Читать книгу When Hell Freezes Over - Rick Blechta - Страница 6

Surprisingly, the weather held for us on the long run to the Scottish border—a real blessing. My hurried patch job on the smashed window wouldn’t have lasted long against heavy rain.

When you’re travelling any distance in the British Isles during winter, the one thing you can be sure of is that the weather will change several times during the course of your trip—unless you’re exceptionally lucky. Thankfully, we had been so far that day.

Just passing the junction for Liverpool, into that long, boring stretch where the M6 passes through Lancashire, the fact that I could barely feel my toes finally penetrated my sluggish brain. The heater in the car just couldn’t keep up with the cold air flowing in around my trash bag patch job. I pulled into the next rest area to get something warm to drink and maybe a bit to munch on. Neither of us had felt like crisps or Coke, although we’d polished off one of the bags of nuts I’d bought.

Regina disappeared into the Ladies, and I am ashamed to admit to the momentary inclination to jump in the car and roar off. I settled for buying coffee for her and tea for me. The scones appeared stale, so I grabbed two muffins instead. I sometimes think that rest area food is supplied by grocery stores that want to get rid of their out-of-date products. Judging by the expression on the woman at the check-out, the stores might be shipping off their out-of-date employees, too.

As I pulled back into the line of early morning traffic, Regina took a sip of her coffee and frowned. “God, this is bad!” She must have thought better of her outburst, considering that I’d bought her the coffee unbidden, because she quickly added, “At least it’s hot.”

“You may have hit upon the reason so many Brits drink tea. Assuming the tea packet isn’t horribly stale, it’s usually your own fault if the muck doesn’t taste good.”

Regina took a few more sips, then staring straight out the windscreen and not at me, said,“Considering all you’ve done, I guess I owe you somesort of explanation.”

“Perhaps it would be better not to tell me. I helped you out of a tight place, and that’s it. I really don’t need to know any more.”

“But I don’t have anyone I can talk to about it.”

“Don’t you have any friends who can help you?”

“No. And I certainly can’t go to any of my relatives.”

“A priest?”

“I don’t know who I can trust,” she answered in a low voice. “You seem kind, and you’re old. I mean you’re older than I am. Maybe you can help me help me figure out how to deal with this.”

“Look, this is silly. You don’t even know my name. You know nothing about me.”

“I know you’re kind and generous. I know that you can be trusted in a crisis.” Regina flashed a quick smile. “So what’s your name?”

“Michael Quinn. As I told you, I’m originally from Birmingham, but I live in Canada.”

“Where?”

“Toronto. I run a backline instrument rental company.”

“A what?”

“It’s part of the music business. Say you have a band that doesn’t want to tour with their own equipment; you need amplifiers, a drum kit, keyboards and the like. I supply them. Backline refers to things that form the back line on the stage.”

“Sounds, um, interesting. Do you rent to famous people?”

“Sometimes. Mostly it’s trade shows, showcases, smaller tours from the States or Europe, things like that.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Since I arrived in Canada fourteen years ago.”

“What did you do before that?”

“I was a musician.”

Regina smiled again. “Okay, now I know all about you. So can I talk?”

I didn’t see any way out of this unless I simply told her to shut up. “All right. What’s the problem between you and your father?”

Judging by the way she’d been speaking, I figured Regina would just lay out the whole problem, and we’d discuss it or something. In reality, it seemed her words had been more bravado than anything else. She turned her head away, staring down at the space between her seat and the door, and I could distinctly hear sniffling.

After a few minutes, she straightened up, wiped her nose on a tissue she took out of a coat pocket, sniffed once or twice more and looked at me. “I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry about this, that I was old enough not to start bawling.”

I shrugged. “It’s okay.” “No, it’s not. I’m going to have to be strong if I’m going to get out of this.”

“It might be easier if you started at the beginning and told it like a story. You know, give yourself a bit more distance.”

So Regina began speaking and continued almost non-stop as we drove past Lancaster and up through the rolling hills of Cumbria, one of my favourite stretches of road in the world. This is what England looks like in my mind when I think of it back in Canada: grasscovered, treeless hills rolling away into the distance, long valleys filled with orderly fields, sheep everywhere you look. The M6 flows through this countryside like a tarmac snake, not conquering the landscape as many modern roads do. It’s a pleasure to drive.

