Tainted (23 page)

That's what Jack had said in the house.

He hadn't misheard, either time. He was almost certain of it.

Jack couldn't have had two sisters.

Would parents name a daughter Miranda Amanda Dane—or whatever their last name actually was? Perhaps. But would you refer to your sister by both her Christian and her middle name? Unlikely.

Whatever the truth of Jack's sister's name, Henry knew he couldn't go back to sleep. If there had been a big Mafia trial, it would have been reported in the English press. He could search for it on the Web. At least that would keep him occupied; he'd feel he was doing
something.
Not standing paralyzed on the rocks, a helpless onlooker.

Closing the middle drawer, Henry then opened the top one. He was going to get dressed properly, fix himself a cup of coffee and go sit at his computer and do some Web surfing. No one would have to know. He wasn't in league with Billy this time. He was simply doing some research on his own.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he thought of the day they'd buried John and Julia. Late that night, he'd gone down to the long grass where their ashes lay. There was no moon, there were no stars. He'd taken a flashlight and Bones and found the spot where they lay and sat down beside it.

“
I promise you I'll take care of them. I'll love Holly and Katy with all my heart and soul and I'll take care of them. I'll try to do what you'd do if you were here. I'll do my very best for as long as I live. That's a promise.
”

A foghorn sounded. Henry turned at the noise, looking for ghosts.

There were pages and pages of responses on Google.co.uk to the “Gangland cases London 2003–2005” Henry typed in. He combed through them, learning as he did that there were two major types of “gangs” in London: the “Yardies”—a nickname given to gangs of a West Indian origin—and the Mafia. Honing in on the Mafia-related entries was proving fruitless. He didn't know Jack's real name; he had no way of working out what case might be connected to him. There were armed robberies and murders, money-laundering and kidnappings. Henry spent hours raking through them looking for potential clues and finding nothing.

Jack's case could have been any of the ones he'd pulled up, Henry knew. What was the point of continuing? They were all gruesome and nasty. Jack had landed himself in a terrible fix, certainly, but as he continued to move from page to page, Henry began to question whether finding out how terrible that fix actually was would help. Still, he searched on, feeling as if he had the mental equivalent of something stuck in his throat. He needed to clear his mind, to breathe freely again. He couldn't stop himself from repeatedly clicking the mouse button to read the next entry.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, his head on the desk. Waking up with a start, he wiped his mouth, checked his watch and saw it was six a.m., then stood, stretched, and went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

There was no point in going upstairs to bed now; Jack would be over in a little while to go fishing. The coffee would give him a second wind and the trip out in the boat would be another energy boost; if he had to, he'd take a nap in the afternoon.

Carrying the cup of freshly brewed coffee with him, he walked outside and sat down on the porch steps. The night had turned into a gray day—uninspiring and gloomy. When he looked out over the canal, it was flat and glassy; there was no wind, no movement of any kind. A good day to speed along in the
Sea Ox
, maybe even a good morning to fish. But despite the caffeine beginning to kick in, Henry was suddenly overwhelmed by a longing to sleep again; he wanted to curl up, to be like Bones and pad around in a circle and then curl up and go to sleep. And then . . . then to wake up and find the sun shining and Isabella and Jack and Julia and Holly and Katy all there, standing over him, telling him to get ready, it was time to go to the beach.

Turn back the clock. Keep turning it back until you recapture that moment of happiness you didn't appreciate fully at the time. Live it over again.

Let me have them back again. Just once, just for a minute.

Standing up, he felt suddenly faint and leaned his hand against the wooden pillar for support.

Self-pity is not excusable. However tired you may be. Go upstairs and wash your face and pull yourself together.

He turned, went back into the house, headed to his desk to switch off the computer. It was time to give up on the quest to find out what Jack may have done. He'd ask him on their boat trip. He should have learned by now that direct confrontation was always the best way to approach a problem.

As he leaned down to push the power button off, Henry caught sight of the piece of paper with a number written on it, the number Billy had read out to him: Eliza McCormack's number.

Eliza McCormack. The woman who had given Jack his new identity. A parole officer? Someone in the prison system?

He put the cup of coffee down on the desk, rebooted the Apple and typed in Google.co.uk. After the Google page came up, he typed “Eliza McCormack” in the box and sat back. The first entry was:

Henry leaned forward, stared at it, thinking,
She's a lawyer, is this the right Eliza McCormack?
and clicked on the Wikipedia link.

The picture caught his eye first. A black-and-white head shot of a silver-gray-haired woman in early middle age. Mid-forties to early fifties, he guessed. Perfectly coiffed, strong features with a predominant nose, no-nonsense mouth and challenging eyes. Lines on her forehead which signaled a healthy distaste for Botox. If he'd seen her across the room at a party, he'd want to go talk to her.

