Guilty Love (Completed)

Chapter Twenty'Eight

Aunt Ella had lent Linzi lots of books on antiques and talked to her constantly about what came into the shop, what they saw on visits to museums and art galleries all around Britain. Linzi had taken evening classes, had taken to dropping in on other shops to browse and explore and ask questions, sometimes even buy the odd item.

She didnt have much money to spare, but she was collecting tiny objects which she kept in a case in her flat. What had simply been a job for her, in the beginning, had become Linzi's hobby and then a passion.

It was a passion shared by Aunt Ella and Gareth too, selling and buying antiques was their business but it meant far more than that. Gareth was seven years older than Linzi, but where she looked younger than her age Gareth looked far older. The death of his wife had aged him prematurely, carved lines into his forehead and around eyes and mouths, put sadness into his deep-set blue eyes. linzi knew he still grieved for her. His little boy, Paul, who was now nine years old, had got over his mother's death far better.

He loved his grandmother, she gave him a stability and sense of security he needed. If he still missed his mother he didn't show it. He seemed very lively and cheerful. Linzi understood Gareth very well. She and Gareth were so much alike that people often took them for brother and sister. They shared the same colouring, the same blue-eyed stare, the same way of smiling, but Gareth was a big, powerfully built man with strong, very masculine features and a determined nature, fuelled by ambition and energy.

Since his wife's death he had given most of his attention to building up his own business, a large garage on the outskirts of Stratford. From time to time he helped his mother in the shop and he enjoyed going to auctions with her but his leisure was exclusively devoted to his son. Gareth was a warm-hearted, loving father but in the centre of his life there was a black hole. He had stopped grieving for his wife in all this time, perhaps he never would.

He was stubbornly faithful to her and if they all went out to see a film or to dinner, or were just having fun together in the shop, laughing and talking. Gareth would sometimes stop short, frown, look guilty as though he had no right to be happy any more. And in that too, there was a likeness to Linzi. Grief had been her constant companion too, for the past three years. Grief and guilt.

"Who do we know who's an Art Nouveau expert?" Gareth took the mirror back from her and studied it.
"It does look right, doesn't it?" Without looking up he asked, "What sort of morning did you have anyway? Sell anything?"

"Some of the Dutch tiles, a set of silver spoons and one of the Victorian fairings," she slowly said, recollecting the sales with difficulty because what Megan had told her had blotted out everything else that had happened that day.

"Not bad at all!" Gareth said. "Well done, girl!"
The door was pushed open, the bell chimed and Gareth put down the mirror and hurried to help his mother with the box she was carrying. "Linzi thinks you're right about the mirror, Mum, and at a closer look I must say I agree."

"Of course I'm right," Aunt Ella said breathlessly and sank down on to a balloon-back Victorian chair with plum-coloured velvet upholstering that wasn't original but looked it. If people didn't ask, they didn't point that out, but they never lied about such things. That was Ella Killian's decision. She liked, she said to be able to sleep at nights, not stay up brooding over cheating people.

"My word, that brass is heavy," she said. "A real bargain, though, Linzi -- Edwardian horse-brasses, absolutely genuine, a complete set. Have you got the kettle on? I'm dying for a cup of tea."

Linzi turned to obey and Aunt Ella gave a little gasp of concern as the light fell on her face. "Why, Linzi, dear, you look ill. Whatever's wrong?"

Gareth looked at Linzi closely too, his brows pulling together. She looked back at them both, her blue eyes wide and glazed with unshed tears, face drained of colour, her lip trembling.

"What on earth's wrong, Linzi?" Gareth asked, putting a comforting arm around her slender shoulders and hugging her close to him.
"I had a phone call," she huskily told them. "Rithchie Calhoun will be released from prison tomorrow morning. I bumped into someone I used to know and she warned me it might happen, then she called me to tell me it was definite."

Aunt Ella gasped. 'Already?"

Linzi nodded, then, on a rush she added almost desperately, "I can't stay here. Megan promised not to tell him where I am, but I think she told him I had left the hospital and was moving out of my flat, the last time I saw him. Somebody must have told him he'd find me there! The only one who knew apart from you two was Megan, and I know she's his friend, she's very sympathetic to him. She's nice to me too, but in the last resort she's on Ritchie's side. I have to get away, before he finds me!"

-----

Ritchie Calhoun walked out of the prison gates and then paused to take a long, slow look at the world he had not seen for two years.

"They always do that," said the warder who had unlocked the gate for him, to a younger man who had only started to work in the prison that week and was learning the routine.
"You'd have thought they wanted to get as far away as possible before they stop!" the young warder thought aloud.

The older warder didn't answer. He was busy watching the prisoner, who was taking a deep breath, his shoulders going back as he inhaled. It was a cool, hazy morning with a promise of heat later, the sun burnt orange behind an opalescent mist high above the city. The prisoner stared at the horizon hungrily, free at last to go as far as he liked, seeing everything with the eyes of someone who had not been free for so long that he had forgotten how it felt. He had lost weight and it showed. His expensively tailored dark grey suit no longer fitted the way it had, the jacket was loose, hung on him, the trousers sagged slightly from the waistband.

That wasn't the only visible change in him. There was a silver streak at his temples, among his thick, smooth dark hair, which was not cut very short, close to his head. There hadn't been a trace of grey in his hair three years ago. His face was pale, the almost grey prison pallor all the men had, no sign now of the habitual tan he once had when he spent a lot of time out in the fresh air, his skin weathered and sunflushed, especially when he took long holidays abroad, in warmer climates. The bone-structure of his face was even more pronounced, his skin tight and fleshless, over features that had a hardness that was new, too.

"He looks tough," the young warder said, and the older one laughed.

"Tougher than he was when he came in, anyway! He didn't have an easy time of it at first, he was a bit of a target for some of the hard men. But once they knew he could handle himself they left him alone."

A long black car was parked near by. The driver, a wiry little man going slightly bald, a livid scar showing on his forehead, had got out and was standing patiently, with the passenger door open beside him, watching the released prisoner.

Suddenly, Ritchie Calhoun caught sight of him. A smile came into his face, he walked over there and held out a hand.

"Thanks for coming, Ted."