John Simpson - Change of Course

Contents

Imprint 3 Imprint All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved. © 2021 novum publishing ISBN print edition: 978-3-99107-483-0 ISBN e-book: 978-3-99107-484-7 Editor: Hugo Chandler, BA Cover images: Gabriel Araujo, Lcrms7, Fotoeye75 | Dreamstime.com Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing www.novum-publishing.co.uk

PART 1 4 PART 1

Chapter 1 5

Chapter 2 18

Chapter 3 26

Chapter 4 38

Chapter 5 45

Chapter 6 50

PART 2 69

Chapter 7 70

Chapter 8 78

Chapter 9 81

PART 3 86

Chapter 10 87

Chapter 11 95

Chapter 12 104

Chapter 13 109

Chapter 14 115

Chapter 15 120

Chapter 16 129

Chapter 17 135

Chapter 18 141

Chapter 19 148

Chapter 20 153

Chapter 21 158

Chapter 22 167

Chapter 23 170

Chapter 24 178

Chapter 25 188

PART 4 197

Chapter 26 198

Chapter 27 205

Chapter 28 211

Chapter 29 216

Chapter 30 226

Chapter 31 234

Chapter 32 240

Chapter 33 245

Chapter 34 253

Chapter 35 257

Chapter 36 262

Chapter 37 270

Epilogue 272

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2021 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99107-483-0

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99107-484-7

Editor: Hugo Chandler, BA

Cover images: Gabriel Araujo, Lcrms7, Fotoeye75 | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

PART 1

Chapter 1

We had got there as soon as we could. The doctor, who arrived after us, touched and probed with expert fingers before confirming what we all feared. We stood around for what had felt like hours at the time, milling aimlessly, saying nothing, not knowing what to do. We were in shock.

For thirty years this scene had played out thousands of times in my mind’s eye. Parts of it were still clear but most had faded like degraded celluloid. Names and faces had blurred, conversations were muted, and time had compressed the incident to a thirty-second sight bite. I was happy with the deterioration: it was an example of time as a healer. Guilt and shame still threatened to overwhelm me sometimes when the memory made one of its unwelcome, but now infrequent, recurrences, but I no longer knew why.

All things considered; I was pleased that the memory had faded; until …

***

‘Oi, wake up, mate.’ The taxi driver’s sharp nudge added urgency. ‘Sorry about the beauty sleep, but which one’s yours?’ He seemed anxious to be rid of me and get his money. I could not blame him – the sound of the windscreen wipers had lulled me to sleep before we had even left Heathrow – I had not been good company.

‘Just past that bus shelter on the left. Pull in behind that white Merc.’

Someone was sitting in the shelter, out of the rain. My first thought was that it was a child; very small. This impression was exacerbated by the green cagoule that was far too large. The person appeared to be writing.

We stopped in front of my 1930s semi-detached. I paid the driver, pulled up the hood of my jacket and retrieved my bags from the boot. The house seemed to have made a special effort to look its worst. The front lawn was overgrown and scattered with litter, the gutters were overflowing, and a mossy hue streaked the walls and path. It was a picture of damp and neglect.

I dragged my bags round to the back door where I spent ages looking for the keys, scrabbling around in my pockets. Eventually, I found them.

‘Mr Young, David Young?’ The call startled me, and I dropped the keys. I had not noticed the green cagoule following me up the path.

‘Sorry! Here, let me get them.’ It was not a child. The voice was a woman’s. She picked up the keys, found the right one first time and unlocked the door.

‘Bloody hood! It’s like wearing blinkers – I didn’t see you there. So, what is it you’re after?’ I asked abruptly. ‘Survey? Plastic brushes? Cosmetics?’

‘Nothing like that. Are you David Young?’

I nodded. Her voice was pleasantly low-pitched with a hint of an accent; the north-east, I judged. If this had been an unsolicited phone call, I would have ended it there but, instead, I opened the door and ushered her into the kitchen ahead of me. ‘I’m sorry about the mess but …’

‘You’ve been away, I know. I’ve called round every day for the last ten days. I was about to leave you this …’ She brandished a business card with some handwriting on the back. ‘Don’t you talk to your neighbours? Tell them when you’re away?’

I felt a sudden panic. Why would anyone want to see me so badly that they kept trying my door for ten days?

‘Not if I can help it. They only ever whinge about the garden and … are you the police or something? Has something happened … someone died?’

‘No, I’m not the police, and no one’s …’ she hesitated. ‘I guess someone did die, sort of.’ She saw the concern on my face and carried on. ‘I’d better explain. My name’s Sophie Addison. You used to know my father.’

I shook my head; I could not remember any Addisons.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘My father was James Lodge.’

‘Jim Lodge?’ That name had not escaped my lips in nearly thirty years. It was a shock. I shuddered; I felt the blood drain from my face. I turned away from her; I had to. Unwanted memories were stirring, and my mind was flooded with a medley of conversations, shared beers, work and … No, this was rubbish. ‘That’s not possible. It’s thirty years ago. And Jim had no kids; he couldn’t have.’

‘He died before I was born.’

This was ridiculous. Yes, Lodge had married on his final leave from Angola, but … I turned back to face her. She had taken off the cagoule. Waves of rust-coloured hair framed her face. It was so like a face I used to know well. I stared like an idiot – dumb struck.

‘Are you all right?’ She sounded genuinely concerned.

I think I nodded. I was speechless.

She reached for the handbag she had put on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve got some papers here. I can prove who I am.’

I waved them away; there was no need. I was still staring at her, believing the unbelievable.

‘Did he look like me?’ She sounded incredulous.

‘Well, you look like him, more like.’ I laughed nervously and she joined in, her face folding into a dazzling smile, Lodge’s smile. It lifted my mood in an instant. I had not realised how tense we had both become, but the laughter relaxed us.

‘I think you’ve answered one question, anyway,’ she said, grabbing a handful of her hair. ‘I didn’t know where this came from.’

I felt my face reddening but fought off the urge to look away. Instead, I moved closer and scrutinised every detail of her face, comparing colours, shapes, and proportions with the mental portrait I had of Jim Lodge. She too blushed, embarrassed by the intensity of the examination, but she held her ground, knowing instinctively that this was an important part of the process, whatever that was.

‘It’s not just the hair … You’re incredibly like him.’

Her eye colour was Lodge’s, the same shade of green. Her features were his too but softer, more feminine, and her hair had the same fiery brilliance as Lodge’s. But it was her determination; that she had persisted until I’d turned up, which convinced me she was Lodge’s daughter.

‘Tell me about him. He’s only a name to me; I want to know what he was like.’