Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Eight - Part One

SAN FRANCISCO

 

 

“Here they are Molly,” said Eden, standing aside so that she could see into the room.

Jack’s paintings were leaning against the wall, spread around the study so that each one was visible. She stepped over the threshold. The blinds were drawn on the morning sun, so she walked closer, picking out the form of each painting, unable this far away and in the gloom to make out the texture of the individual strokes.

She lifted one up in her hands, holding it away to get perspective on it. Her arms were bare, the crop top close around her chest. She was wearing shorts too and the chill in the room without the sunlight getting through reached her bare skin quickly. Turning the picture, the light from the hallway caught the colours, accentuating the ridges of thick paint. She turned it further and the image appeared.

It was the picture of a man and a woman, the man in the foreground, much larger. They seemed to be married, this couple, but unhappily. The wife was shouting at her husband, index finger raised while her other hand closed in a fist. Etched in her brow and cheeks were lines of her anger and frustration, her desperation. The man looked cowed and defenceless. His figure was contracted, shoulders drawn in around his neck. There was sorrow and pain in his face, in the tightly drawn lines across his forehead and the point his eyebrows reached at the centre.

Molly tilted the picture further, gazing closer into the eyes of these people, wondering if they were real; if they existed somewhere.

The incredible thing about this work was its compassion; its understanding. The husband was not just the victim. His nagging wife was not portrayed as irrational. There was real truth here beyond stereotype and subjective reality. The strain both of the figures was under was clear. Neither one was the enemy of the other and Molly longed to be able to reach into the frame and show them both that. It seemed a terrible misunderstanding. Cast here was a blueprint of thousands of situations in life; not just domestic rancour. The tragedy of these two people, who must have loved each other once and probably still did now, was completely lucid. The pressure that had driven the couple to this, making them both victims, was plain.

It was the most profound piece of artwork she had ever seen. There were tears in her eyes when she turned back to Eden. “I can’t believe how beautiful it is.”

The old man nodded. He was no longer dressed in his traditional black. He wore a pale green shirt and a cardigan. He looked many years younger. Eden pointed to a new picture in pastels standing on a makeshift easel made of piled up books. “He did this one last night when he came back covered in bruises, working like a demon”

It showed two lovers sitting on a bench in a park at night, surrounded by trees and fog, their backs to the viewer. Unlike the anger and movement in the other, this one possessed warmth and stillness. The woman seemed upset, pressed against the man for support and love as he surrounded her with his strong arms. She shimmered, a light rising from her, as though… As though her spirit were emerging from her body and forming a mist around them.

It was a picture of her and Jack last night, Molly knew that completely, and it touched her like the caress of a careful and attentive husband. If anything it was more beautiful than the painting of the arguing couple. 

“Jack said he wanted you to have them all,” said Eden, breaking her out of her trance.

“What? You have to be kidding.”

He shook his head and creased the sides of his mouth up. “They’re yours.”

She moved into the rest of the room, turning on the spot so that she could see them all. So much beauty; it was eclipsing the strangeness and joy of returning here to her father’s house and being welcome at last. Each strand of happiness was winding around the next to form a stronger and stronger rope. All due to Jack, the man she had felt such hatred toward.

And now, what did she feel?

“What are you going to do with them?” asked Eden, leaning against the doorframe, the light from beyond illuminating the air around his head in a halo.

Molly thought about it hard for a moment then she turned to him, full of determination and said, “I’m going to make some calls and do everything I can to get them shown so that everyone can see this work for themselves.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Twenty One

Molly entered the lounge.

At first, there was no sign of Jack at all, then she saw his foot, extending into view from the other side of a very high-backed chair. She circled round until she could see him.

“Jack? Are you okay?”

He looked up at her and she gasped. He was bruised and cut. His clothes were damp but clean. There were strands of medical tape holding the cut on his forehead closed. His hair was wet but brushed back.

“Is that all from the mugging?” she said, “You looked okay afterward. What happened?”

Jack leaned forward and grimaced from the movement. “I just got caught in another fight. David Eden patched me up.” He grinned. “I’m fine, really.”

“Why have you called so late? What’s wrong?”

Jack leaned back into the chair. He was dressed in a white sweater and tan slacks, dull brown shoes on his feet. He had a navy blue overcoat nearby, hanging over the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry I came in the middle of the night but I really wanted to say goodbye.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Something’s come up. I have to. Things have changed and I need to get away to find something I’m looking for.”

“What?”

“An answer.”

“To what question?”

Jack got to his feet. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Molly frowned.

“I wanted to ask you a favour though,” he said.

“What is it?”

“The friend you told me about,” said Jack, “the Frenchman.”

“Gaston?”

“Yeah. I was wondering if you could give me his address in France. I’ve been thinking about what you told me about him. I’ve been thinking about lots of things. I’ve been walking for hours.”

She let him continue, closing her arms around her chest.