A mountain climber, skier and renowned feminist, she has been nicknamed “Extreme Eliza,” and has a reputation as a fiery and witty public speaker.

Contents:

1. Personal Life
   
2. Famous Cases
   
3. Notes
   
4. See Also
   
5. Further Reading
   
6. External links
   

Henry paused. Was Eliza McCormack someone who would be involved in giving someone a new identity—was this kind of thing in the remit of barristers in England? And would she defend someone in the Mafia? He clicked on
Famous Cases.

He stopped, his eyes returning to the names Amanda and Miranda.

No. This is coincidence. No. This can't be anything but coincidence. They are names, that's all. Names any child might have. I misheard before. He didn't say Miranda the first time around. I misheard. My hearing isn't what it used to be. I'm getting old.

He leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, covered his face with his hands. Just as he had done in the doctor's office when the oncologist had said there was no more she could do to help Isabella.

Don't let this happen. Don't let this be the truth. It can't be the truth.

Type “Thomas Grainger” into Google and find out you're wrong. Find out what a misguided, crazy old man you've become. Prove it. Because it can't be true. It can't be.

He didn't type anything in. His hands stayed where they were, covering his face.

Katy. Playing on the beach with Jack. Katy. Going for a ride with Jack. Alone with him in the car. Late at night. Katy.

In an instant, he'd sat back up straight, pulled up the Google page and typed in “Thomas Grainger.”

There were three snapshot pictures. One of a dark-haired young boy standing in front of a board with measurements of feet and inches on it, holding a piece of paper with the name “Thomas Grainger” written on it and a date of birth.

Beside it was a photo of two little girls. Blonde-haired, identical little girls smiling into the camera, looking as if they might be posing for a family Christmas card.

The final picture on the right was of a teenage boy. An older version of the boy in the first picture.

A younger version of Jack.

No, oh my God, no.

Leaning forward, he studied the teenage boy more closely. Jack's eyes. Jack's nose. Jack's mouth.

A feeling of dizziness came over him again; he couldn't take in the text printed underneath the pictures. All he saw were parts of sentences:
viciously battered over the head with a cricket bat . . . an 11-year-old choirboy at the prestigious choir school . . . horribly reminiscent of the Jamie Bulger case . . . Barrister Eliza McCormack . . . Grainger was released from prison at 18 . . . new identity to protect . . . Dunne, father of the murdered identical twins, suffered a fatal stroke in 2007 . . .

“Henry.”

He turned so quickly, he knocked over his cup of coffee.

Jack was behind him, staring over his shoulder at the screen. “I didn't hear you come in. How long have you—”

“Sorry about that. I saw you hunched over your desk as I was walking in. I didn't want to disturb you, you were so engrossed. I'll get something to wipe up that coffee, Henry. Hang on a second.”

“Jack, no. Wait. Leave it. We need to talk.”

“Because of that?” Jack pointed at the screen. “You don't really think that's me, do you?”

“Are you saying it isn't?”

“Of course it isn't.” He smiled. “You need glasses, Henry. Should we get going, then? Off to the dock? The fish are probably out there jumping, just waiting for us.”

Viciously battered over the head with a cricket bat . . .

“My vision is fine, Jack.” He stood up. “We're not going anywhere right now.” He went over to the armchair beside the fireplace. “Sit down in that chair across from me. We're going to talk.”

“Come on, Henry. Don't be silly. Let's get going.” Jack didn't move.

“No.” Henry pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

“What? I'm Bones now?” Jack ambled over to the chair, sat down casually. “This is a waste of time.”

He couldn't fit the image of a boy who had killed two little girls to the man who was sitting across from him now—to Jack, his grandson-in-law. What he desperately wanted to do was stand back up, say, “Forget it, let's go,” and head over to the dock. How could he start this conversation? How could he
have
a conversation about all this? The horror of it kept flooding his heart; yet he knew he had to push it to the side, somehow. He had to find out the truth—now.

“You wanted me to know, didn't you?”

“To know what? I'm not following you.” Jack crossed his right leg over his left.

“You're following me, all right. There's nothing wrong with my eyesight and there's nothing wrong with your brain. You wouldn't have said their names if you didn't want to be found out. You would have made up some name like ‘Ruth' for your sister—not Miranda and then Amanda. You said both their names, Jack. You wanted me to know.”

“Do you mind?” Jack reached into the pocket of the wind-breaker he was wearing, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, showed them to Henry.

“I don't give a fuck if you smoke. I want you to tell me the truth.”

Henry stared at him as he lit the cigarette, took a puff and then another.

“Jack? I'm waiting. Or should I call you Thomas?”

