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.”