“I want to talk to him about his research. I think it could help me.”

“He researches killers,” she said. “How could talking to him help? Is it something to do with your paintings?”

She could tell he was lying when he said “Yes.”

“What’s going on Jack?”

He turned back to her. “I can’t tell you Molly.” He paused, clearly thinking things through. “A couple of days ago I started painting a self portrait. I didn’t get to finish it. A lot’s happened since then. My whole self-image has changed. I’m not sure I can draw it from memory anymore.”

“Jack…”

“I just need Gaston’s address and telephone number,” he said. “I’ll contact him. I need to leave the country and I need you not to tell anybody where I’ve gone.”

She stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “Okay. Wait here.”

She went through to the kitchen, into the quiet of the rest of the house. There was a pen and paper on the side. She copied down Gaston’s full name and where he lived in the southern Alps from her address book then she took the paper back through.

Jack had his coat back on. It was very long. His arms were folded. He took it from her without saying a word then he said, “I have to go. I’ve managed to get a seat on a late flight to Nice but I’m cutting it close.”

Molly looked at him, something dropping away in her stomach. “You’ll be back,” she said.

“Maybe,” he replied and then he looked sad too.  

She led him through to the front door. They paused on the threshold. He took her hand. She squeezed; then she put her fingers on his shoulder, gently guided his head down to hers – no misunderstanding this time at all – and put her lips to his.

Then he was gone.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Twenty

Molly turned over onto her back in her sleep, the covers down around her waist. Fingers that weren’t her own touched her wrist and her eyes flicked open.

Jennifer, her mother, was standing beside the bed, dressed for sleep herself but with a white bathrobe resting on her shoulders. “Molly,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

Jennifer sat down beside her on the bed. The mattress shifted and stretched from the extra weight. She was smiling, her eyes very sad, blond hair held in place by a black band but dropping down still to her shoulders.

“It’s okay darling. I’m sorry to wake you. You have a visitor and I just wanted to talk for a second.”

Molly raised herself up to sitting, her shoulders against the soft cushioned headboard. “Who is it? Who’s here? What time is it?”

“It’s after midnight,” replied Jennifer, “and Jack Catholic is at the door.”

“Jack?”

“Yes.”

Jennifer raised her arm and gently ran the back of her fingers down Molly’s cheek. A quiet laugh came to her lips. “He’s very like your father.” She glanced toward the window and the tree beyond. The curtains were never closed in Molly’s bedroom and the tree was always enormously present, summer or winter. “Not in his looks so much as in his way, but he’s very handsome too.”

Molly didn’t nod but she agreed. “What did you want to say to me mother?”

Jennifer’s brow furrowed and then relaxed. She looked straight into Molly’s eyes and then away again as though she couldn’t hold the gaze. “I wanted to say sorry Molly. From your father, not from me. I wanted to apologise for him… because he never got the chance.”

“Mom?”

“He did love you darling. I know he did. Like I do. He loved you... and I know he was sorry at the end. I know he wanted to close the space between you as much as he wanted to close it between him and me.”

She smiled. There were tears in her eyes, and then Molly was weeping too. They closed their arms around one another and held tight. Then very quietly and soberly, Jennifer pushed Molly away and said, “Now Jack’s waiting for you downstairs. You’d better go and see him.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Nineteen

Jack turned the corner into the alley at the side of the restaurant and Sam followed just behind.

It was very dark. There was a layer of moisture from the mist over the bricks and the tarmac, tinting the colours darker but giving them a sheen that glimmered in the light from out on the street. A row of dustbins on each side was filled with restaurant scraps. Overflow rubbish was piled next to one of the bins on the left.

“I know you want to kill me,” said Jack, “despite what you said inside. I know you want to.”

From behind him, Sam didn’t say a word.

“And you’ll have your chance,” continued Jack. “But I want to talk to you first Sam. Lucy told me things about you. I want to talk about what she said.”

He heard metal scrape against metal very quietly behind him and to the left. He started to turn then something smashed against the side of his face.

Jack staggered to his right. His leg crumpled slightly but he was still on his feet. Sam was just a shadow to his left, then the shadow burst and lengthened; it contracted and the massive metal thing crashed against Jack’s head and back. His right leg gave way, his knees came forward too slowly; they hit the tarmac. His hands out to save his head, barely stopped it connecting with the ground. His mouth was hot, his face was wet; he gagged, spitting liquid over his lips. Sam dropped the dustbin lid. It clattered into the crease at the foot of the wall then stopped moving.

“Wait,” gasped Jack, holding out his hand.

Sam’s foot dug into his side, lifting him clear off the ground.

He was on his back. The kick came again. Sam stepped away, circling round near his feet. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, a sneer in his voice. “I don’t care why you did it. I don’t want to hear your pleas of sorrow or bullshit about forgiveness.” He kicked Jack again, across the cheek this time. “I’m just going to kill you and then I’m going to walk away.”

