The Last Witness (27 page)

  Silence as she finished, crushing silence: she could practically hear Gordon swallow as he tried to summon his thoughts and some composure to be able to meet her gaze with equal steadiness.

  After a moment, she added thoughtfully: ‘I suppose there might have been some sort of tame reconciliation later if it wasn’t for Andreos’s suicide. I blamed my father mostly for that too – always pushing towards this perfect picture of what
he
thought everyone should be doing with their lives. But nothing was ever good enough for him.’ She bit at her bottom lip and lightly shook her head. ‘After all, who could live up to the great Anthony George?’

  Gordon merely nodded, the stifling silence returning. ‘You could have told me,’ he said at length. ‘I’d have understood.’

  ‘Could I…
could I?’
She saw him flinch under the feverish intensity of her stare and look slightly away again, suddenly not so sure. ‘This wasn’t just about
you
not knowing, Gordon, it was about everyone not knowing – but most especially me. Because if I had to admit what had happened to anyone, I’d have also had to admit it to myself. And before you know it, I’d have been back in the bathroom, swallowing another bottle of pills. And so I buried it: buried the thought, buried the memory, buried
everything
. It never happened.’

  She rubbed her left temple, her brow furrowing heavily. ‘The years in Marrakech and in hippie communes weren’t just to seriously piss-off my father – it was all part of the oblivion, the forgetting. Then eleven years later I woke up in a Camden Town squat laying partly in somebody else’s vomit, having lost a flatmate just the month before from an OD, and trying to fight my way through an LSD haze to work out if the pattern on the wall ahead was wallpaper or just in my mind – and finally said enough.
Enough!
I realized then that I was punishing myself more than my father – he’d probably given up caring long ago. And meanwhile I wasn’t making good on what I’d done: no amends were being made. That’s when I cleaned up my act and started working with Uncle Christos. Then a few years later we met, married and started adopting – which was how I felt I could possibly make amends.’

  ‘Uncle Christos to the rescue again.’ Gordon raised his glass, but it lacked any exuberance: the mire of abortions, attempted suicides, lost children and lost years, clung too heavy in the air for even a trace of a smile. ‘Was it always him that helped you?’ Gordon remembered her telling him that during the years in the hippie wilderness, Uncle Christos sent bits and pieces of money. Her father had set up a trust fund for her, but she refused to touch it on principle – so Uncle Christos had stepped in.

  ‘Yes, pretty much. You know, my father was annoyed even that I wanted to name the baby Christos. He protested: "You only name children after dead relatives”.’ A fleeting wry grin curled her mouth. ‘There was always this rivalry between them, mostly coming from my father's side: "If Christos had done this, if Christos had done that – he could have been as successful as me." But my father seemed to have missed the point completely. Uncle Christos was too laid-back to be bothered to compete. He didn't want to be a big shot like my father, didn't have the first inclination to be ruthless or determined like him. And when I saw those qualities as endearing, started to see Uncle Christos as an alternate father – that incensed my father even further. He couldn't stomach it – or maybe he truly couldn't comprehend it – but he used to rub the salt in all the more about Uncle Christos being a failure.'

  She looked at her glass and tapped its rim, as if prompting where she was with has story. ‘So making amends became the thing. We adopted, named him Christos, and though for a while everything was fine – it still wasn’t enough. So when he was old enough, I joined the agency... to see how many children I could make happy after the child's life I might have destroyed – my
own
child.’ Elena gripped the stem of her glass tight. Here eyes were watering heavily again.

  Gordon wanted to reach across to grip her hand, assure her that everything was all right. He understood. But her other hand was clenched tight into her, and with her still caught up in the throes of her confession, her body trembling slightly, his reaching all the way across would have felt like he was imposing, invading her space. He felt frustrated, inadequate. A decade of secrets stripped away between them, and he couldn't reach across to bridge that final gap of the table-top.

