms around each other and he was kissing her. It was all right. The noses didn’t get in the way. He didn’t try to eat her. It was soft and yielding and utterly wonderful. All the things she had worried about, like whether you could breathe, whether you could feel each other’s teeth, whether your stomach would rumble or you’d need to sneeze or, worse still, have a wee, none of those things happened. They just seemed to slide into the kiss as if they had years of experience.

Then suddenly, just as she was really getting into it, Rupert pulled back.

“Oh Samantha, I’m so sorry. Sorry Sam.”

She stared back at him, completely confused.

“What? What is it, Rupert? Was it horrible?”

Rupert spread his hands, his expression one of despair.

“No, no. It was wonderful, perfect. I just can’t do it.”
“But why? I don’t understand. I thought it was wonderful too.” And now he was spoiling it.

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
“Hurt me! Rupert, you’re not making any sense. Why would you hurt me? You were gentle. I loved it. Tell me what you mean.”

She was so frustrated and confused she wanted to stamp her foot and have a tantrum.

“I – I can’t tell you.”

Samantha glared at him. “You can’t just leave it like that, Rupert. You’ve got to tell me. It’s not bloody fair!” And she actually did stamp her foot. Like a bloody four-year-old. She felt humiliated and ashamed.

“Rupert!” She reached out and grabbed both his hands, holding them firmly between her own. Then she began to speak more calmly. “Rupert, whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m safe. You know that. I would never betray a secret.”

And so he told her, speaking slowly at first, then getting more confident as he lost himself in his story.

“I have these dreams. The same ones, over and over again. It’s always in the same place. I’m standing on a mountainside watching the sunset. Below me the valley drops away and in front of me there are more mountains, but not so high. In the far distance the sky becomes a darker blue and I think it’s the sea, but it’s too hazy to be sure.

“Beside me there is a dark figure – a man. He is talking to me. He calls me his son, but then he calls me by the wrong name. I can’t see his face. He is taller than me and he is wearing a big hat, like the cowboys in the Wild West. He is carrying something on his shoulder – some kind of sack, I think.

“
It’s getting darker and I can’t see anything very clearly.

“
He points down the valley to a little village below and he says  - “See that, Ignacio? That is our village. It is the place where I was born. Those are our people. Come with me and I will show you”- and I start to walk down the slope beside him. Then –” Rupert stopped and choked on the next word. Samantha said nothing for fear that he would stop altogether. “Then he goes into a house and there’s a young woman on the bed and he leans over to kiss her. Only he isn’t just kissing her, he’s sort of. . .
sucking.
And I know – I don’t know how I know – but I know he’s slowly killing her, sucking out all her substance, all the fat from her body.” Rupert shuddered, then went on, “And sometimes it’s me. I’m him. I’m doing it.” He stopped and put his head in his hands, moaning. Samantha reached out and put her hand on his knee and he dropped his hands and looked at her, his face a mask of pain. “It’s all right, Rupert. It’s only a dream. Here.” She put her arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug.

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, turning his face away. “I – I
like
it.”

She took his face in both her hands and made him face her. “Listen to me,” she said, very seriously. “It’s only a dream. It doesn’t matter how horrible it is or how you feel in it. It’s still only a dream.”

He took her hands and very gently lowered them from his face. “You say it doesn’t matter that it’s only a dream,” he said. “But the point is, what sort of people have dreams like that?”
Samantha shrugged. “Anybody,” she said. “I’ve had some pretty lurid ones myself.”

“Yes, but I bet you don’t kill people in them.”
“I do, actually. Or at least I try to. I regularly have one where I’m smashing Mrs Richards in the face with a hockey stick and she’s covered in blood and I’ve smashed all her teeth out and she’s
still
laughing at me.”

“Bloody hell! Who’s Mrs Richards?”

“The games mistress at my last school. She used to torture and humiliate me in front of the other girls. It’s bad enough being fat without teachers encouraging everyone to laugh at you.”

Rupert’s face twisted in sympathy. “But that’s awful. She should be sacked. Did you report her?”

“My mother did, but they just said it was all part of the rough and tumble of school and they had every faith in Mrs Richards.”

“I’ve a bloody good mind to go round there and smash her in the face with a hockey stick myself.”

Samantha laughed at the belligerent expression on his face. “You see. Anybody can have homicidal dreams. The difference is, most of us don’t go out and do it in real life.”

Rupert continued to frown.

“Come on. You don’t really think you’re going to start creeping into people’s rooms at night and sucking out all their fat, do you?

Rupert thought about it. “I don’t know. I suppose it does sound a bit unlikely. I just felt. . .” he shrugged helplessly. “I felt it ought to mean something.”

“I don’t know much about dream interpretation,” said Samantha, “but there are a couple of things that strike me.” Rupert looked up expectantly.

“The man says he is your father and you’ve been trying to find out about your father all this time. Yet he seems to be some sort of monster. Even, maybe, the devil himself. That image of standing on the mountain while he promises you all the joys of his world is almost biblical. You know, the  temptation of Jesus, when the devil takes him up a high mountain and promises him the Kingdom of the Earth if he will only worship him.”