Jack put his hand out to get up. Sam kicked it clear. The tarmac came up against his face and he gasped from the jet of pain. Then another kick came, in his gut. Sam was laughing. Another. But Jack was getting up. The beating didn’t matter. Another blow: fist to his face. But he was on his feet now.

Blood was coming from a cut above his eye, breath exploding from his chest. Sam was only a couple of feet away. He was staring at him; staring as Jack straightened up. Sam’s head shook just a fraction, his eyes were cracked and wild. His slick hair was all over the place. Jack stepped forward, the breath raising and dropping his whole body.

The tiny array of muscles in Sam’s jaw tightened, then he shot forward, his fist driving at Jack’s face. Jack stepped back, bringing his own fist up; his left. Sam overshot. Jack’s smashed hard into the side of his face.

He twisted, left arm whipping back. Sam staggered. Jack grabbed the collar of his overcoat then brought his fist up into Sam’s stomach. He brought it up again, then he took hold of the front of Sam’s shirt, drawing him close and drove it straight into Sam’s cheek. His body was whipped from Jack’s grasp and as he released his fingers Sam hit the tarmac and rolled, out of control.

Jack stood still. Sam’s chest and stomach were still moving with his breath. He was alive; nothing more than winded and stunned. There was pain in Jack’s head and down his back, adding to the battering of the mugging.

He stepped backward, still watching Sam. He looked down at his hand – fingers curling, wet, flecks of blood in his palm – and he knew that he could kill this man now. He could kill Sam. There was no one on the street; no one would see him do it; Sam wasn’t moving. He had tried to kill Jack; it would be self defence.

Sam was gasping for air, trying to turn his head, face against the wet ground, he brought his eyes up to stare straight into Jack’s. He could barely catch his breath and was struggling to get his hands to lift him.

There was nothing to stop Jack finishing it now, but he took another step away, then he turned his back on Sam and left him lying there... not because of pity or remorse, but because he knew what Sam was now. He wasn’t a man in the simple way despite his physical form and mind and background. He had become something symbolic; something Jack needed.

He was the avenging angel sent down to stop Jack from going on with his quest. He was an ever-present opportunity for God or Fate to stop him if that was what was meant to be.

Either Sam was going to hunt him down and kill him, or he wasn’t going to succeed. Either way, Jack realised… so be it.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Eighteen

The tension rose like a slug into Sam’s temple as though there were a blood clot in his brain: deep deep pain like he was being cut with a knife as far as the bone.

This was it. This was the moment.

His eyes flicked to the right and left. The mirror behind the bar gave an inverted view of the crowd of potential witnesses. So many people; no gun; Jack was younger than he was; ten years younger; and bigger: blond hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders beneath his slightly soiled white shirt. Sam memorised every mark and trait.

Jack was thinking about the people here too, obviously. Neither one of them wanted to face the other in this type of location.

“Let’s go outside,” said Jack.

Sam nodded, keeping his eyes on him as they stood.

The two of them walked toward the door. There were people in the way. An elderly man and his matronly daughter. He and Jack waited for them to sit before they continued. The darkness through the front door was like the edge of the world. The pressure in Sam’s forehead was intense. Jack was in front. He reached out and opened the door, holding it for Sam.

Then he stepped out too.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Seventeen

The restaurant was fairly crowded; tables filled all the available floor space. There was a bar raised up on a platform down the far side. People were eating noisily and talking very loudly at the same time. Jack made his way through, his thoughts increasingly cloudy.

A woman was sitting at one end, dressed in a close approximation of an evening gown, a shawl hanging off her elbows. She had a half empty glass of what looked like Martini and looked disappointed when Jack walked in. He decided to keep away from her. He sat further up near the centre of the bar, next to a man in a suit.

“What can I get you?” said the barman.

“Just a Coke,” replied Jack.

The man on the seat next to his turned to him and smiled. “Are you English?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

Jack took his drink and paid the barman. “Nice to meet you. It’s always good to see people from back home when travelling.”

“Mmmm.” The man had an empty plate in front of him. He laid his knife and fork together very carefully, his fingers lingering longer than might have been expected. The barman took it away.

“So why are you eating alone?” asked Jack.

“I’m here on business,” replied the man.

“What kind of business?”

“I’m in insurance.”

“You’re not going to try and sell me a policy are you?”

The man smiled. “No. I’m not a salesman, I’m an investigator. And anyway, I’m not here because of that.”

“No?”

The man withdrew slightly. There was a little tension in his expression for a second as though he were considering something, then he said, “I’m here to find someone.”

“An old friend or something?”

“No,” replied the man, smiling crookedly, a little more relaxed now and grateful perhaps for the opportunity to explain himself to a stranger. “I’m here to find the man who killed my sister.”

Jack’s eyes widened. His voice became quiet. “Really?”

