Page 43 of London's Calling: Part 1
I can’t make out if my mother answers, but then my father’s voice fills the space again.
“You better fucking hope you’re telling the truth. If I find out your lying, I’ll sell her to the highest bidder and make you watch as they defile her.”
I step past the door frame into the room just as my father releases my mother, and she hits the floor. Her hand comes up to caress her throat, red marks marring her skin, her clothes are torn, make-up smudged and black tear-stained cheeks.
“Mum?” I say, my voice trembling with nerves. Their heads snap to me in the doorway, shock and shame cover my mother’s face while my father quietly fumes before turning away from me.
“Veronica, darling, it’s okay. Silly mummy tripped over the rug. I’m fine,” she says as she scrambles to her feet and comes to me, wrapping me in her arms. “We’re fine,” she whispers into my hair as she holds me close.
At the time, I didn’t realise the significance of her words, but now, reflecting on the memory, I know she was reassuring herself as much as she was a scared little girl. Two days later, she was gone. No goodbye, no note, nothing, just gone.
Every trace of her was removed from the house, and it was like she’d never even existed. When I questioned my father about where she was, he told me she left. She didn’t love us anymore. No one spoke of her, not even a mention of her name. The staff ignored all my questions, and anyone that did mention her, vanished along with her. My father wiped her from existence.
I quickly learned not to speak of her, and slowly my memories of her began to fade. But as I got older, I heard whispers of her, especially anytime the name Rawlins was mentioned. I knew the name, of course, Kurt and my father had worked together for years before my mother disappeared. But just like with her, Kurt and Father’s business relationship and friendship ended out of the blue. The only clue as to why was a conversation I overheard my father having in his office once with Kerr where, for the first time in almost four years, I heard my mother’s name from my father’s lips. None of it was complimentary or pretty.
That was the day I learned of my mother’s affair with Kurt Rawlins and that I was the reason she left. He’d told her to leave and never come back or contact me. And so began my hate toward the Rawlins family and my mother.
For the next four years, my hate for Kurt, any Rawlins, especially Mickey, grew, and my father relished in it. Feeding me with minor, insignificant details that only cemented what I believed. Snippets of Rawlins’ betrayal, not only his affair with my mother, but also how he betrayed my father in business too. Then two years ago, my mother contacted me, well, she tried to, but my father intercepted her attempt.
He was livid, with a rage I’d never seen before. He hired men to track her down and kill her, claiming he should have done it in the first place. I was shocked and afraid, after all, she is my mother. And I was torn between my loyalty to a man, my father, who I always thought was protecting me and was the injured party in all of this and a woman who left me behind because she didn’t know the meaning of the word faithful.
Then I discovered my father was a liar. He’d lied to me about my mother—not about the affair, she did that—but him telling me she left because she didn’t love us, me, anymore was all a fucking lie. When I confronted him, I begged for him to leave her, let her live her life and not kill her. That was the first time my father ever laid his hands on me. It was the catalyst to where we are now.
My begging earned me my first beating and the promise to do whatever he asked of me if I wanted to ensure my mother remained breathing. In that moment, I still hated what she did to our family, but I understood why she left. I never believed my father could hurt me. How wrong I was. Now, mine and my mother’s life depended on me.
If I refused to go through with this, any part of it, tried to walk away, he’d kill my mother. I’d be a fucking fool to think he wouldn’t get rid of me at the same time. And if he didn’t kill me, then my life wouldn’t be any better than it is now.
Chapter Thirty-One
Roni
My laptop chimes with an email, snapping me from my thoughts. I hover the cursor over the notification, pausing briefly before opening it, then I click on it.
It’s from Haydn, giving me details of a guy who might be able to help me. Apparently, it’s too risky for her to do it herself, something to do with new policies at work meaning her system is monitored. I slam the laptop closed. Guess that idea is out the fucking window then because I don’t trust anyone else with this kind of job, so I’m on my own and back to square fucking one.
I check my phone and see it’s late. Seems I got lost in my thoughts longer than I realised. I need to try and get some sleep if I have the smallest hope of making it through tomorrow with Clayton and his parents. I get up, grabbing my laptop and placing it on the chest of the drawers as I make my way to the bathroom to pee before coming back and getting into bed.
What’s worse than waking with a headache? Waking to your phone ringing with an incoming call from the arsehole destined to become your husband in a matter of weeks while suffering from a headache. This is what’s now known as the Clayton effect. And the reason I down a couple of headache pills with a glass of water, though I contemplated switching water for whiskey, but I’m not that desperate—yet, before I even attempt to call him back and find out what the fuck he wants now. I’m set for a whole day of this shit, listening to his grating voice and demeaning attitude.
I stroll to the lounge, my eyes drawn to the sofa and the memory of yesterday when I’m startled from my thoughts by my phone ringing in my hand. Taking a deep breath as I watch Clayton’s name practically screaming at me from the screen, I finally swipe to answer, slowly bringing the phone to my ear.
“Hello, Clay?—”
“Finally! Where the fuck have you been? Why didn’t answer?” he demands, sounding out of breath.
“Well, good morning to you too, arsehole. You bang your fucking head getting our bed this?—”
“Shut the fuck up, Veronica.” I baulk at his harsh words, but before I can gather a response, he continues, “My father is in the hospital. I’m on my way there now, and you’re to meet me there.”
Damn, that’s not what I was expecting, and I know I should feel bad his father is sick…but screw that. Clayton’s father is just as much of an arsehole as Clayton, and when he takes his last breath, the world will be a better fucking place. Of course, there is the added bonus I no longer have to spend the day planning a wedding I want less than Clayton’s death, which is saying a lot.
“I’m sorry, Clayton,” I say while my subconscious whispers, No you’re not. “What hospital is he at?”
“Guys,” he says as a car door slams shut. “Move your arse, Veronica!” Then the call ends.
After a quick shower, I dress in something plain and simple, jeans and a white tee with a black blazer, then head out. It’s just past ten and the sun is shining without a cloud in the sky, but there’s a chilly breeze as I lock my door. Crossing the road, I sense eyes on me, and I know Mickey is watching me from his window on the second floor. I get in my car without looking despite wanting to desperately. All the more reason I won’t. He’s made his choice. And I don’t have the strength to deal with all the emotions wrapped up in that man and our complicated relationship, especially while I’m preparing to act like a loyal, doting fiancée to a man I detest.
Rounding the corner and out of sight, if Mickey is still watching, I release a deep sigh. I turn on the radio and try to drown out my thoughts, but every song seems to taunt me with happiness and words of love and heartbreak. It’s like they are reading my mind, playing in sync with every thought and emotion and feeling I’ve experienced over the last few weeks. After flicking through the stations, I just switch the damn thing off and drive in silence.
