Territory (56 page)

There was only one person able to put his mind at rest. Terence Galloway. But what if his mother had lived the lie until the end? What if his father had never known the truth? Should Kit confront him with the proof of his wife's
infidelity and the knowledge that he'd raised a son not his own?

Then Kit thought of his mother. She had wished him to have the locket, hadn't she? She had wanted her son to know the truth.

Kit spent the days in an agony of indecision until finally he could bear it no longer. He decided to confront his father.

It was Christmas Eve when he drove out to Larrakeyah. Late in the afternoon. A restless day, ominous and threatening. The weather report which had appeared in that day's edition of the
Northern Territory News
had run only three paragraphs. Tropical Cyclone Tracy was currently 150 kilometres north-west of Darwin, with winds of 120 kilometres an hour buffeting Bathurst Island. Little attention had been paid to the report.

Terence, Scotch in hand, was sitting on the first-floor verandah looking out over the harbour and the blackening sky. Certainly cyclone weather, he thought, but it wouldn't reach them, it wouldn't get past Bathurst Island.

He was surprised when the Kingswood pulled up. He hadn't seen much of Kit lately. There'd been a definite cooling between them since the magazine article and the confrontation which had followed its publication. Not that Terence particularly cared, it was simply further proof of the gulf which existed between him and the boy. By God, he'd thought, how proud Malcolm would have been of that article. Malcolm was a Galloway, with true Galloway pride. And how staunchly Malcolm would have supported him in his forthcoming mayoral campaign. Kit's reaction had irked Terence. The ungrateful young bastard didn't know how lucky he was to bear the Galloway name.

‘Well, well, well,' he said, rising from his chair as Kit walked up the steps to the verandah, ‘the prodigal son returns.' He gave a hearty beam, there was no point in further alienating the boy, the family image remained
important. ‘How nice to see you, what are you drinking?' He slung an arm around Kit and hooked his hand over his son's shoulder. Although much slighter in build, Kit stood a good four inches taller than Terence. ‘Scotch? Beer?' he offered as they walked inside to the lounge room.

Kit had intended confronting his father with the locket the moment he arrived, but given the enthusiasm of his welcome, it was difficult.

‘Beer thanks, Dad,' he found himself saying. Christ, how the hell was he to go about it?

‘Fran!' Terence bellowed, topping up his Scotch from the bottle on the sideboard, and she instantly appeared. ‘Bring a beer for our boy.'

‘Hello, Kit,' she said, pleased to see him.

‘G'day, Fran.'

‘So what are you getting up to tonight?' Terence asked, ‘Want to come to a dinner party? Posh affair, I can tell you. Who's who there, great food, great booze.' It would look good if Kit was with him, he thought.

‘Sounds great,' Kit said, it sounded awful, ‘but Maxie's having a party and I promised I'd go.'

‘Oh yes, I know the sort of thing,' Terence kept up the bonhomie, ‘a right bloody pissup.' He gave a laugh which sounded decidedly mirthless. ‘Darwin on a Christmas Eve, eh?'

‘Yes it'll probably be like that,' Kit admitted. The beer arrived. ‘Thanks Fran.'

Terence wondered what Kit's reply would be if he said, ‘Hey son I'd really like you to come with me tonight as a favour, politics, you know what I mean?' The boy would simply say ‘no thanks, Dad', he knew it. Malcolm would never have said that. Malcolm would have done anything he'd asked.

He looked at Kit with disdain, but the smile remained painted on his lips. ‘Well, cheers, happy Christmas and all that.' He clinked his glass against Kit's and they drank.
‘So to what do I owe the honour?' he said, ‘Have you got a Christmas present for me?'

Kit recognised the sarcasm, just as he recognised the fact that his father was angry with him. He was supposed to have accepted the invitation to dinner, but he could hardly do so under the circumstances, could he? Not that he would have accepted under normal circumstances. Oh hell, he told himself, just bite the bloody bullet.

‘There's something I want to show you, Dad,' he said, depositing his beer on a coffee table and taking the locket, which he'd carefully cleaned and wrapped in a white handkerchief, from the top pocket of his shirt. ‘And there's something I need to ask you. Could we turn on that lamp?' The light was dim in the gathering gloom of the afternoon.