The man grinned at Jack, eyes flicking across his face. “No. Not really.” He brushed a lick of hair into place off his forehead.

The barman laid down a slip of paper for the man to sign. Jack watched his hand very carefully as he spelled out his name in rapid strokes.

Sam Decker.

Lucy’s brother.

Thousand’s of miles away from where he’d committed the crime, and now, here was the one man who could be sure it was him. The coincidence was phenomenal but it was really happening and it was another sign. The man beside him was here to kill him or bring him to justice; he was an avenging angel sent to bring him down; and he didn’t realise that his companion was the very man he wanted to find.

Jack took a slow drink, keeping his eyes on Sam. He wondered if he should just tell him who he was.

“So, what are you doing here in San Francisco?” asked Sam.

“I’m a tourist.”

“And what makes you go to a bar alone?”

Jack pictured the bodies of the muggers in the park. He pictured Lucy lying against the hearth. “Just thinking, that’s all,” he said. “It’s good to be by yourself sometimes.”

Sam paused and then nodded.

“Do you believe in God?” asked Jack.

Sam frowned. “Absolutely not.”

“I do. I sometimes wonder how much of our lives he can see.”

“The standard belief is that he can see everything isn’t it?”

Jack sighed. “I guess so.”

“It’s irrelevant,” said Sam, “whether he exists or not. You do what you have to do to survive. Morals don’t come into it. If you’re damned when you die then that’s just the way it is.” Sam took a long drink of his beer.

Jack turned his glass round and round on the counter. “Are you saying that you’d kill to survive?”

Sam looked at him, eyes vacant. “No. I would never kill. Murder is the lowest crime. Never ever do it.”

“But what if you were going to die yourself?” pressed Jack, “What if you’d been betrayed? What if you became so angry you couldn’t stop yourself?”

Sam stared at him; then instantaneously his expression completely changed. The humour and politeness that had been there vanished. His eyes were grey.

“You’re him aren’t you?” he said. “You’re Jack Catholic. You murdered my sister.”

Jack nodded his head and whispered, “Yes.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Sixteen

Molly leant against a tree; the bark pressing through her jacket into her back. Jack’s voice came through the foliage. She peered round the trunk. It was a little misty now. The treetops weren’t visible; it made them look topless, like pillars. She called back out to him. “Jack!”

“Molly!” He was getting closer.

“Jack!”

His silhouette formed in the mist, filling her with relief. He jogged up and took her arms in his hands. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “What about you? What happened?”

She couldn’t make out his face at all. “They ran away. They’re gone. Let’s get out of here.”

“We shouldn’t have come here at night.”

He nodded. They started making their way back to the path. It was difficult to see where it was now in the mist but it came through eventually, a silvery track gleaming in the murk.

“I can’t believe that happened to us,” said Molly. He didn’t reply. “Jack?”

“Sorry. What?”

“I’ve never been mugged before.”

“No.”

“Are you okay?... Jack? What’s wrong?”

 “Nothing. I’m fine.”

They reached the very edge of the park. The row of shops was dotted with restaurants. The windows were all lit up with warm colours. They looked beautiful, especially in the mist. In the centre, next door to one of the restaurants, was an alley, pitch black against the lights. It cut the row of shops in two. Molly gazed at the windows for a while, just thinking about nothing, then she touched Jack’s shoulder. “I’d better be heading home. I’ll drop you off.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I might just head in there and get a coffee or something.” He pointed to the restaurant next to the alley. “I need to think about some stuff.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “It’s been really nice Jack. I’m sorry now for everything I thought about you before.”

“Don’t be. I’m not as nice as all that.”

“Sure you are. You just saved me didn’t you?”

He extended his hand. “Bye.”

“I’ll seeya.” She took it and stepped up close to his chest, then on impulse she extended her neck to bring her lips toward his mouth. Jack kissed her cheek briefly and pulled away, seemingly oblivious to the movement, not noticing her intent. Then he winked at her and crossed the road.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Fifteen

Jack stood above the bodies, watching them. Neither one of them breathed. He kept his eyes on them, not blinking for a second in case he missed something. The club was still in his hand.

Molly was gone. He couldn’t see where she was; it was dark all around him. There was a street lamp about thirty yards up the path. In its light he raised the branch: the makeshift club which they had used to beat him and that he had used to kill them both.

He couldn’t believe it had happened again. He hadn’t meant to kill; he had meant only to protect Molly and himself.

He thought about Lucy and about Molly. He thought about his miraculous survival and the destiny he had started to really believe was waiting for him.

The metaphorical darkness was like a hurricane, coming closer and closer to those around him. He couldn’t let it touch them. He couldn’t let it touch her.

He looked at the bodies one last time, felt a shudder of crushing regret, like his life was going completely out of any semblance of control, then he moved away. Only three days earlier everything had been normal.