Rupert gave a little start. It was exactly like that. Why hadn’t
he
seen it?

“And then he turns out to be a serial killer or maybe, even, some kind o
f vampire. That seems to me like you are afraid of finding out about him and you’ve made him into a monster so that when you do find him, however awful he is, he won’t be as awful as your dream and you won’t be disappointed.”

For the first time since they began the conversation, Rupert brightened.
“What do you think?”

“I think,” said Rupert, gathering her into his arms, “that I ought to kiss you again. I’ll try to make a better job of it this time.”

And he did  -  and it was -
so
much better this time.

III

It was well after four o’ clock by the time they got to Mrs Winton’s house. They came wandering along, hand in hand, gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes.

As they got to the little gate in the hedge, the front door opened and a young woman with wild dark hair came bounding out. “Where have you been? I thought you were never coming.”

“Sorry, Patsy. We got - a bit distracted.” Rupert looked down fondly at Samantha, who beamed back at him.

Patsy grinned. “So that’s how the land lies, is it? Hello, you must be Samantha.”

Samantha managed to drag her eyes away from Rupert and hold her hand out to Patsy, who completely ignored it and instead enveloped Samantha in a hug. “I’m
so
pleased to meet you. Rupert told me all about you but I never realised you were an item. I thought you were just really good friends.”

“I think we’re sort of both,” Samantha said, smiling shyly.

“Brill!” She turned and hugged Rupert, rather more enthusiastically than was necessary in Samantha’s opinion and then said, “Come on in. I’ve got loads to tell you.”

They went up the steps and into the cottage, and Samantha looked around in wonder. She’d never been in Mrs Winton’s house before. It was very old-fashioned, full of overstuffed furniture and books, with an open fireplace. Not quite what she’d imagined. Mrs Winton seemed pretty modern in her approach. On the other hand, she did love books and this place was almost like a shrine to books. There were bookcases lining the walls.
A small tabby cat was sitting on the rug in front of the fire. The room was like a picture postcard representing old-fashioned domestic comfort.

Then the cat jumped up and s
poilt the illusion. It ran to Rupert, who was in the act of sitting down on the settee, catching him off balance so that he half-fell onto the seat. “Jessica!” he cried. “What a lovely welcome.” The cat was licking his face enthusiastically.

“What an adorable cat,” Samantha said. “She’s very small. Is she fully-grown yet?”

Rupert cracked out laughing. “See how youthful you look, Jessica,” he said to the cat and then, turning to Samantha. “She’s older than me.”

“You’re kidding!” The cat beamed up at her, its eyes half-closed, and when
Samantha came to sit beside Rupert, she delicately picked her way from his lap to hers and reached up to lick her face. “She’s just utterly gorgeous,” said Samantha.

“She
is
a lovely cat,” Rupert said. “She’s nice to everybody. Doesn’t usually lick people’s faces, though. So maybe she’s decided you’re family.” Samantha smiled, delighted.

Holding the cat against her, she resumed her survey of the room.

“I didn’t think anyone had an open fire these days,” she remarked.

“Oh, it’s not real,” said Patsy. “It’s gas. We’ve got proper central heating as well.”

Not so behind the times after all, then.

“I just never imagined Mrs Winton’s house would be quite so old-fashioned.”

“Well, actually, it’s my house but we share it.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I just assumed –” Samantha clapped her hand to her mouth in embarrassment

“It’s OK.” Patsy smiled kindly. “Everyone assumes that. But I inherited it, you see. And Auntie Alison loved it. And when she split up with her husband she moved in with me and we’ve shared the house ever since. She looks after all the bills and stuff, and I’ve got a lovely home to come back to.”

Strangely, Samantha had never really thought about Mrs Winton’s husband. Of course she must have had one at some time or she would be Miss something. She’d ask Rupert about it later. Now was not the time.

Patsy had moved into the kitchen. “What do you want to drink?” she called through the open doorway. “Tea, coffee, coke?”

Simultaneously, Rupert answered, “Coke” and Samantha answered, “Tea.” They both stopped in confusion.

“It’s all right. I’m doing both.”

Samantha poked Rupert in the ribs. “Are you going to ask her?” she whispered.

“Ask her what?”

“About your father, stupid.”

Patsy stuck her head round the door again. “Milk and sugar?”

“Just a dash of milk, please,” Samantha said. “No sugar.”

“Right,” said Patsy, and disappeared again.

Samantha turned to Rupert again. “Well?”
“I have to wait for the right time.”

“Right time for what?” asked Patsy, who had just entered the room carrying a tray.

“I – er.” Rupert wriggled uncomfortably.

“He wants to know about his father,” Samantha said. “He’s been having some awful dreams and we think it’s to do with not being able to find out. We thought you might know something.”

“Why don’t you ask Auntie Heather?” Patsy asked, setting the tray down carefully on the coffee table in front of them. On it were tea, in a pretty china cup with a saucer, coke in a tall glass with ice and lemon, and a drink that looked suspiciously like gin and tonic.