  Elena shrugged helplessly. ‘But still it wasn't enough. I had to save one of those children myself… so we adopted young Katine. Still something missing, a need there – and the only thing that helped fill it was each child I saw successfully placed with a happy family. Because each one told me that the son I'd given up had probably gone to a good family somewhere: he’d been happy, had had a good life. And I was doing fine...’ Elena smiled crookedly. She was suddenly reminded of a line from an old Bill Cosby LP.
‘I was doin’ fine… only then my eyeballs started bleeding.’
The thought seemed so ridiculously out of place that she burst out with a nervous laugh; but it went awry, became a half-laugh, half-cry, her muttered ‘Until…’ on a fractured breath barely out before her face contorted, the build-up of her emotions finally too much. Her shoulders sagged as if a sack had been laid across them and her head dipped as she sank into uncontrollable sobbing.

  That brought Gordon around to hug and console her, though still he felt inadequate: it had taken the final submission of his wife’s tears for him to be able to cross that last distance between them: it wasn’t that noble.

  He hugged her a moment more, trying to savour that now, finally, there were no more secrets between them; but apart from the gentle quaking of her body with her crushing emotional distress, it felt no different to all the other times he’d embraced her.

  He made fresh coffee for them both – always Gordon’s solution in times of trouble, Elena thought wryly, wiping back her tears:
make tea of coffee
– poured a Bailey’s for her and a Glenffidich for himself, and she told him the rest: how Ryall with Lorena had finally broken down the wall she’d long built up and set her on her search of the past ten days that now too, like her help mission for Lorena, had hit a dead-end.

  ‘Until Ryall I’d always told myself that my son was probably in a good home somewhere, happy. And each child I saw successfully placed re-affirmed that. Then with Ryall it hit me that no matter how secure and happy-looking that home might be on the surface, all kinds of horrors can be lurking beneath. And suddenly I had to know. I had to know what kind of life he’d had. Whether he
had
been happy, or whether I’d abandoned him to a wolves’ den, a living hell.’

  Gordon thought of venturing how that might help: if he’d had a bad life, how she’d even begin to make up for it. But that base desire to find a long-lost son he knew rose above all else: rationalising wouldn’t help. And besides, the possibility of ever finding him now looked gone, chapter closed – so in the end all he said was, ‘I understand…’ Then after a moment he shook his head. ‘You know, I should have known… should have at least guessed. All the signs were there.’ The depth of antipathy with her father, the lame story – now in retrospect – of her not being able to have children due to an early horse-riding accident, the aid agency, the adoptions… She’d held up a giant route map in front of his face, and he’d hardly noticed.

  ‘How could you have known?’ She raised an eyebrow, sensing that he was just saying it to make her feel good, take some of the burden away that she’d held all of this secret throughout their marriage, deceived him. ‘I’d buried it even from myself, so everyone else was a step further removed. They couldn’t get there until I got there first.’ As she saw the acceptance slowly filter through in Gordon’s eyes, she looked away again, fixing blankly, distantly ahead.

  Gordon came and snuggled her close again. He felt her breath against the hollow of his neck and slowly closed his eyes. She’d finally got there, and now didn’t know where to head next. The route-map had finished in two dead-ends. And he wished he could think of some bright, snappy answer to buoy her spirits.

  Because while the barrier of twelve years of secrets between them had suddenly gone, the son that she would now never be able to find again had as quickly taken its place. While that stayed unresolved, he knew that a part of her would remain distant, out of reach. The barrier would continue, having lifted only briefly for those few moments of her pouring out her heart to him – before crashing back down again. Like some cruel magician’s trick.

FOURTEEN

‘You just don’t seem to grasp the seriousness of this.’ Roman threw his right hand towards Jean-Paul as if he was tossing dice. His hand gestures had become increasingly volatile as their arguing hit fever pitch.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Jean-Paul eyes stayed fixed hard on Roman, had only shifted at moments as their voices raised, as if concerned others might hear beyond his office walls. ‘More than obviously you appreciate. But what I don’t want to do is throw everything away, everything we’ve worked long and hard towards these past three years – over a two minute panic.’