He started jogging along the path the way Molly must have run, calling her name, the branch still in his hand. There was a pond on the left of the path, covered in leaves and rubbish, trees hanging low all round it close to the water. He paused in his search for her and threw the branch as hard as he could out into the middle, then he went on calling her name, only briefly considering the ease into which he had started covering this dark part of his life up.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Fourteen

There was pain through Jack’s head and down his spine. The concrete was hard against his face. A man was shouting. Molly screamed for help. There were hands in his pockets, rooting round. One of the men was yelling for quiet. He was shoving his gun into Molly’s face.

Jack forced his hands against the ground under his chest and heaved himself up. The club smashed down into his shoulder again but he didn’t stop moving. He was on his feet.

There were two of them. The one with Molly was facing away. The one with the club smashed it against Jack’s chest, drew it back for another strike then swung it forward. Jack grabbed it and wrenched it out of the man’s hands.

Shock and fear covered the man’s face that turned to venomous anger. Jack drew the club down by his thigh. The man pulled out a knife and lurched forward, going for a stomach stab. He started to call out to his friend. Jack brought the club up and mashed it into his face. He stumbled, flailing round with the knife, trying to slash at Jack but Jack brought the club vertically down. The man buckled. Jack struck him again as hard as he could and the shudder ran up his arm to his shoulder.

Molly screamed. Jack span round. The other man had one hand round her throat. His gun was jammed into her cheek, bending her head back. Jack grabbed the back of his hair. The gun jerked up and went off. Molly screamed again. The man stumbled backwards, losing his balance.

Molly go!”

She was frozen, petrified.

“Go! Now!”

She staggered away. He couldn’t see where she’d run to but it didn’t matter.

The man with the gun swung it round and pointed it at Jack. Reacting instinctively, he swiped the gun to the side with the branch. It went off again, taking a chunk out of his flailing shirt. He whipped the club back. It glanced the man’s face. He tried to bring the gun round again. Jack smashed him in the middle of his forehead.

He brought the club down over and over again onto of the his head and his chest. The man fell to the ground but Jack kept going, barely in control in his terror and desperation to protect himself and Molly. Each blow sent a shockwave up his arms and into his chest but he couldn’t stop himself.

When he finally managed to, the deed was done.

He could barely catch his breath but he could see clearly what was before him.

Both men lay still.

Perfectly still.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Thirteen

“So who’s your friend?” said Jack. “You called him Gaston?”

“Uh huh,” replied Molly, enjoying the conversation. The path was wide, grass on either side for twenty yards and then thick bushes or trees. It was very quiet. “I’m doing a book with him. He’s French and he needs a translator. He speaks good English but writing in another language is entirely different. Lives near Nice in the southern French Alps.”

“So that’s what you are, a translator?”

She grinned. “I guess so, if I’m translating a book.”

Jack laughed. “What’s it about?”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “He researches unsolved murders around the globe. He’s noticed a pattern among over a dozen deaths in various countries and created a hypothetical serial killer to explain them. The book’s part fiction/part fact. It’s the story of this killer, travelling round murdering people.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It can be grisly at times, the acts of violence are described quite grittily, but it’s a good work and Gaston is very charming; he’s also quite good looking for an older man. He’s in his sixties now, but I’ve never met a greater authority on murder.”

Jack was quiet for a while, thinking again about whatever secrets played around in his head.  His brow was set and rigid.

“You all right?” asked Molly, feeling better now she had talked about her father. She was still unsure why she had been able to discuss those things with him but getting them off her chest had removed what felt like a backpack full of rocks.

Jack sighed. “I’m fine. I was thinking about murder. Do you think it’s possible that you’re born to do it or that it’s all down to the way you’re brought up? Do we really have a choice when it comes to the moment?”

“You mean do we really have free will?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” replied Molly. “I know that I hated my father because my mother brought me up to; but in the end, when I became an adult, I also think I should have been able to make my own decision.”

“But aren’t the ways you go about making decisions determined by the same things I just said? I’m not sure that we really get any choice at all.”

“You should talk to Gaston,” said Molly. “He could tell you all about it.”

“Is he staying here at the moment?”

“Not anymore. He’s gone back to France.”

Jack shrugged. “Shame. That would have been interesting.”

The moon shone down through the trees. It was starting to mist and a halo was forming around it.

“Look at that,” said Jack, pointing up. “It makes me want to go and get my paint and brushes and get to work.”

“Did you bring them with you?”

“Yeah; and my paintings too. They’re all at my uncle’s house.”

“Are they good? I mean, what are they of on the whole? Still-life or landscapes?”

“Portraits... and scenes that I imagine. I like to paint dark things like images of misery; but I try to paint them with light.”

“What do you mean?”

“I always try to look for the light in the darkness; the hope; the purpose.” He smiled self-consciously. “I guess I’m trying to save the locations in them.”

It was getting chilly. Molly did the zip half way up the front of her jacket. “Have you ever sold any?”

