Peter May: Cast Iron

Her mother looked at her for the first time. ‘What are you talking about, Kirsty?’

Enzo saw Kirsty draw a deep breath. ‘You all know that Alexis has a hearing problem. Some months ago Dad and I went to see a specialist in Biarritz. He took blood from Alexis for testing and diagnosed a congenital condition that will require him to wear hearing aids, probably for the rest of his life.’ She paused. ‘What I didn’t tell you, any of you, is that mild sensorineural deafness is only one of the symptoms of his condition. It is likely that it will manifest itself in other ways as he grows older.’

‘Like what?’ Linda was clearly concerned.

Kirsty looked at Enzo. ‘Well, for example, a white streak through his hair.’

And Enzo felt all the hairs rising up on the back of his neck. His right hand lifted involuntarily to touch the white streak through his own hair, just as he had done in the doctor’s office in Biarritz. He felt the others looking at him, but kept his eyes on Kirsty.

She said, ‘Alexis is suffering from Waardenburg syndrome. It can manifest in many ways. Different-coloured eyes, a cleft palate, a white streak in the hair. Deafness. It’s an inherited, genetic condition. From which, I think, neither you, Mum, nor Simon suffer.’ She looked again at Enzo. ‘There’s only one person here who could have passed that on.’

Enzo dragged his eyes away from Kirsty to look at Linda. He saw that her face had flushed pink, with crimson highlights on her cheeks. Simon, too, turned to look at her.

Kirsty said, ‘Simon’s not my father, is he, Mum? You lied to him.’

‘Kirsty—’

‘Don’t lie to me, too,’ Kirsty cut her off. ‘Don’t you dare. A simple paternity test will prove it.’

The silence was punctuated only by the distant murder of poor Handel. But none of them heard it. Then Linda said, ‘When he left—’ and her glance at Enzo was so full of malevolence he almost recoiled from it — ‘I tried everything to keep Simon close. He was all that I had left. I was lonely...’ It was a plea for understanding that fell on deaf ears.

Kirsty said, ‘So you lied to him about being my father.’

Linda turned her gaze down towards the floor and couldn’t bring herself to deny it.

Kirsty swung fiery eyes, then, towards Simon. ‘And you used that to hurt my dad. A club to beat him with. You knew what it would do to him.’

‘Kirst...’

‘Don’t call me that!’ She almost spat her contempt in his face.

‘I only wanted what was best for you. I was concerned for your safety, and all the shit he was dragging you into.’ He threw a withering glare at Enzo.

But Kirsty shook her head. ‘Seems to me the only person you were concerned about was you. And, of course, for anyone to believe that it might be true, that I really could be your daughter, you would have had to have slept with my mother. Your best friend’s wife. You can’t deny that, can you?’

And there was a finality in Kirsty’s voice that pre-empted further discussion.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I hope you two enjoy your time together in Paris. But I’d like to make it clear to you now. I don’t want to see either of you again. Ever.’

‘Kirsty...’ Pain was etched into every line on Linda’s face.

‘Ever!’ She folded her arms. ‘You know where the door is.’

For a long moment no one moved, then Simon turned and walked briskly out into the hall without a backward glance. They heard the door open and slam behind him.

Linda stood, staring at the floor, before slowly lifting her head to turn twenty-five years of resentment on the man who was the father of her child. The man who had left her for another woman. It was a look filled with both hatred and self-pity. Still a young woman, she had sworn when he left that she would never be with another man. She said now, ‘You took the best years of my life.’

Enzo shook his head. ‘I gave you the best years of your life, Linda. You squandered the rest yourself.’

Something in her eyes told him she knew that she had sacrificed herself on the altar of her own martyrdom. A sacrifice made, not for love of Enzo, but as a means of punishing him by punishing herself. And he could feel nothing but pity for her. For now he had taken her daughter, too.

She held Kirsty in a long look of pained regret, before turning slowly away and walking out into the hall.

When the outside door closed behind her, Enzo and Kirsty stood listening to the silence. Even the pianist had given up.

Finally, she turned to look at him, eyes brimming, and in two short steps she had thrown her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, sobbing like a baby. He drew her to him and held her close and ran a hand through her soft, long, silky hair, just as he had done when she was a child.

When, eventually, she found her voice she said, ‘It never made any difference to me, Dad, thinking that Simon was my blood father. I always knew I was my daddy’s girl.’

‘And you always will be,’ he said, and wondered if he would ever have the strength to let her go.