Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

It must present Eugenia quite a challenge, deciding whom she hated more, him or Ian McClellan, but Kincaid did not find the thought amusing. This monthly meeting with Kit had been Ian's method of forestalling her suing for the legal right to have her grandson for regular visitations, but Kincaid had no confidence that the arrangement would satisfy her indefinitely. One would think the court would take into account the fact that the woman was obviously mentally unbalanced, and that Kit despised her, but it wasn't a chance Kincaid was willing to take.

He found a comfortable chair and immersed himself in the book he'd brought with him, determined not to borrow trouble unnecessarily. Still, the minutes crawled, until at last Kit appeared from the lounge. In his navy school blazer and tie, with his hair neatly combed, Kit looked unexpectedly grown-up. But as he drew near, Kincaid saw that the boy's lip was trembling and his eyes were red with unspilled tears.

Kincaid jumped up. "Kit! What's wrong?"

Kit shook his head mutely.

"Where are your grandparents?"

"They left. She didn't want to see you. She-" He shook his head again, unable to go on.

Kincaid put an arm round his shoulders. "Let's go, shall we?" He helped Kit into the anorak he had held for him, then shepherded him out into the frosty air. What on earth had Eugenia done to upset his usually stoic son so badly? "Why don't we walk down to Piccadilly," he suggested. "We could get the bus from there, rather than the tube."

After a few minutes, when Kit seemed calmer, Kincaid said, "Now. Tell me what this is all about."

"She- she said I couldn't live with you, that you had no right to keep me. She said that she was going to get a lawyer, and that the court would have to grant her custody since I had no responsible parent."

"She's threatened lawyers before. I wouldn't pay it too much attention," Kincaid said soothingly. But the boy's jaw was still tightly clenched, and he wouldn't meet Kincaid's eyes. "That's not all, is it? What else did she say?"

"She said that if I'd been a proper son, I'd have taken better care of my mother, and she wouldn't have died."

A sudden rush of fury left Kincaid shaking. He took a breath to calm himself. "Kit. That is absolute nonsense. Do you hear me? I know how well you looked after your mum, because she told me. And I know that you could not have saved her, no matter what you did. Are we clear on that?"

Kit nodded, but Kincaid was unconvinced. What he did know was that he had to put a stop to Eugenia Potts's poison, and that meant he had to keep her from seeing Kit, full stop. But Eugenia was correct in one thing- he had no legal rights over Kit. There was only one way to remedy the situation- he would have to prove his paternity.

"I want you to tell me about my mother." Alex Dunn sat in Jane's sitting room, in front of the unlit Christmas tree. He'd had to stop once on the way down, so buffeted by memories he'd been unable to drive. Then he'd found the cottage empty, and had waited impatiently for Jane to return.

"Your mother?" Jane repeated blankly.

"Is she really dead?"

"I expect so. Why, Alex?"

"When I was little, you said she couldn't take care of me because she was ill. That wasn't true, was it? She was a drug addict."

"Alex- What- How do you-"

"Why do you always lie to me? All my life I've carried around this rosy, consumptive image of my sainted mother handing me over to you with her blessing, and it was all a lie. She didn't give a damn what happened to me."

"Alex, that's not true. She did care. That's why she brought you to me. And for God's sake, you can't tell a five-year-old that his mother's an addict!"

"You could have told me later, when I was older."

"When you were what? Twelve? Sixteen? Twenty? How would I have decided when to shatter your life? And besides," she added more calmly, "stories have a way of generating their own reality. After a while, I almost came to believe it myself. Who's told you this, Alex?"

"No one. I dreamed it. And then I started to remember."

Jane's face went ashen. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, Alex. You used to have nightmares when you were little. I thought they'd stopped years ago."

"Did she really bring me here, to the cottage? Or was that a lie, too?"

"She did. It was the last time I saw her. I tried to find her for years after that, but she'd vanished without a trace."

"Then what about my father? Was he just another junkie, a one-night stand?"

"I honestly don't know, Alex. But there was a man… She came down here with him once, when she was pregnant with you. It was after Mum and Dad had died. She hadn't even known." Jane shook her head, as if remembering her own amazement. "But I think she was clean then, at least for a while. She looked good, and she seemed happy."

"Who was he? What was his name?"

"I don't know. He waited for her in the car. I never met him. All I can tell you is that his car was expensive, and I thought that perhaps he would take care of her."

Alex felt unable to contain the sudden and inexplicable dread that had lodged in his gut. "This man- What did he look like?"

Alex drove down the lane until it came to an end. After that, he left the car and walked, finding his way blindly through the marsh. But the smell of salt drove him on, until at last he sank down into a tangled clump of grass, looking out over the dark expanse of the sea.

It couldn't be true, could it, what he had imagined? He must be raving, delirious; it was an absurd fantasy. There had to have been hundreds- thousands- of young men that age in London at that time who were blond and handsome, and who had the means to wear nice clothes and drive an expensive car.

It didn't mean the money had come from the sale of the drug that had destroyed his mother- nor did it mean that the particular young man Jane had described had been Karl Arrowood.

But what difference did it make, if it were true? Alex wondered. It was an accident of genetics, that was all. It was nothing to do with him, or who he had become.

He could find out the truth, perhaps, simply by showing Jane a photograph of Karl Arrowood. But did he really want to know?

All his certainties had been torn from him, beginning with Dawn's death, and he had begun to see that if he were to survive, he must put himself back together, piece by piece. He must decide what mattered, and what did not. Was his mother important, if it came to that? Wasn't it his life with Jane that was real, those years of her care and concern that had shaped him?

He loved this place, that he knew. He loved Jane. He loved Fern, he realized, who had been such a staunch friend.

And he loved the porcelain that had spoken to him since he was a child. He thought of the blue-and-white delft bowl, now tucked into the display cabinet in his flat, and of the lives through which it had passed. All suffering faded, given time, as did all joys, but they left their imprint upon such objects, providing comfort for those who came after.

It gradually occurred to Alex that he was cold, and terribly hungry. The wind blowing off the bay tugged at his clothes, finding every tiny gap, reminding him that his flesh was subject to its whims.

It was then he realized that such things mattered desperately to him; that he wanted food and warmth and companionship. That, surely, was a good thing; a beginning. He would deal with the nightmares and the memories of Dawn and his mother as he must, but in the meantime, life would go on. He would go on.