A Chance Encounter Rae Shaw (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

when it came to demonstrating love, but happily became a glutton when somebody else offered her affection.

She dragged his coat off the back of the chair and stretched it open, exposing the inner lining. He went to grab it off her, but she scuttled backwards. ‘Mum was good at sewing. She made me a dress once, when I was small and sweet enough for her. She also stitched things into Dad's coats for him. Pockets at the back for the little packages of coke or heroin, then ones up his sleeve for the notes. The best two, one on either side, were long and thin. Perfect for knives.’

Mark leapt forward and snatched the coat out of her hands. He bundled it into a ball and threw it across the room. That was her secret? Those bright little eyes of hers had dazzled back then, and again as she revealed her complicity in hiding Bill's guilt and Deidre's malign involvement.

‘Get out!’

The colour drained from her face. What did she expect him to say? ‘Mark... I didn't tell you because—’

‘I spent eight fucking years chasing after false leads. Wasting money on expensive lawyers. I paid to have independent forensics go over the fingerprints. And you, you selfish bitch, knew he carried knives around with him. Did you know he took them on the day?’

A tiny nod. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Please, Mark. I was dependent on them. I was torn in two. I hoped Dad would plead guilty to murder so I didn't have to speak up. For God's sake, I was eleven years old. A child.’

‘Back then, yes. But you grew up. You thrived on the attention back then and I bet you still do. This whole trip to Ireland is about you, your escape. You don't even know who you're meeting, do you? Well, go ahead. Find yourself in Ireland amongst the bogs and limericks and dance a jig while I carry on picking up the pieces.’

‘Shut up!’ She backed away from him. ‘Just, shut up. I wanted to, I so wanted to tell you. But where were you? And as for our parents. She, that useless mother of ours, bullied him. Did you know that? Nagged him. Told him to steal more, buy more. She snorted coke off the coffee table with him. She pushed him to go higher, bigger. When he whispered that they needed little girls, innocent ones, she shrugged it off. Said he should do it if it brought in more cash.’

The blow when it came wasn't physical. Mark had waited years for somebody to knock him out or shoot him, perhaps as he walked down a quiet back street – a motorcyclist, or a jogger, somebody would make his hit and bam, Mark Clewer, gone, the victim of a vengeful gangland killing orchestrated by a nameless boss. He was wrong. His sister had landed it; she had assassinated him.

The adrenaline crippled. If it came with excitement, he swam in its power, but not this painful drench. He doubled over and his elbow knocked against the table’s edge. ‘How did you—’

‘I listened whenever I could. You'd be out playing football or chatting up Mrs Asani's brown-eyed daughter. You were rarely home. Then one night, I woke with a belly ache and stood outside their room and listened to that conversation. I never cuddled up in bed with them again.’ The spite had gone from her voice. Her culpability had failed to span the chasm that had always been between brother and sister, and now it stretched them further apart.

‘You could have said something,’ he said bitterly. Gullible, weak-minded, pathetic: the words would be Mark’s epitaph.

She crept towards him and her shoes squeaked on the hard floor. ‘Who would have believed me? Dad was this big bad guy and met other bad guys. I was scared, Mark. He took you to watch football. Such a bright kid and never once did you question why he spoilt you rotten, kept you occupied and blind. He overlooked me. I’m just a girl.’

He felt dizzy. Sick to the pit of his stomach. Stunned, he couldn't think or speak.

‘And yes.’ Ellen sneered. ‘I told her, bloody right I did. It's called revenge. Sweet, isn't it?’

‘Go. Just go.’ He waved toward the door. ‘I don't care what you do. It's your choice. I'm not going to pretend I'm interested. I'm not the grown up in your life. You are.’

‘I'm flying out this evening. My things—’ Now, she had the gall to ask him.

‘If they're still here when you get back, you'll be grateful.’ Her things wouldn't be a hindrance, only a reminder of this lasting fallout.

‘I will, honestly. I'm not angry with you.’ She scooped up his jacket and straightened it out, folding it over the back of the chair. A small act of mitigation and a pointless one.

‘How nice for you,’ he said. ‘You didn’t think of me at all. Well, I won’t think of you. I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.’

She picked up her handbag and fished out a piece of paper. She left it on the table. ‘You don't care, but this is where I'm going. His name is Freddie Zustaller, and I do know him. I've a taxi waiting below to take me to Heathrow.’ She hurried past Mark.

Just before she reached the door, he spun on his heels. ‘Did you ever love them?’

‘Of course I love them. But what do you think it costs to keep a secret like that? School was hell. I was the butt of jokes, constant teasing – the daughter of scum. The boys leered and expected me to drop my knickers. Nobody was a good role model. So love? No, I didn't stop loving, or even hoping. But respect and admiration? I have neither of those for Mum or Dad. I'm sorry you see things differently.’