  ‘He could destroy us, Jean-Paul. And yeah, that’s all it takes – two minutes. Two minutes with the wrong thing said. But he was there fucking hours, and he lied to you about it. And that might be just the tip of the iceberg, who knows what else…’

  ‘Enough…
enough!’
Jean-Paul held one hand up. ‘We went through this chapter and verse yesterday. I thought hard on it overnight, and I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to rake over the same ground now.’ Jean-Paul moved the letter-opener used for that morning’s mail to one side. ‘Besides, this isn’t just about you, me and the remnants of our past activities. Georges is practically family. There’s Simone to consider, and our mother too holds great fondness for him. There’d be a lot of people hurt if we made the wrong move on this.’

  ‘I know.’ Roman looked down, bracing his right hand hard on his thigh as if to forcibly stop it from gesturing wildly. ‘But that could be part of the problem right there. You know, that was always our father’s main worry with you: that when it came to the crunch, you might shy away from strong action. That you going the more reasonable, diplomatic route, would one day not be the right route to go. This could be that crunch time now, Jean-Paul, and you’re too blindsided with Simone and family to be able to make the right move.’

  ‘That as may be.’ Jean-Paul shrugged: impatience, as if he’d only half-registered the remark or wished to give it scant relevance. ‘We just can’t be sure yet – which is my main point. And why for the moment I think we should–’

  ‘I mean, if you’ve got a problem with that, you don’t need to say it straight out. The fact that it’s
your
daughter puts you in a predicament, but not necessarily the rest of us. Just silently nod or close your eyes for a second – and I’ll take it as understood that you just don’t want to know about the problem anymore, and I’ll take care of it. I’ll take it off your hands.’

  Jean-Paul visibly jolted with what Roman was suggesting. He blinked heavily for a second, as if he might have picked up the wrong signal. But seeing the intent in Roman’s eyes, his body arched slightly forward, little doubt remained. Jean-Paul contemplated Roman stonily. ‘You know, that’s the other thing father said – that you were far too rash, impulsive, hot-headed. That’s why in the end he left the final decisions with me, not you.’ Jean-Paul’s tone was cutting, acid. ‘And make that decision I will –
when
the time is right and we have all the facts.’

  Roman met Jean-Paul’s glare challengingly, his jaw setting tight; then finally his eyes flickered down uncomfortably. Hopefully he’d given the intended impression: suitably cowered. ‘Yeah, sure… sorry. I, uh… it’s just there’s a lot for us to lose, that’s all.’ He’d feared just this reaction from Jean-Paul, which was why he’d already started sowing the seeds of his other plan. He’d gone as far as he could pushing Jean-Paul conventionally. ‘And maybe too some rumours I heard about Donatiens at the club, and I’m putting two and two together and coming up with five.’

  ‘What sort of rumours?’

  ‘Well, you know, it’s probably nothing.’ Roman tried to shrug it off, but Jean-Paul was looking at him keenly.
God,
he knew how to play them: Leduc, Georges, Venegas, and now Jean-Paul. And they all thought he was so dumb. ‘Just talk that when Georges does the take at the club, he’s a bit over-friendly with a couple of the girls. But, as I say – it’s probably nothing. Only me getting paranoid in face of all this other shit now.’

  As Roman watched the cogs turn in Jean-Paul’s mind, he wondered what was most prominent:
if
the rumours had substance, Georges cheating on Simone would make it a stronger bet that he was also cheating on them; that it would then be easier to make a move on Donatiens vis-à-vis family; or simple, straightforward concern for his daughter’s emotional welfare.

  ‘Still, looks like it warrants watching, following up.’ Jean-Paul’s hands had clasped tight together on the desk top. He freed one and gestured to Roman. ‘Which brings me back to what I think we should do for now. He should be watched closely – I want to know his
every
move. And anything new from the club about Georges, I want to know immediately – not like with this other thing, a month or two later. Right?’

