Page 61 of The Forgotten
Quinn approached the bar, which was manned by a man of late middle-age. He wore a dun-colored sweater vest with matching corduroy trousers and a pair of rimless specs, which gave him a professorial air. His sandy hair was thinning, and there were deep grooves running alongside his mouth. He was in the processof drawing pints of Guinness, but looked up as Quinn approached and gave her a friendly grin.
“Good day to you, love. What can I get you?” he asked. Quinn would dearly have loved a glass of wine to steady her nerves, but alcohol didn’t seem to agree with her these days.
“Orange juice, please,” Quinn said. She knew she sounded nervous, and the man had realized it as well.
“Are you OK?” he asked as he set the glass of juice in front of her. Quinn nodded, took a sip to wet her mouth, since it’d suddenly gone completely dry, and plunged in.
“Are you the Steven Kane who used to reside in Dunston?” she asked softly. She didn’t want to sound like she was interrogating the man, but she had to make sure he was the right Steven Kane before stating her business. She was fairly sure that he was.
“Yes. Who’s asking?” he asked, suddenly wary of her.
“My name is Quinn Allenby. I would like a moment of your time, Mr. Kane.”
“What’s this about? It’s nearly lunchtime and we’re busy. Are you selling life insurance or some such nonsense?” he asked, squinting at her and pursing his lips.
“I’m not selling anything, Mr. Kane. I would like to speak to you regarding a personal matter,” Quinn explained. He shook his head in irritation and swept the payment for the juice off the counter with a practiced motion.
“What possible personal business can you have with me?” he asked. His steely gaze bored into her, daring her to tell him what she wanted, so that he could dismiss her and send her on herway. The façade of the friendly pub-owner had been replaced with the countenance of a man who’d have no problem with evicting her from the premises if she persisted in harassing him.
“My mother is Sylvia Wyatt, but you would have known her as Sylvia Moore,” Quinn replied, hoping that Sylvia’s name would pique his curiosity enough to at least hear her out.
Steven Kane paused in the act of filling a glass and stared at her, his expression almost comical. Hearing Sylvia’s name seemed to have that effect on people, but his attitude thawed somewhat as he studied Quinn with a newfound interest. He finished his task, pushed the glass across the bar toward a customer and scanned the dining room, clearly looking for someone.
“Rhoda, would you mind the bar for a spell?” he called out to the blonde woman. “I just need to have a word with this young lady.”
Rhoda gave Steven Kane the gimlet eye before placing several dirty glasses on a round tray and coming back toward the bar. She looked at Quinn with undisguised interest, her head tilted to the side as if she were trying to decide if Quinn was friend or foe. She seemed to judge her harmless, and finally smiled and gave a wave of the hand.
“Go on, then,” she said, her attention already on the next customer to approach the bar with an order.
Steven Kane gestured for Quinn to follow him and led her to an office tucked away between the bar and the entrance to the toilets. The room was square and small, with a window that looked out into the alleyway behind the pub. A scarred wooden desk dominated the office, leaving just enough space for two chairs. There were bits of paper everywhere: invoices, receipts, post-itnotes, and cuttings from newspapers. Steven Kane invited Quinn to sit in the guest chair and took a seat behind his messy desk.
“So, what is it you’re after?” he asked, his voice as flinty as his gaze.
“Mr. Kane, I was adopted as an infant and only met my birth mother a few months ago. In some respects, our reunion was a dream come true, but in others, it turned out to be something of a nightmare. It seems that I might have as many as four possible fathers, and I am here to ask you for a paternity test. You have every right to refuse, of course, but I would very much appreciate a swab. It would put my mind to rest.”
“And what about my mind?” Kane asked, leaning back in his chair and observing her. There was a hint of amusement in the depth of his eyes. When Quinn didn’t reply, he permitted himself a ghost of a smile, making her feel a little less awkward.
“Ms. Allenby, I will give you your swab, or whatever it is you need from me. You seem like a nice lady, and I feel for you; I really do. However, having said that, I will also tell you that the paternity test will not be a match.”
“Do you deny having a relationship with Sylvia?” Quinn asked. She knew from doing online research that Rhoda was Stephen’s wife of nearly thirty-five years. She inherited the pub when her father died nearly twenty years ago, and her husband went from doing odd jobs to becoming the owner of a successful business. Suddenly discovering a thirty-year-old daughter would do no favors to his marriage or his business prospects since his wife could divorce him and keep the pub that had been in her family since 1912.
“No, I don’t deny it. Nearly ruined my marriage, it did,” Steven Kane said, his eyes glazed with memories. “Your motherwas a beauty. You have the look of her, actually, only she was more… What is the word I’m searching for? Aware.”
“Aware of what?” Quinn asked, unsure of his meaning.
“Aware of herself; her sex appeal. She knew what she was about, even at sixteen.”
“Are you saying that you didn’t seduce her? You were quite a bit older than she was, were you not?” Quinn asked. She had no wish to sound judgmental, but it seemed likely that Steven Kane had made the first move and not Sylvia.
“I’m saying that it was mutual. No one seduced anyone. We both went into it with eyes wide open, only I was married, so of course, I was the cad in that scenario. It wasn’t my finest moment, I’ll tell you that.”
“So, why are you so sure that the test will not be a match?” Quinn asked carefully. Truth be told, she hoped he was right. She couldn’t imagine Stephen Kane being her biological father. Of the three contenders she’d met so far, Rhys Morgan was the only one with whom she’d felt a connection, until she found out the truth, that is. She’d felt comfortable with him, and they shared common interests and a passion for telling people’s stories. Robert Chatham repelled her with his aggression and overinflated ego, but something about Stephen Kane smacked of disappointment and failure.
“Mind if I smoke?” Kane asked as he extracted a pack of cigarettes from his desk and felt in his pocket for a lighter.
“I do, actually,” Quinn replied.
“I’ll open the window.”