Damn the boy's peremptory tone, Terence thought, but he put down his Scotch, crossed to the standard lamp in the corner and turned it on.

Kit unwrapped the locket and held it beneath the light from the lamp. He shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket, then carefully pressed the locket's clasp. It was only when he had opened it to display the photographs inside that he looked at his father.

Terence Galloway was staring in stupefaction at the locket. He appeared to be in a state of complete disbelief.

So his father hadn't known, Kit thought. His father hadn't known that his wife had had a lover. Damn, he should have been a bit more subtle. He wondered whether he should suggest that perhaps the locket dated from a time previous to their marriage. No, he decided, he wasn't here to mollify his father and invent explanations. He needed answers, even if the answers were hurtful to Terence Galloway. And if Terence Galloway himself hadn't known, which it appeared he hadn't, then surely he too deserved the truth after all these years.

‘It's Paul Trewinnard, Dad,' he said. There was no need to explain any further the image in the locket, his father was staring at it, mesmerised, obviously aware of its implications.

In the horrifying instant Terence had seen the locket in the palm of Kit's hand, he had remembered the moment when he'd pressed his wife's fingers around that very same locket. It had been the moment before he'd killed her.
How could it be here?
his mind screamed. Then, as he'd watched Kit open the locket, he'd fought back his panic. There had to be a reasonable explanation for its reappearance. His frenzied brain churned with a dozen scenarios.
Someone had found the body! So why hadn't they reported it? They hadn't reported it because they'd stolen the locket, yes, that made sense. So why had the locket come to light now? Why was it being returned to him after all these years?
Then the sickening realisation struck home.
Someone knew the truth! They'd sent the locket as a signal. Was it money they wanted? Was it blackmail?

Kit had said something but Terence didn't hear what it was. ‘Where did you get that?' he demanded in a menacing growl.

Kit hoped that his father wasn't about to have one of his fits of rage, it would serve neither of them any purpose if he did. They needed to talk calmly and reasonably, to unveil the secrets of the past and find the answers which both of them deserved to know.

‘It belonged to Mum,' he said. ‘She and Paul Trewinnard …' Surely he didn't need to spell it out.

‘I said where did you get it?' Terence tore his eyes away from the locket and glared at his son.

Did that really matter? Kit wondered. ‘Someone gave it to me,' he said.

‘Who?'

Kit recognised something else in his father's face besides rage. Was it fear?

‘Who, boy? You tell me right now, who gave you that locket?'

‘It doesn't matter who, Dad,' Kit didn't want to get Pearl into trouble. She'd been clearly frightened when she'd returned the locket, better to leave her out of the equation, he thought. ‘We just need to recognise the truth,' he said. ‘Both of us.'

The familiar madness had come upon Terence, and Kit's composure now infuriated him. He lunged at the locket. ‘Give me that thing, you sanctimonious little prick!'

But Kit was too quick for him. He snatched the locket away from Terence's grasp. ‘For God's sake, be reasonable,' he yelled, although it appeared that Terence Galloway was beyond all reason. ‘It doesn't matter who gave it to me! Mum wanted me to have it!'

Terence had been about to hurl himself at Kit and wrestle the locket from him, but he was stopped in his tracks.

She wanted him to have it! She'd lived long enough to give the locket to someone.
Again the realisation rocked him.
And whoever she had given it to as she lay dying knew that Henrietta Galloway had been murdered. Who was it? Who knew that Terence Galloway had killed his wife?

As his mind screamed the question, Terence forced himself to keep calm. He needed answers.

‘Who told you that she wanted you to have the locket, Kit?'

But Kit appeared not to have heard the question. ‘She wanted me to know the truth, Dad,' he said, relieved that his father had regained his composure.

Terence froze at the words.
What truth?
He stared at his son.
Did Kit himself know? Was Kit attempting to blackmail him?

‘What truth?' he asked, his voice now deadly calm. He'd kill the boy if need be.