I hardly noticed it that day.

Without her saying as much, it quickly became clear that Regina’s family had money—a lot of money. They lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, an area known for its posh homes. She’d grown up in a privileged household: servants, a swimming pool, tennis courts, a country club membership, all the trappings of wealth. Being an only child and her mother having died when she was eleven years old, her father had spoiled her rotten.

“Papa decided that I should go to school in Europe, that he couldn’t properly care for a young lady. His business took a lot of his time. Our family originally comes from Abruzzo, but I was sent to a boarding school in Switzerland. The school was good, but it was a very lonely time for me. In the summer, I would go to Italy to visit family, and Papa would join me for a few weeks.”

“So you haven’t really lived in the States all that much.”

“Not since my mom died. A few weeks at Christmas, between semesters sometimes, but never for very long. We’d vacation in Europe, skiing or something. At home, there wasn’t much to do. It wasn’t easy to make friends, you see.”

“Why not?” I asked, smiling. “You seem talkative enough.”

Regina looked at me. “Are you teasing me?”

“No. What I meant is that you don’t seem to have trouble striking up a conversation.”

She nodded at that. “I was never let out on my own. Papa had bodyguards, and I couldn’t go anywhere without one and sometimes two. You can imagine what that was like.”

“Not really,” I said, even though I did have some inkling. “Why would you need a bodyguard? Is your father a diplomat or something like that?”

“No. He told me he was a businessman. He owned a lot of real estate and some businesses, and he had enemies. Besides, there are people around who would like nothing more than to kidnap the child of a wealthy man and hold her for ransom.”

“So it wasn’t very nice being at home.”

“In some ways, it was very nice. I’d have my papa all to myself. We’d play tennis together, swim. This past summer, he began teaching me to play golf. I had a few cousins in the area, too, but they’re a lot older than me and also boys, so they kept their distance—except for Angelo. He was my favourite, because he teased me and called me his little sister. But they all seemed to be afraid of Papa. He can be very scary when he’s angry.

“You’re right, though. More and more it felt as if I was in prison, kept apart from people, even after I finished boarding school. I attended the Sorbonne in Paris and had no friends. I didn’t tell you, but my mother was French—that’s a bit odd in traditional Italian families.”

“Did you visit your mother’s relatives?”

“I’ve never met them. There was a falling out over the marriage, and Papa won’t have anything to do with them.”

“Sounds pretty grim. He obviously loosened the reins when you went to university, though, didn’t he?”

“I thought so—at first. He arranged for me to have rooms in a private house. An older couple with one or two other student lodgers. I was majoring in Art History, and studying took up a lot of time. Sure, there were boys who asked me out, but it never developed into anything. They’d just drift off. I couldn’t understand why, until one of them told me that he’d been approached by someone who asked him a lot of questions and made it clear that we were being watched.”

“What did you do then?”

“I called my father and told him how angry I was. He flew right over and sat me down. ‘You still need protecting,’ he said. ‘I’m doing what any father would do to protect his daughter.’

“I told him he was being ridiculous, that I was old enough to take care of myself. We had a big fight about it, but in the end, I got Papa to promise that he wouldn’t interfere in my life.”

“But he continued to, didn’t he?”

“Was I really being that naïve? Is it so obvious to everyone else?”

“No, it’s just that in my experience, when someone as seemingly strong-willed as your father capitulates so completely, then they’re up to something.”

“Exactly. Anyway, for the next three years, I went out on a few dates, but no one came along that really stirred my blood, and besides, I was engrossed in my studies. I’d decided to become a specialist in the restoration of damaged paintings. Papa spoke to some people he knew and got me a job with Galerie Longchamps in Paris. Research took up most of my spare time, too.

“Last fall, a man turned up out of the blue. I met him while I was eating lunch in a café—and he didn’t give me the cold shoulder after a while like the others. He was great fun to be with. He teased me like Angelo had. What was wonderful was that I knew Papa would approve of him. Jean-Marc came from a proper family. I think I may have even been falling in love with him.