“Not in a big way, not really, but I want to some day. I’ve always wanted to.” He gazed off into the mist. There were lights up ahead, street lamps and shop fronts. It looked safer. “Can you imagine how magical it would be for someone to buy a painting that you made, to love it to the extent that they wanted to have it on their wall every day for years and years? I put so much of myself into each one, it’s as though they would have a part of me up in their homes. I can’t think of anything that would make me more proud.”

He looked at her and grinned, once again a little shyly. Molly smiled back.

Then Jack’s whole face crumpled with pain and he dropped to the floor.

Molly turned round. There were two guys dressed in leathers: bikers. Jack was on his knees, hands out on the ground, head hanging. One of them had a stick; the other grabbed the shoulder of her jacket, pulling her back.

She called out Jack’s name. A gun was forced into her face. They were demanding money. The one with the stick smashed it down on Jack’s back. He cried out as his arms buckled; then they struck him again and Jack’s head hit the floor.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Twelve

“I went round to see my father on the night he died,” said Molly.

Jack listened patiently, conscious of the emotion that floated just beneath the surface of her eyes.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her hair dropping down to cover her face. They were sitting in a park now, not too far from where Jack was staying, deep in its centre, the darkness and trees all around them. There was a bench in a little clearing and they sat at either end of it, the length of the dark wood between them.

“You met my brother Ruben,” she said.

Jack nodded.

“Well neither one of us had seen my father except on TV for at least eight years. I don’t remember anything I ever did with him really, even as a child; except maybe something to do with the ocean. I can’t remember.” She shook her head irritably.

“Everyone knew how rich he was. I suspect you’re the only family member nowadays who has any idea how much there is. Well… it became known in the gossip columns, from some slip or bribe or something, that my father had changed his will, leaving it all to his family in England. Ruben came to me. He told me that we had to go and make peace with him before it was too late or we wouldn’t get anything. So I went with him to see my father,” she said. “I went to make up with him.”

“Because of the money?”

Slightest whimper of tears from her lips, from her hidden face. “I don’t know. No. I don’t think so. I just wanted to see him. I didn’t care about the inheritance.” She lifted her head. “I still don’t Jack; not really. I wouldn’t care if I were as poor as everyone else. If my mother’s accountant is right I probably will be very soon. But the money is important to me in a way Jack. It’s important enough that I hated you until I actually met you; not because of anything you had done but because he had chosen, however indirectly to give you his legacy; not me. I wanted him to love me. The money was just symbolic of that. It still is.” She laughed. “I would have been just as messed up if you had inherited a pressed flower in the old family Bible that I put there with him as a girl!”

Jack moved closer to her across the bench and reached for her shoulders. He put his arms around her as she crumpled very quietly against his chest. He held her close, her spirit gently pulsing within his arms as though there were no physical form there at all. Between his fingers this ethereal substance drifted up to form a kind of halo, illuminating them both. It glimmered on the rough bark of the trees. It gave light and colour to the feathers of the birds that looked down on them. He so deeply wanted to put paint to it. He wanted to capture this vision his mind’s eye was seeing: the lovers arm in arm on the bench, locked together in comfort and despair. He wanted to capture this ethereal light that only he could see in a medium that everyone would understand.

“I’m okay,” whispered Molly, close to his chest. She lifted her torso up and he gently released her. “I want to go on telling you what happened.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She put both hands on her face and held them there, then she took in a deep breath and swept them up over her head, wiping her hair clear. The tears had released her. There was a strength in her eyes now that hadn’t been there before, and a relaxation. She looked happier and more in control of what she was feeling.

Jack withdrew, conscious of her scent as it rose from the flesh revealed at her chest and from her legs. It wasn’t the scent of perfume but an aroma more pure and physical. It was the basic aroma of her skin, the tiny pheromone releases of chemical attraction. She turned to him and in the darkness he could see the gratefulness in her eyes in the faint glint of light against black.

“We went to see him, Ruben and I. I didn’t know exactly why I was there. I wanted to meet him as I was now; as an adult; to know him as he really was instead of how my mother had always portrayed it. I was so conscious that it had all been propaganda. Everything I knew of him was second-hand.”

Jack nodded. “Maybe he was evil and maybe he was good...”

“But I just wanted to see for myself. That’s it.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the bench, gazing up into the trees. “Ruben and I arrived at his house. We identified ourselves at the gate. He made us wait before he let us in without saying a word. I guess he was afraid to see us too.

“He invited us in and got drinks for us and he sat us down in that vast lounge he had with the staircase jutting out above it. We were dumbfounded. We’d expected an ogre and he was the nicest man I’ve ever met. We talked for over an hour; it was great.”

Silence for a moment then Jack asked, “So what went wrong? Why did he die?”

Molly looked away. “He got up to fetch more drinks,” she said, her voice quiet. “I sat waiting for him to come back, thinking about all the time there had been between these meetings, since the last time we had seen him, and I realised suddenly that I was absolutely livid. I felt betrayed; that all this kindness had come too late.