“Call me whatever you like, Henry.”

“Are you going to tell me the truth?”

“Which truth?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means which truth? The truth the media puts out? The truth people want to believe? Or the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? It's a strange word, isn't it? Truth?” Jack inhaled again, deeply. Blew out the smoke, stared at it, flicked the still-burning cigarette into the fireplace. “The truth is, Henry . . .” He uncrossed his legs, sat forward. “I did something awful. Unspeakable. Monstrous. I can tell you that I was eleven years old and I didn't know what I'd done. I can try to explain what happened. But that won't make any difference, will it?

“The truth is I killed Amanda and Miranda Dunne and I went to prison for it. I was released from prison when I was eighteen and I was given a new identity. But I was found out. Someone recognized me and sold the story to the papers and they camped outside my flat and I was about to be strung up and lynched by a baying mob. But I was allowed to flee in the middle of the night and then I was given another identity—and guess what? The same thing happened. Someone recognized me and sold me out again. I had three identities, Henry. Three times I came close to being killed by some enraged member of the public. They finally realized I couldn't live in the UK. My lawyer, well, she helped do a deal, a special deal, to get me here to America.”

If I could leave. If only I could leave this room now. If only Jack could disappear forever. I don't know how to deal with this. I don't think I can continue to look at this man.

“That's one truth. Another truth is that there is a justice system. And there is this theory about the justice system. The theory is that if you go to jail and do your time, you have paid your debt to society and are rehabilitated and let out to live the rest of your life. Except that's not the truth. Because no one wants you to live your life when you've done what I've done. I can never repay the debt, Henry. I thought I could, with Holly and Katy. I really thought I could live a life and give them all my love and make up for the terrible thing I'd done. Why do they bother with this so-called truth of theirs, Henry? That's what I want to know. Why do they tell you that you can be rehabilitated when they won't let you be?”

“
I
want to know why you . . . why you killed those girls. Why, Jack? They were three years old. How could you possibly have killed them?”

“It was an accident, Henry. We were playing. Up in a tree-house in the back of my garden. I used to play with them all the time. Their mother came to clean our house and would bring them with her and on holidays from school, I played with them. They were like little sisters to me. I had my cricket bat. A new one I'd been given for my birthday. I was showing off, swinging the bat, and it flew out of my hand. I lost control and it slipped and it hit Amanda in the head. She fell down and didn't get up. She wouldn't get up. I kept trying to wake her up but I couldn't. And Miranda started screaming and crying and I was so frightened, I hit her to stop her from screaming. I hit her. I wasn't trying to kill her, Henry. I was trying to stop her crying. I expected them both to get up. You have to believe me. I didn't mean to kill them. I was eleven years old.

“But I was this public-school boy. I was a choirboy, a privileged kid, from a privileged background. I hadn't grown up on an estate or watched nasty videos. So I was evil incarnate. I was the devil in a choirboy's robe. Everyone could hate me; everyone
wanted
to hate me. The only person who understood was Eliza McCormack. She was the only person who believed in me.”

“Your parents?”

“They disowned me. I had besmirched their good name, you see. My mother couldn't go to the golf club any more. My father couldn't keep his fancy job at his fancy bank. I ruined their lives. They wanted nothing to do with me.”

“They're alive.”

“They're alive. But as far as they are concerned, I'm not. I'm dead.”

“I can't—” He shook his head.

“You can't what, Henry?” Jack rose from his chair, came toward him, kneeled at his feet. “You can't let me live my life? Every child psychologist in the country came to see me in prison. They all wanted to know why I'd done what I'd done. As if I had a
reason
. As if I'd
planned
it. I had shrinks, I had social services people, I had counselors. But the only person who ever made any sense was Eliza. She said the only way I'd have a fair trial was if I was judged by a jury of my peers. By a jury made up of other eleven-year-olds. Because they were the only ones who might know what would be going through my mind—my fear, my terror. Amanda wouldn't wake up and Miranda was screaming and I was scared witless. I wanted her to stop screaming. I didn't want to kill her. I hadn't meant to kill Amanda. I didn't even understand what death
meant.
I sat there in that tree-house afterward and waited for them both to wake up. They were supposed to wake up, Henry.”

Jack began to cry; he was looking up at Henry, his eyes imploring, tears dripping down his cheeks.

“They were supposed to wake up.” He threw himself forward, buried his head on Henry's knees. Reaching out, Henry put his hand on Jack's head.

An eleven-year-old boy. He didn't know what he was doing. He couldn't have known or understood.

They sat, Jack sobbing on Henry's lap, Henry patting his head, until the sobs started to slow down and Henry could feel Jack beginning to gain some control.

