David Gilman - Blood Sun

Max’s dad struggled with the memory. “It’s a difficult … remote place.”

Max shook his head-he had to get rid of the horrible thoughts implanted by the man who once had been his father’s best friend.

“Dad, when I was in the French Alps and I saved Angelo Farentino’s life, he said … he said …”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the words that the Italian had desperately whispered-that he had loved Max’s mother, that Max’s dad had abandoned her to die alone. Vile images.

A tap on the door. Marty stood there. A concerned look both for his patient and for Max. “Tea’s brewed. It’s on the table. I’m just outside if you need me,” he said, looking at Max. The boy wasn’t supposed to be there; he hadn’t come through reception, and the look of anguish on Tom Gordon’s face meant something was going on between them. Whatever the relationship, Marty Kiernan could not allow any distress to his patient.

Max nodded. He understood what the ex-Marine was saying.

Tom Gordon moved past his son into the main room, where late-afternoon sun caught the blemishes and smears on the small panes of glass in the French doors. Outside, trees morphed into silhouettes as sunlight dipped lower in the sky. Max’s dad sipped the mug of tea and watched the branches shudder in the breeze.

“What did Farentino say?” he finally asked.

It was easier talking to his dad when he wasn’t looking at him. Max told him everything, spilling the words out rapidly, wanting to rid himself of the poisonous thoughts. How Farentino’s love for Max’s mother eventually caused hatred for his father. How she had spurned their friend’s advances and how the bitterness of that rejection finally oozed hatred in Farentino’s heart like an abscess weeping pus.

“You think I abandoned your mother?” his father asked with an edge of uncertainty at his own memory.

“He said you left her to save yourself. You were there. You were with her in the jungle, somewhere in Central America. I remember you coming home and telling me she’d died. Soon after that, you put me in Dartmoor High … and went away again.”

Tom Gordon shook his head, like a man unable to find his way out of a dense forest when daylight is fading, panic creeping up his spine and smothering any rational thought.

“No …,” he whispered, reaching for the edge of a chair.

Max, scared his dad was going to collapse, stepped forward to help him. “No!” his father suddenly commanded, and sat down carefully, as if his bones would shatter under the strain of movement. “Your mother was ill.… I remember … she fell so ill.…” The words tumbled from him as he tried to see the memory. “The jungle swallowed her. It took me days to reach the ocean, and our people got me out.”

“The organization you worked for? Did they know what happened to Mum? Dad, please. Tell me what happened!” Max tried to shake the memory loose from his father’s mind.

“I tried to save her.… I don’t remember.… I … I ran …”

“You ran away?” Max couldn’t bear it. The lies were twisting themselves into truth.

“I ran. Yes. I ran. Through the jungle. I ran,” his father said quickly, as if seeing the event in his mind’s eye for the first time. Surprise and fear embellished his words. His hands trembled and then covered his face. A low moan came from his throat. It settled like an animal whimpering in pain, and then Tom Gordon crumpled in on himself. A dark star imploding.

“Dad,” Max whispered, going down on his knees in front of his father, barely able to stop the tears that threatened to blur his eyes, frightened at the change that had come over his father. He held his dad’s hands in his own, like a child begging not to be torn away from a parent.

“Please, Dad, don’t cry. It’s all right. It’ll be all right.”

Tom Gordon wiped a hand across his face. Tears dried, eyes glaring, he stared at the boy in front of him. “Who the hell are you? Why are you asking about my wife?”

All recognition had gone.

Max felt as if he’d fallen from a boat into the ocean-the boat sailing away, leaving him helpless in the vast expanse of loneliness. A shudder racked his muscles. He stood up quickly. He and his father were suddenly like two men facing each other in a dark alley, neither willing to give way. “You ask too many questions! I don’t know you!” Tom Gordon was on his feet.

“Dad! Come on! Please! Cut it out. You’re scaring me now!” Max shouted in his father’s face. Tom Gordon snatched out a hand and grabbed a handful of Max’s jacket. This was the side of his father Max had only occasionally glimpsed-a determined fighter who could respond immediately to any threat.

Before Max could do or say anything, Marty Kiernan swept into the room, stood behind Max’s dad and wrapped him in a gentle one-armed bear hug. Tom Gordon resisted for a moment, but Marty was whispering, gently calming his patient. “All right? Yeah? All right now, Tom?” Max heard him finally say louder.

Tom Gordon nodded. Marty released him and eased him gently onto the sofa, where he lay down, as if exhausted from a punishing ordeal.

Max’s dad gazed at the ceiling, locked in his own torment.

“What happened, Max?” Marty said. “What did you say to him?”

“I just wanted to know about my mum, whether he’d tried to save her or not.”

“Course he did. He’s your dad. He’d move heaven and earth to help his family.”

Max shook his head vigorously, but the images wouldn’t free themselves. They clung like leeches to his mind, sucking all the love out of him. “He ran away and saved his own skin!” Max yelled.

“Keep your voice down. Remember where you are. Now, you listen to me, son. Your dad has never run away from anything in his life. He’s one of the bravest blokes I’ve ever known, and I’ve known a few. Don’t think of your dad like that. You’ve got it wrong.”

Marty had placed his hand gently on Max’s shoulder, but the boy pulled away. He grabbed his backpack and pushed open the French doors.

“Marty, he told me! He ran! Farentino told the truth. My dad ran away and left my mum to die.”

“Never! Your dad’s confused. He doesn’t remember things-you know that. Wait!”

Max ignored the big man’s plea and sprinted straight across the open lawns toward the trees, no longer caring whether he was spotted.

Marty glanced quickly at his patient. Tom Gordon had turned on his side and closed his eyes. His breathing was slow and deep. The big man pounded after Max. He couldn’t let the boy go without trying to talk to him about his father.

Max reached the edge of the trees; the wall was another sixty or seventy meters away. He ducked below the branches. Evergreens sucked in the light; pine needles cushioned his footfalls and saved his life. The man who stepped out of the shadows rammed his shoulder into Max like a fierce and dangerous rugby tackle. Max’s head whipped back as he was slammed onto the ground. If the ground hadn’t been so soft, his neck would have snapped.

Max had a blurred vision of the man who straddled him. It was like a slow-motion movie. The man said nothing, grabbed Max’s hair and raised a fist. One thing Max knew without any doubt was that, unlike in the movies, when someone hits you in the face, a real punch can shatter bones and kill. This was real.

He squirmed and bucked, twisting his body. Split-second convulsions powered from somewhere deep inside his brain. Max reared up, baring his teeth like an animal, spitting in the man’s face.

The man was too heavy to push off, but it made him falter. Then, in the moment that he regained his balance, a tree trunk moved, blotted out the faltering light and fell across him. Max’s assailant was crushed and made only the briefest sound as the air wheezed from his lungs. The tree trunk stood up. It had only one arm, but it yanked Max to his feet.