“Ruben looked at me across the room and leered. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He didn’t care about our father ignoring us. He saw only the money. That was when I realised... That was why I had come too; subconsciously. I was there for the cash.

“I didn’t care anymore about his actual love. I wanted the love he should have given us before and because that wasn’t possible, I wanted the money and nothing more than that. I was that evil. I was as bad as everybody thinks I am.”

Jack took her hand. It was shaking. “No you weren’t.”

“I was!” Molly got to her feet and turned to face him, spinning round fast. “You weren’t there! That was exactly what I wanted Jack! I wanted what you got! When my father came back in with that smile on his face, I started shouting at him. I accused him of all the pain he had put us through. I called him a liar and heartless. I screamed at him exactly as I’d always wanted to. Ruben grabbed my arms, trying to restrain me before it went too far. My father didn’t say anything at all. I’ve never seen anyone look like that. I’ve never known such loss.”

Molly turned away again, looking off through the trees.

“I walked out,” she said. “Ruben came with me. He didn’t know what else to do. We drove home in complete silence. Ruben went inside and I went to see my friend Gaston because I needed to talk it through. The next day I woke up and I knew I’d committed an act of betrayal myself. I understood... everything. But when I tried to make contact again that morning I found out he was dead.

“He’d gone driving on the coast road after we had left him and he had driven off the edge of that cliff and died.”

Jack was very quiet then he said, “What about your brother? Do you hate him for what he made you do?”

Molly turned back and smiled. “No. I could never hate Ruben. However bad he gets I know him too well. There’s nothing he could do that I couldn’t eventually forgive; and I know my own culpability. My father would be alive right now if I hadn’t said the things I did.”

“But how can it be your fault that he drove off the road all by himself?”

“Because I had broken his heart Jack, just like my mother did. He wouldn’t have been thinking straight, he wouldn’t have been concentrating, and that was down to me.”

Jack stood up. He put his hand on her shoulder and led her away from the bench. “Let’s get out of here. Come on.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Eleven

The taxi pulled in across the street from Jack’s dead uncle’s house.

“Wait here please.” Sam handed over the fare so far and twenty dollars extra.

“Sure thing,” replied the driver.

Sam got out of the car and walked across the street: huge house visible above the trees in the darkness, black stripes running up in mockery of English timber-framed buildings; sixty, seventy yards from gate to house; gate nine feet high and spike-tipped; fence equally high but climbable if it came to that; electronic intercom and video camera on the gate itself.

Sam walked up to it, smiling benignly. He pressed the button and waited through the pause, scanning through the trees at the house: no clear visible view of anything on the ground floor.

The intercom burst and crackled. An old man’s voice said “Yes?”

“Hello there sir,” said Sam, maintaining his smile as part of The Lie. He tilted his accent, making it sound immediately American. “My name’s Josh Winthrop. I wonder if you could help me. Jack Catholic gave me this address as his current habitation, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“He has approached me as a contact here in San Fransisco. for his paintings. Wants to see what he can do about selling some of them.”

“Right…” The old man sounded sceptical. Sam lowered the pressure.

“Is Mr Catholic home at the moment?”

“No.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

The video camera whirred, zooming in. “May I see some identification?”

Sam turned away and walked back to the cab.

There was no danger of Jack recognising him if the view from that camera had been taped – neither one of them had met the other – he wouldn’t know what Sam was there to do, but there was no other information to be gleaned for now.

Sam got back into the taxi, avoiding looking at the fat man in the front.

He needed somewhere to stay now. He needed something to eat.

He could return tomorrow. He had all the time in the world.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Ten

“So… who are you Jack?” asked Molly.

She looked across at him briefly, not long enough to focus on his features, then turned the wheel of her Porsche to the right, heading down onto a more major road. She was wearing her boots again now and an old brown flying jacket over her dress. The roads were very dark with overhanging trees but she liked that. She’d always preferred driving away from the streetlights.

Jack laughed. “Creepy question. And scary too.”

“Why exactly?” She felt at ease with him again; light. It was like a game this conversation. She felt as though she were pretending to be a shrink.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Because if you ask me who I am – and I’m assuming you mean where I come from and what I’m like – well; without anyone here to corroborate, I can say anything I want. I can reinvent myself before your very eyes. I could wipe away anything from my past I didn’t... I didn’t like; and make myself out to be nothing but nice.”

“And are you?”

“What?”

“Nothing but nice?”

He grinned. “Of course. I’m perfect.” They both laughed.

A complicated intersection came up. Molly couldn’t turn to look at him for several moments.

“And why is it scary?” she said, “That I should ask you to explain who you are?”

“Because... Because then I have to either lie or tell the truth. And telling the truth about yourself means standing back and looking at the things you’ve done. It means being objective.”

“And that frightens you?”

