The Gilded Madonna Garrick Jones (ebook reader online .txt) 📖

“I don’t dislike you, Smith. You irritate me. That’s a different thing.”

I put my hand on his knee and rubbed it. “You’re in good company then, mate. There are a lot of worse things people have described me as being. Irritating is minor in comparison.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “He bought me? Like a piece of fucking furniture? He paid money?”

I wasn’t quite sure what to do, but Warwick saved the day. He shifted his chair closer to the bed and took Dioli’s hand.

“Don’t dwell on it yet, Mark. Give it some time,” he said.

I watched in amazement as the policeman squeezed Warwick’s hand, stroking the back of his fist with his thumb a few times. There was nothing intimate in it, just the sense of thanks for a gesture of kindness.

“It will take a long time to soak in. I’m simply not in a good enough place within myself to deal with it just now.”

“I completely understand. But Clyde did say there was good news, Mark,” Warwick said.

“Oh, yeah, Smith? You moving to a different suburb?”

Both Warwick and I laughed. Dioli smiled at his own smart remark. How often we men did that sort of thing, diverting away from our strong emotions by an inappropriate remark or a dig at someone else.

“All right. If I can have another smoke, I’ll be ready for the good news.”

Warwick raised his eyebrows at me, but I just lit cigarettes for all three of us and passed them around.

“Well, the good news is that he lied to you.”

“Who? My grandfather. Why would lying to me be good news?”

“Because not only did he fork out fifty pounds to adopt you, he sent off the same amount of money to your uncle and aunt, who’d written when they heard of the ferry accident, saying they were prepared to take you and look after you.”

“Uncle and aunt? What uncle and aunt? I’m an orphan. What are you talking about?”

“Just hold your horses for a moment and take a few breaths. The story of your grandfather’s war crimes will pale in comparison with what I’m about to tell you. Let me know when you’re ready, okay?”

He pushed his head back hard into the pillow and then squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. A tear ran down his face, but he wiped it away angrily with the side of his hand and then stubbed his half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray I held out to him.

“All right. You said it was good. I don’t know why I’m feeling so—”

“Your name isn’t Mark Dioli, mate, it’s Pieter Strickland, and you have an uncle and aunt and four cousins still alive and living in Hilversum, in the Netherlands. Your grandfather told me he’d written to them after the war and told them you’d died of tuberculosis, and there was no point writing. He kept all their letters. I’ll give them to you when you’re ready.”

His reaction was unexpected. I’d imagined shell shock, open-mouthed gaping, and wide-eyed staring, but what I hadn’t imagined in my wildest dreams was a man shocked to his core, weeping loudly into his hands and shaking with the violence of his sobs.

I thought it the better part of valour to allow Warwick to put his arms around him and comfort the devastated policeman while I found something else to keep myself busy.

*****

I left Mark and Warwick alone while I went down the corridor to the telephone to call Harry, who’d gone home to see how his parents were and to prepare his packing for our four days away at Zephyr.

“How did he take it?” Harry asked.

“Poorly, as I expected. He was so gobsmacked when he heard the news I thought he’d faint. But I’ve left him with Warwick. You remember how Warwick arranged help for Keeps’ nephew earlier this year? I think he’s going to suggest that Mark goes to a psychiatrist to deal with all of this. I can’t tell you how afraid he looked when I told him his grandfather may never come back home again.”

“A lot of victims identify with those who abuse them, Clyde. You must have seen it in the camps. Men toadying up to guards and eventually believing their bad treatment and torture was well-deserved. Dioli was taken by his grandfather at what age, six, wasn’t it? Twenty-three years of seeing beatings and abuse as a natural part of your life, no matter how painful and demeaning, were bound to be part of his normalcy.”

“I guess you’re right. Anyway, earlier this morning, the session went well with Steve and Art. We’ve got a good likeness to go on. I’ll develop my roll of film after lunch and make a few dozen prints to circulate.”

“Tom called me this morning, Clyde. Wanted to know where you were. I told him. I hope that’s all right?”

“Yes, he has a heap of stuff to sort out in the office, so I’ll call in there shortly. Hope you enjoy your evening tonight. Give my love to your mother and father.”

“Say, Clyde?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Are you still wearing them, like I asked you to?”

I smiled into the telephone receiver. “Yes, Harry, and I intend to drop by the beach on my way to the office and show off the big bulge in my bright yellow swimmers to all the lifesavers on duty. Maybe I’ll get dumped in the surf and my Speedos will get ripped off in the waves. I might even have to put my hand up in the water and pretend to be drowning.”

He laughed. “What time will you be passing by the beach?”

I looked at my watch. “Oh, in about half an hour.”

“See you there. North end, in front of the storage area for the surf boats.”

“You sure you don’t want to wander around from Craig’s to the rock pool I took you to?”

“Sure, but let’s swim there from the beach.”

“Harry Jones, I’ll be worn out.”

“Not by the time we get there you won’t but I can’t