Someone had to say it out loud, Kit thought. The locket's implication must have occurred to his father. He'd been quite sure it had, given Terence Galloway's stunned reaction, but the man seemed unable to admit it. Kit took a deep breath. ‘The truth that Paul Trewinnard was my father.'

Terence continued to glare at him with eyes glassy and menacing. Was that all the boy needed to know? Surely whoever had given him the locket had said something about his mother's death.

‘I'm sorry, Dad.' Kit took his father's silence as shock. ‘It came as a shock to me too. I actually thought you might have known yourself all this time, but …' His voice trailed off. The expression on his father's face was enigmatic. Was he still angry? Was he hurt? It was impossible to tell. ‘… but I believe it's the truth. I believe that Paul Trewinnard was my natural father.'

Terence wanted to laugh out loud with relief. The boy knew nothing. Whether someone had stolen the locket or whether they'd been given it by the dying Henrietta, they had said nothing. And that same someone had now relinquished the locket. In Terence's fixated mind, the only proof of her murder was the locket itself, and it was right here in front of him for the taking.

‘Of course Trewinnard was your father,' he said. Kit was obviously desperate for an answer, might as well tell him. ‘But don't blab it around town, boy, it wouldn't do either of us any good.'

‘You knew?' Kit was dumbfounded.

‘Naturally.' Not wise to admit to discovering the fact just prior to Henrietta's mysterious death, Terence thought. ‘I knew from the very start,' he said, congratulating himself on his cunning. ‘Very noble of me, don't you think? Bringing up Henrietta's bastard child.' Now that he felt safe Terence wanted to twist the knife just a little, the boyishly wounded look on Kit's face irritated him.

Kit hadn't known what to expect in confronting his father. Perhaps the rage that he'd already encountered, perhaps the vitriol; neither had surprised him. But this calm, cold reaction was the last thing he'd anticipated. He stood at a loss, not sure what to say. It seemed there was nothing he
could
say.

‘Thank you for telling me the truth,' he said when he finally found his voice. It was time to go, he thought. He crossed to the verandah door and opened it.

‘Give me the locket, Kit.' It was an order.

‘Why?' he asked, turning back.

‘Because I don't want photographs of my wife and her lover floating around for everyone to see.'

‘I won't show anyone.'

‘I said give me the locket, Kit.' Terence crossed to the door, his hand outstretched.

‘No.' Kit slipped the locket into his shirt pocket. ‘She wanted me to have it.'

‘You'll do as you're told, you little bastard,' Terence snarled, his anger once more on the rise.

‘Not so little,' Kit said, ‘but you got the other part right.' Looking at Terence Galloway's face, twisted with rage as he'd so often seen it, Kit felt light-headed and strangely relieved. So many unspoken questions seemed to have suddenly been answered. ‘I'm glad Paul Trewinnard was my father,' he said. ‘It explains a great deal.'

‘It does, doesn't it.' Terence's years of hatred overwhelmed him. ‘Do you think I could ever have sired a spineless little bastard like you! You're the product of that slut of a mother of yours and her wimp of a Pom. Big fucking war hero, my arse.' He shoved Kit roughly in the chest and Kit lost his balance, staggering a step or two back through the door. Terence followed him onto the verandah. ‘Let's see what you're made of, big fucking war hero.' Terence wanted more than a fight. He wanted to kill Kit with his bare hands.

Kit looked at the man he'd known as his father throughout his life. He was looking at a madman, he realised. Terence's face was red and distorted, his massive shoulders were hunched, his fists clenched, and he pawed the verandah deck like an enraged bull. A complete and utter madman, Kit thought. Didn't he realise that it wasn't an even match? Didn't he realise that he didn't stand a chance? For God's sake, didn't the man realise that he was nearly sixty years old?

Terence swung at Kit with all his might. Kit dodged aside, easily avoiding the blow, and Terence lost his balance, overturning a chair. He kicked it aside and lunged again at Kit.

There was a scream in the background as Fran raced from the kitchen through the lounge, yelling at them to stop. But neither of them took any notice. Kit was too busy concentrating on evading the lethal punches, Terence was still a strong man, and Terence himself was hell-bent on murdering the kid.

‘Cut it out!' Kit yelled above Fran's screams. ‘I don't want to fight you!'