“Yes… I guess it does.”

“I suppose it depends on the things that you’ve done.”

She barely heard him say, “Yes.” 

She thought about that herself for a moment: about what she had told him on the sidewalk outside her father’s house earlier in the day.

They reached the coastal road and Molly accelerated, feeling unconcerned and relaxed. “So tell me about it,” she said, “assuming you’ve got your story ready: fictional or otherwise.”

Jack laughed. “Okay.” He stared out the side window for a few moments; at the sea perhaps, that dropped down away from the road over craggy rocks, and into the black seawater. Molly glanced out past him too. The horizon was still and immutable, as always.

“My dad was very religious,” said Jack. “I was brought up that way. I can recite whole reams from the Bible if called to do so at dinner parties.”

“Which frequently happens I’m sure.”

“It does actually.” He cleared his throat and then laughed. “He was very strict; I don’t know; it’s difficult to judge all that stuff if you haven’t lived lots of different lives. But, my mother too – well, both of them – they encouraged me to do whatever I wanted in life. He had plans for me to go into the clergy but realised very early that that wasn’t what I wanted.”

“What did you want?”

“To be an artist. My dad bought me everything I needed. He set me up in London where I could pursue it. He did so much to help me… before he died. And you know; I never understood the full extent of the sacrifices he’d made, him and my mother, until after they were gone. At the funeral... I spoke to a neighbour of ours; a really beautiful old lady who knew them well. She told me all about the things that had happened without my knowing it; the losses they’d endured to keep my life on course.” Jack looked sad for a moment.

“Anyway, he said, “I lived in London off money I’d received as part of a dodgy life assurance scheme of my mother’s. I made friends, I drew sketches for free magazines; I even painted the interior of a friend’s bar. I made a bit of cash. Then the money ran out, the decision to push my art all the way before dividing my time to find a serious job finally letting me down. And then I got evicted, and then I learned of the money from your father; and then I came here.”

“And that’s the whole story?”

Jack looked at her. “Such as it is, yeah. A bunch of decisions that led to places. I don’t know. Maybe they were bad decisions. You do your best; it doesn’t always work out as you planned.” He became thoughtful but said no more about it. “What about you? Who are you?”

Molly pulled the car up at the side of the road. There was a patch of dirt here where the road curved. The barrier to protect motorists from plunging over the edge was brand new. There hadn’t been one there at all when she had come up last. She got out the Porsche and walked over to the edge of the cliff. The wind was up again, rising off the ocean and whooshing up the cliff-side. It touched her hair and her face. It touched her clothes.

Behind her, the passenger door slammed. “Molly?” Footsteps on the gravel came slowly up to her left flank. She stared down into the white water at the base of the cliff. Jack stopped behind her. She could feel him there. “Are you okay?”

She ignored his words, hearing only the concern, and yearning for something that had been missing now for years.

“My father ran off the road here,” she said. “His car went through the barrier right on this spot and shot out into space. It fell through all that air... All that air. It shot down with my father still inside and crashed into the water. He died.”

“Are you okay?”

She shook her head. “No. Not really Jack. I haven’t been for a long time.”

She stepped closer to the edge. There were stubs of grass reaching out into the cold where the dirt dropped away. There were bare rocks below. The tide was out now. If she fell she probably wouldn’t even hit the water.

“I keep imagining the car going over,” she whispered, almost to herself, “except with me inside instead of him. I picture the scream coming from my mouth as I fall through all that space. All that space, and on the way down I can see what’s coming; I know what’s happening to me. I try to hear the scream that would come out of my mouth. And the worst thing? The worst thing is that I’m not sure there would be a scream. I think maybe I would be in a horrified silent panic. My body would be rigid; I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes, but I wouldn’t be able to scream either.”

“You shouldn’t think about those things Molly.”

She turned to Jack and there was so much concern and affection in his eyes. She lifted her hand and touched his cheek, the faint stubble invisible but slightly rough. For a second he looked confused from her touch, then she saw that his eyes were moist and the rush of empathy caught her, raising tears of her own.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing.” He folded his arms and moved away.

Molly turned back to the sea. The wind was even stronger now. It was building. “The car’s still down there,” she said. “They only removed the body.”

Jack came closer again.

“That’s partly why I’ve been thinking so much about him now. Because of the car.” she smiled self-consciously. “And because of you: because I knew they were looking for you; that you were coming.”

“Why the car?” said Jack.

“They’re bringing it up,” she said. “Next week. David Eden has paid for it to be done.” (SALLY – DOES THIS SOUND RIGHT TO YOU?) The waves were nothing but spray. The rocks were completely black. “And I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid somehow that all the demons will rise with it when it comes to the surface. I’m afraid that the truth will be known about what happened the night he died; that everyone will see me finally for what I am.”

“And what’s that?” asked Jack. “Who are you Molly?”

She turned and looked at him. “I’ll tell you.”