  ‘Sure… sure.’ Roman struggled hard to keep dead-pan, conceal his inner mirth.
Watched closely!
He’d had a bug up Georges’ ass the last month without anyone knowing, and now Jean-Paul was personally sanctioning the club sting he’d already set into motion. Which was just how Roman had hoped it would go.
Played so well.

  And for one of the first times he didn’t feel intimidated in Jean-Paul’s study with its tomes and diplomas; for once,
he
was in control. He talked about Frank and who else he might need to keep an eye on Donatiens, glancing at his watch as if considering when he might be able to get hold of them. But in reality his thoughts were already shifting to timing the final parts of his sting plan and just how much longer Donatiens had to live.

The full impact of Georges’ story hit Simone halfway through her Plaice Florentine. Her fork hovered, suspended, above her plate. She shook her head and closed her eyes for a second. ‘God, what a mess. You should have said something earlier.’

  ‘I know… I know.’ Georges said it like a penance. ‘But I was fresh on the scene and so afraid of coming between your father and Roman by telling tales out of school. And by the time I’d waited, hoping meanwhile Roman would say something himself, it was already too late for me to come clean and make good.’

  ‘But still… Roman…
Roman.’
She shook her head again. ‘If the situation was reversed, he’d have been pretty quick to speak out against you.’

  ‘I know.’ More penance. ‘But I wasn’t aware of that so much then: that I was such a thorn in his side and he didn’t totally agree with Jean-Paul’s new moves with the business. And it was still early days for those moves; I just wasn’t sure how much the old rules of staying silent and not ratting one to the other still applied.’

  Simone stayed looking at him levelly and shrugged, as if she only half accepted his rationale. Her fork finally dipped down again to her plate.

  Georges continued. ‘Okay, now it’s easy to see I made the wrong decision. But it wasn’t made lightly, I can tell you.’ He picked at an Alaska King Crab claw. His favourite, but he wished now he’d chosen something else. It had been difficult enough getting through this with Simone, and at times the cracking of the claws grated, added an extra flinch. ‘I agonised long and hard over it, and more than a few times came close to telling your father.’

  ‘So, fine. You’ve got good reason not to say anything early on. But when you were hauled in by this guy Chenouda – why didn’t you say something straightaway then?’

  ‘There was so much to weigh up. Too much. If Chenouda knew from Savard’s statement that Leduc didn’t have a gun that night, was he aiming for a murder wrap? If so, I felt that was unfair. Because however hasty or stupid, it was an honest mistake by Roman: he
thought
Leduc had a gun.’ Georges leant forward, keeping his voice low, practically a whisper. ‘Also, would that then make me and your father accomplices: me for being there, your father for ordering the meeting. And what about Savard? Did Roman have him killed to cover his tracks, or was Chenouda just pushing that angle for leverage? And again it would have felt odd just blurting out to your father that I’d been lying all that time. It was all bubbling away: all I wanted was a week or two for it to settle and decide what to do. But meanwhile I started to worry that your father might have heard or at least suspected something – and then with our meeting the other day, I knew for sure.’

  ‘Did he mention directly that he knew?’

  ‘No. You know your father – he’s far too subtle for that. He started talking about confiding and commitment, particularly how important this whole change in the business was after Pascal’s death; and how even Art Giacomelli had shown a keen interest because of his own son.’ Georges saw Simone’s brow furrow slightly. He filled in the details.

  As he finished, Simone eased out her breath and sat back. ‘I thought you said “subtle”. He tells you that America’s leading mobster is keen too that you perform well. But don’t feel the pressure any?’ She forced a trite smile, but heavier shadows shifted behind her eyes. She paused for a second, as if deciding whether to reveal them. ‘But with Pascal’s death, my father’s not pulling any punches. It ripped the family apart. You know that my grandma is very religious?’