“Mum? She won’t tell me. I’ve already asked loads of times. She won’t tell me anything. Just says he’s dead now so none of it matters. And, before you ask, I did ask Auntie Alison once and she changed the subject. I think she’s been sworn to secrecy.”

“Mmmm. . . tricky.” Patsy sat on the other side of Rupert, picked up her glass and sipped at it with obvious relish. Then, putting the glass back firmly on the tray, she said, “Well, I’ll tell you what little I know, but you have to remember I was only eight at the time. They didn’t tell me everything.”
Rupert and Samantha both sat back, for all the world like small children expecting a bedtime story.

“It all started when my Auntie June went on holiday and didn’t come back. Auntie Alison was her friend and when she couldn’t find out anything, she and Auntie Heather, who was also her friend, decided to go to Spain to look for her. Well when they came back a couple of weeks later Auntie Heather had gone really thin and both of them were in a dreadful state.”

Rupert and Samantha exchanged a worried glance.
“It turned out that Auntie June had fallen in love with someone called the Mantequero and he had killed her.”  She paused for a moment. “Although Auntie Alison said he hadn’t
meant
to kill her. He’d just loved her to death. Later she took me to Spain to see the grave.”

“He
killed
her!” Samantha had gone pale.

Rupert looked confused. “But where does my father come into this?”

Patsy put her arm around his shoulder. “Nobody told me this, but children overhear a lot of stuff they’re not supposed to, and what I overheard was that Auntie Heather also fell in love with the Mantequero, but Auntie Alison got her away in time. That was why she was so thin, you see. What the Mantequero did was eat all your fat so you got really thin.”

Both Samantha and Rupert looked completely aghast. For a while no-one spoke, then Rupert said, very slowly and carefully, “So you’re saying my father was a murderer?”

“Well, Auntie Alison said he didn’t
mean
to.”

“But he nearly
killed my Mum as well as your Auntie?”

Patsy took her hand away from his shoulder and grasped both his hands in her own. “Look, I don’t know for sure. It’s just stuff I overheard. I may not have understood it. I was only eight.”

Rupert looked down at his hands, still holding Patsy’s. He let out a long, shuddering sigh. “I think he did, though,” he said. “It all fits.” And he told Patsy about the dreams. When he had finished there was a silence, then Samantha said,” What I don’t understand is if he
is
your father why doesn’t he know your name? Why does he call you Ignacio?”

“Because
his
name was Ignacio.” Alison had come into the room, unnoticed. “In Spain, the eldest son is always named after his father.” She paused, frowning. “But if it
is
him how is he communicating with you? He died, Rupert. I saw him die.” But she bit her lip, remembering what Rafa had said -
You cannot always kill these things.

“I’m going to call your mother. I think it’s time we told you the whole story. But I need her permission first. I promised, you see.”

****

“And then they fell on him – all the villagers – with pitchforks and scythes and anything else that came to hand. And when they stood back, those who had no weapons threw stones at his body.” Alison’s voice caught and she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

Rupert, Samantha and Patsy were staring at her in horror. Heather was looking down at her feet, a dull blush creeping up her neck.

“So,” Rupert said, “there is no doubt that he is dead.” It was a statement, not a question. Samantha moved closer to him and put her arm around his back.

Alison glanced quickly at Heather, who was still staring at her feet. “No,” she said slowly. “I suppose not.” But she sounded uncertain.

“So what do the dreams mean?” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “What am I supposed to do about it? Am I talking to his ghost or what?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Alison said.
Heather looked up. “What?  You don’t believe in ghosts? You can believe in a vampire that sucks your fat, but you don’t believe in ghosts?”

“I saw the vampire,” Alison said quietly, “with my own eyes.”

“Anyway, if it’s not a ghost, what is it?”
“Well,” Alison cleared her throat, “it could be Rupert’s sub-conscious creating his father from things he overheard.”

Heather gave her a withering look and sat back with her arms folded. “He never overheard anything from me.”

“He could have happened to overhear something. Children do.”
Patsy blushed and took another sip of her gin. She had refilled the glass twice since Heather had arrived and was beginning to feel slightly reckless.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

All eyes turned towards her. “Doesn’t matter?” Heather’s voice was almost a screech. “He’s having nightmares, he can’t sleep, he’s in the middle of his A levels and he’s a nervous wreck and you think it doesn’t matter?”

“I don’t mean what he’s going through doesn’t matter,” Patsy cut across her. “What I mean is it doesn’t matter whether it’s the ghost of his father or something he’s conjured up fr
om his imagination or even if his father is somehow still alive and communicating with him telepathically.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alison shudder. “What it actually
is
doesn’t matter because whatever it is the solution is the same.”

She had everyone’s attention now. Heather and Rupert were gazing at her with a kind of yearning intensity.

“He needs to go to Spain – that village.”

“Caserones,” Alison supplied.

“And see his father’s grave and say goodbye.”

The two older women exchanged a glance. Heather raised her eyebrows. “Well, you’re the travel agent,” Alison said.