“Then one night I came down from my rooms and was waiting for Jean-Marc on the street when I saw him getting out of a car about two blocks away. He leaned back down and was talking to someone through the window. I wondered about that and drew back into the darkness of the doorway as the car drove past. I recognized the man as someone I’d once seen with my father.

“Jean-Marc walked up shortly after and pretended that he’d come on foot all the way from his parents’ apartment. You should have heard the load of garbage he tried to feed me about his walk over! I told him he was despicable and that I never wanted to see him again. Without another word, he just turned on his heel and left. That was last week.”

Regina looked silently out at the rolling countryside for several minutes, trying to regain her composure. I spent the time accelerating past a long line of cars.

“Better slow down or you’ll get pinched,” she said. “Next morning, I got on the first plane to New York. This was it! I was through having my life stage-managed!

“No one had any idea I’d left Paris. You should have seen the expression on the maid’s face when she answered the door!”

“‘Where is my father, Consuela?’ I demanded.

“‘Your father is in a meeting. You must not disturb him.’

“‘The hell with that!’ I said, pushing her out of the way.

“I stormed down the hall to his study, where he holds all his business meetings, and burst through the doors. There were a lot of people in the room. Some of my cousins and an uncle. Angelo was there. They looked totally stunned to see me.

“In the middle of the room was a man tied to a chair on a big sheet of plastic. He’d been badly beaten up. His face was covered in blood. Papa...my father was standing next to him, holding a gun against the man’s head.”

I almost lost control of the car. “What?”

“I have no doubt they were going to kill him, and only my walking in had prevented it. My father handed the gun to Angelo, grabbed my arm, and dragged me up to my room, where he practically threw me in and locked the door. The very strange thing was that Papa didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked, I don’t know, scared.

“Papa returned about an hour later with a dazed expression on his face and sat down heavily on my bed. ‘The day that I have dreaded has arrived.’

“I’d had enough time to figure out a few things for myself. All those years of lies! Pretending he was simply a businessman. It was easy to see what had been going on now that the blinders were off. So many strange things suddenly made sense.

“He broke down! The only other time I’d seen him cry was when Mamma died. He begged for my forgiveness. He had sworn on the grave of my mother that I would never know, never be a part of his real life. I saw how easy it had been to fool stupid, naïve Regina! Ship me off to school. Keep me away from the house. Never for an instantlet on where the money was really coming from. No wonder my cousins have always seemed so tentative around me. They knew! They were obviously part of it.

“I told him I wanted to be left alone. He went out like a whipped dog. It was a very strange thing. Angelo came in soon after and talked to me for a long time, telling me that Papa had only deceived me to protect me and to honour the dying wish of his wife. ‘Your father is what he is, and your mother knew that when she married him. She thought she could change him, at least that’s what your father says,’ Angelo told me. ‘We all told him you would find out someday anyway. Now it’s happened, and your father is afraid you hate him, Gina.’

“Angelo tried to turn on that old charm, but I knew his hands were as bloody as my father’s. ‘What happened to that poor man downstairs?’ I demanded.

“Angelo said, ‘We were only asking him some questions. We needed to frighten him. I know it looks bad, but I swear he answered our questions, and we cleaned him up and sent him home.’

“‘Liar!’ I screamed, completely losing control. ‘I can see it in your eyes, Angelo! This is nothing but a house of lies! I am such a fool! How could I have been so incredibly blind all these years?’

“I stayed in my room for three days. I wouldn’t see anyone. Consuela left my meals on a chair in the hall. In the night I could hear Papa pacing the hallway outside my door. Finally, I decided what I would do.

“Next morning, I went down to the sun room where Papa always has breakfast, acting as if nothing was wrong. Papa’s expression when I walked in was a mixture of fear and hope. It broke my heart to see it. In many ways, he had tried to be a good father. It didn’t change anything, though.

“Sitting down at the table, I looked out at the grounds, pretty with some freshly fallen snow, and asked Papa how he was feeling. Consuela hurried in with orange juice and coffee for me. I ordered a big breakfast with all my favourite things. Everyone seemed very relieved.