“I'm sorry.” Jack pulled back, wiped his face with the sleeve of his windbreaker. “I haven't talked about it for a long time. I hate talking about it.”

Henry stayed silent until Jack composed himself, went back to his chair, pulled out his cigarettes again and lit up.

“Not exactly the fishing trip you'd expected, is it?” A thin smile appeared momentarily on his face before being replaced by a grimace. “I know this is a mess, Henry. I didn't mean to get Holly involved. I walked away from her, as you know. And then you took me on that fishing trip and I saw her again and I knew I was in love. You know, Eliza once said to me, ‘Everything is redeemable.' I thought she could be right. I thought I could be with Holly and Katy and redeem myself. And then Billy butted in—”

“This is not Billy's fault, Jack.”

“I know, I know. But if he hadn't—”

“You would have had to tell Holly anyway. You couldn't live a lie like that with her.”

“I can't tell Holly.”

“You can tell Holly. You
have
to tell Holly.”

“She'll leave me. You know Holly. She would never be able to live with me knowing what happened.”

“She has to know.”

“And that will help? How? Holly's still scared of some boy who might have stolen a bicycle once. You think she'd forgive me? People don't forgive. Not something like this. It will kill her.”

“It won't. She has to know.”

“She doesn't. Billy will back off now. She doesn't have to know. Knowing will only hurt her. We can be the way we were before. We can live here and be the way we were before.”

“You know that's not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's a lie, Jack.” Henry sighed. He didn't think he'd ever been as tired as he was now.

“So you don't believe in rehabilitation? You don't believe in second chances? I thought you believed in the law, Henry. I thought you believed in liberal causes.”

“I believe in the law. But I also believe in the truth. And you cannot live with Holly and Katy without Holly knowing.”

“You think I'd do something to Katy? Hurt her? Henry, you are so wrong.”

“You were out with her late that night on the beach and—”

“And I was playing catch with her. I wasn't hurting her. Jesus.” Jack pitched the second cigarette into the fireplace. “You see what happens? You know about my past so you assume I'm going to do something evil again. And Holly will assume it too. Why didn't they kill me when I was eleven? It would have been easier.”

“You have to tell her.”

“All right, all right. I'll tell her. I'll go over there now and tell her and ruin her life and mine at the same time.”

“You don't have any choice, Jack.”

“Fine. I'll do it. I have no choice.” He stood up. “I'll come back when she throws me out of the house. I'll come back and say goodbye to you and see if you feel better. And you can ring me when I'm gone and tell me if
she
is better off for knowing. Because she won't be, Henry. She'll be miserable and unhappy and she'll hide away on Birch Point for the rest of her life. Is that what you want?”

“I want her to know the truth.”

“Yeah, right. It has nothing to do with the fact that you want to have them to yourself again, does it? You want to be the most important person in their lives.”

“You killed two children, Jack.”

“I was a child myself.”

“And Holly is my grandchild. Katy is my great-grandchild. I have to protect them.”

“From me. Of course.” He shook his head. “The Bad Boy, right? You have to save them from the Bad Boy.”

“I—”

“Forget it, Henry. I told you I'll tell Holly. I'll go back now and tell her.” He walked to the doorway. “You'll probably hear her crying from here.”

“I'm coming with you.” Henry rose too, went to where Jack was, at the threshold to the hall. “I'll be with you when you tell her.”

“I want to do it alone.”

“No. I'm coming with you.”

“Because you think I'll run away without telling her.”

“Because she'll need me there when she hears.”

“I don't think so.”

Jack had turned, was heading back into the house, toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going? Jack?”

“We're going fishing, Henry.”

“What?”

He had stopped at the back of the hall where the fishing gear and tackle box lay.

“What the hell are you doing? Come back here.”

He had crouched down by the tackle box, opened it.

“Leave that alone and come here. I mean it.”

He stood up again, turned to face Henry.

He was holding the fishing knife.

“For Christ's sake—put that down.” Henry stepped back a pace.

It happened too quickly for him to react. Jack was suddenly running at him, had tackled him to the floor, was on top of him, sitting astride his chest.

He tried to move, but he couldn't. Jack was kneeling on top of him; his weight was pinning him down. If he'd been younger; if he'd been stronger . . .

“Don't, Jack,” he gasped.

“I'm sorry, Henry.”

But Henry saw the face looming above him: there was no emotion in it, only blank detachment.

“You don't have to do this. This isn't you. Put that knife down. Get off me. We can talk.” He was using what felt like the last bit of air left in his lungs to speak.

“Talking's over, I'm afraid. I know you, remember? You'll tell. You'll tell because you think it's the right thing to do.”

The knife was in the air; the knife was hovering in the air above him. Jack was waving it in a circle.