  ‘Yes… I do.’ Georges decided finally to crack a fresh claw.

  ‘Well, she always kept a statue of St Antoine in her room: he’s the one you pray to when you want things made right. Things that have already gone wrong, or you fear they might do. But as kids, every now and then we’d see St Antoine turn up in the fridge. And we then discovered that when things went wrong and St Antoine hadn’t answered her prayers – she’d stick him in the fridge. So we always knew when things weren’t going right in the family, because there was St Antoine – out in the cold alongside the milk and butter.’ She smiled briefly, but the shadows were quickly back. ‘With Pascal, she prayed and prayed – you know, there was this period of three days when he clung on in a coma and there was slim hope – and when he finally died, we expected to see St Antoine back in the fridge. But he wasn’t there, nor in her room. She’d smashed him, given up all faith in him, or God for that matter. At least for a while.’ She pulled a stray strand of hair back behind one ear. ‘St Antoine didn’t show up in the house again until fifteen months later, and she didn’t even go to church for nine months after Pascal’s death.’

  Georges looked to one side for a moment as the bustle of the restaurant imposed, a waiter showing a party of three to a table close by. Miguel, their usual waiter, smiled over from the bar. It was strange: all the other times they’d come here, their conversation had been so light, carefree. Two young socialites high on the city’s grace list among the throng of yuppies that regularly crowded
Thursday’s
restaurant, three bars and basement disco, with Miguel invariably leading them straight from their table and past the usual disco queue at weekends. On occasion some of her friends from the agency would be there, or they’d meet up with his old friend Mike Landry and his latest date, but most of the time they’d be alone. They would talk about the week’s triumph’s: her about new agency accounts at the agency, him about fresh business ground broken for her father, or where they might vacation that summer or ski that winter; or, more recently, wedding plans. Now he was concerned not just for his status in the Lacaille family, but also, if Chenouda was right, for his life – and he was dumping on her twenty-three year old shoulders the pressure of bailing him out. It was no light burden, far removed from her normal concerns of what colour to choose for the next sports car her father was buying her, and she was rising to it by filling in all the heartfelt family mosaics that might have led to this problem now.

  ‘Is that why your father chose Santoine International for the company name?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It seemed to sit right for him: new hope despite the odds he saw stacked against.’ She took a fresh mouthful and waved her fork. ‘But certainly my father wasn’t just playing on your emotions by mentioning Pascal. So much else changed in the family then, like a house of cards tumbling down: grandpa dying soon after, grandma turning her back on religion for a while… and my father finally deciding to move away from the old ways.’

 
Pascal. Despite the odds.
It gripped Georges all the harder just what a heartfelt quest this had been for Jean-Paul, and how much he’d let him down; it felt almost a cheek, a final insult, that now he was getting his own daughter to bail him out, make good. Now he had her tip-toeing through the same minefield, using terms like ‘old ways’ instead of crime in case someone was listening in.

  Georges shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t be asking you to do this.’

  ‘No, no… it’s okay. I want to help.’ She smiled and shrugged. ‘Besides, I don’t know if there’s anyone else who
can
help you with this. So looks like I’m stuck with it.’

  He knew she was making light of it mainly for his sake, to make him feel that he wasn’t burdening her too much. He reached out and clasped her hand across the table, closing his eyes for a second as if in final penance. ‘Thanks.’

  She leant across and planted a warm and lingering kiss on his lips, as if she somehow sensed that he needed an extra touch of comfort, re-assurance. But it brought a few glances from nearby tables.
God,
how he loved her.
Both
sides of her: fun, flippant Simone with hardly a care in the world, which was all that most people saw; or the little girl who’d grown up before her time under the shroud of a crime family, seeing St Antoine in the fridge next to her milk-shake and flapjacks each time her father or grandfather came out the wrong side of a gang or turf war. The first, Georges was sure, was just a camouflage for the second.