“We made small talk, never referring to what had happened. I spoke of returning to my job in Paris and told him I wanted to pick out some new clothes to take back with me. He asked where I wanted to shop, and I told him Bloomingdales in New York City. Angelo could take me. Papa agreed right away.

“It was easy to convince him that I didn’t have my credit cards with me, because I’d left Paris in such a hurry. Papa reached into his pocket and peeled off five one-thousand-dollar bills. I pouted and said I wanted to buy some special things. He gave me ten thousand in all.”

I whistled. “Ten grand out of his pocket?”

Regina nodded. “He is always doing things like that. He once gave a thousand-dollar bill to a parking lot attendant just because he bowed when Papa got out of his car. You’ll laugh to hear it, but I thought that was the way everyone behaved. He can be so, I don’t know, courtly is the best way to describe it.

“Angelo arrived about an hour later, and we drove down to New York. He asked me what made me change my mind about things, and I told him that I couldn’t change the way my family was, but they were my family, and that was that. He seemed really relieved.

“It wasn’t hard to lose Angelo. He’s a sucker for a pretty face, and I found the cutest salesgirl in that store to help me pick out dresses. Angelo was so busy chatting her up, he didn’t notice me slip out of the dressing room. I’ll bet he got hell from Papa!

“I took a cab to the airport and boarded a plane for London with only the few things I’d bought at Bloomies. When we landed, I hopped the first train for Birmingham—don’t ask me why—and there you have it. I’d booked the B&B online and thought I’d just stay there until I figured out what to do. You know what happened next, although I don’t know how they found me.”

“The computer. If you looked up anything on the internet, you left a trail.”

“But Papa hardly knows how to turn one on!”

“You are naïve,” I said, and she bristled a little. “Your father may not know how to use a computer, but he doesn’t need to. I’m certain his organization has men who know how to use them very well indeed. Nobody can survive in business these days without major computer skills—even the kind of business your father is involved in.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said.

“Bet on it. I wouldn’t use a cash point or credit card for the same reason if I were you.”

“Surely he doesn’t have access to that kind of information!”

“Would you care to put a wager on it? He could.”

Eventually, as we approached Scotland, and the rain which had been threatening during the entire drive finally started falling. In a short time, it had turned to sleet.

“What shitty weather!” Regina observed as I slowed down against the driving onslaught.

“This is Scotland. My friend Angus describes life in Scotland like this: ‘You’re born wet and cold and eventually you die.’”

He’s only exaggerating slightly.

***

We had to pull into the next service area to patch up the repair job on the window. I toyed with the idea of stopping in Glasgow at least to get the window repaired before returning the car to its owner, but the weather report changed my mind. The temperature would continue falling during the afternoon, and more snow or freezing rain could be expected, especially in the Highlands. Argyll starts on the northern edge of Glasgow more or less, but is actually part of the Highlands, and I did not want to be out in wretched weather on some of the roads we had to travel.

Shortly before noon, about fifty miles south of Glasgow, we hit a long line of traffic: a breakdown or accident, no doubt. As we crept forward, sleet, helped along by a stiff north wind, came almost vertically at us and soon covered the road in a slick coating. Driving became treacherous, even at slow speeds. Making a decision, I asked Regina if she wanted to spend the night at Angus’s, since I didn’t want to take the time to drop her in Glasgow. Night came very early at this time of year.

“He has a ramshackle old place north of a town called Dunoon, just over the Firth of Clyde.”

“Does he really have a savage temper?” she asked timidly.

“His bark is worse than his bite. Angus is big and loud, very Scottish, but all bluster. I’d trust him with my life. You’ll like him.” She nodded.

“All right. I wasn’t looking forward to being by myself another night.”

So we skirted around the southern end of Glasgow and turnedwest to Gourock and the ferry to Dunoon. The traffic eased a bit as we made our way along the River Clyde on the A8 through Port Glasgow and the seemingly endless town of Greenock.

I toyed with the idea of stopping for the night and trying to complete the trip in the morning when the weather forecast was better. That way I might also get rid of the girl. I did not wish to become any more embroiled in her mess than I already was.

Then the sleet let up, turning to rain. The ferry was in its slip and boarding at Gourock, and it looked like we’d be able to make it to Angus’s before nightfall.

Only once before had I made a worse decision.