The Broken Ones

CHAPTER 11

LUCIAN

I look at her with her dark spill of hair, the sheen of tears in her eyes.

It hurts to breathe. Fragments of memories rush at me, each distinct as stained glass.

Gwen walking sedately across the park, then breaking into a run when she saw me waiting, her face lighting up like a star. As if even a second away from me was wasted.

And the other memory, the brush of soft lips against my brow, her whisper in my ear as I lay, half-asleep. Wait, stay, don't go, I wanted to say to her, drowsy with sleep, but she had slipped from me, leaving a note on my pillow and words in my head. I love you. I love you. Forgive me. I would wonder later if the kiss had been real, or that final aching whisper, or if my mind had created a false memory to cushion my anguish and my longing, my desperation to have some sort of closure.

Years later in the hospital, the last time, my father crooked his index finger to me to come, come closer. His parchment-white lips moved, and he whispered an endless stream of vital things, each word drawn out. I have a confession. I forced that girl, Gwendolyn, to leave you. I told her that I would cut you out of my will. I told her that you were meant for greater things, and she was not one of them. Leave my son, I said, or suffer the consequences. I told her of things I had done, things I would do. I said I would cut you off from every member of your family, and ensure that you would never receive gainful employment or be welcome in any decent home ever again. I told her that I owned you, that you were my son and that you would live according to my dictates. And finally, I told her to think of her beloved widowed mother. Of mishaps that could happen to her mother if she refused to leave you. A hit-and-run accident on the way home from the supermarket, perhaps. Or an unfortunate fall at home. She listened quietly without interrupting. At the end of my speech, I gave her a cheque for a million pounds. She took it, tore it in half and threw the pieces in my face. Then she walked away. I did what I had to do, my father wheezed, his breaths laboured.

The world tilted. I swayed on my feet.

A lie.

The world that life had carved out for me in the wake of Gwen's abrupt departure had been built upon a lie. Theodora, my marriage, her infidelity, Lily.

Everything connected, everything made sense now.

It took me a full minute to find my voice.

"So what is it you want from me, Father? My fucking forgiveness?"

A lucid fragment of my mind worried that the swear word might shock Lily, until I remembered she was dead, and that my daughter might have been the biggest lie of all.

His forehead creased.

"Forgiveness?" he croaked. "No. No. There is nothing to forgive. I did what was necessary to protect you." He fixed his eyes on me. "Your understanding. That is what I want."

The rage swelled then; it roared, barrelled snarling into my veins, my blood, my guts.

"Father." You will address me as Father. Not Dad. Or Papa. But Father. Is that understood?

Yes, sir.

Not Sir either. Father.

Yes, Father.

Father. A harsh word for a hard, joyless man, sharp in my throat.

I leaned close. My father's skeletal body shuddered, struggled for breath. The watery eyes sunk deep into his death's head studied my face.

My father smiled. It was a grotesque, triumphant smile, thin lips and a mouth with too many teeth. It was the smile of a cold man. A cruel man. A powerful man who had destroyed lives easily without a single qualm of regret. A man who had thrived and fed on the weaknesses of others. I did what I had to do. If the devil had a face, it would bear the face of this man I call my father.