said.
Nothing in this house stayed a secret for long. By now my return would be common knowledge both here in America, and perhaps even back in Europe.
I paused for a long moment and studied the old man’s eyes. They were nestled deep in a cobweb of wrinkles: the dark intelligent eyes of a man who had kept a lifetime of family secrets… but also honest eyes.
“Is it true?” I asked at last.
Albert pressed his lips together into a thin pale line as though to say the words aloud was too much.
“He’s dying?” I wanted confirmation.
“Yes.”
“Really dying, Albert? This isn’t another of the old bastard’s tricks?”
Albert tried to look dutifully outraged but we knew each other better than that. “Mr Jonathan is dying,” he said. “The doctors have given him maybe a week or two…”
I felt a lift of relief; a giddy sense of vertigo. It was true, then… and I didn’t know exactly how I should feel. For all my life the old man’s shadow had been cast across my life, the tentacles of his reach seeping into every corner of my existence – even after I had walked out and blazed my own trail in the business world. Through it all I sensed his presence, dark and brooding like a vulture waiting in the distant tree tops to pick the flesh from my carcass and to drag me back into the clutches of his control.
Now it was coming to an end. Now he was dying. I would be free at last.
He could do no more damage…
I reached the top of the grand staircase and turned left down a wide corridor. The carpet was thick, the walls decorated with the gaudy opulence of wealth that lacked any sense of taste. There were oil paintings in heavy frames along the walls and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. At the end of the passage was an antique sitting chair and standing beside it, a young woman.
She was blonde; a slim pale-skinned girl, no more than twenty years old. She was wearing a pink slip, the fabric so sheer as to be almost transparent. I could see the dark shadow of her nipples as she straightened her back and turned towards the sound of my footsteps. Her eyes were like dark pools of sadness and restrained fear. It was etched on her face – the way she trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and the nervous flutter of her hands as she clasped them behind her back and stood to attention.
She was wearing a simple black collar around her neck – a thin strip of leather joined by a small silver padlock. She shifted her feet apart, adopting a classic stance of the submissive, and the fabric of her slip was drawn tighter across the tops of her thighs so that I could see the hint of her naked sex through the backlighting.
She said nothing. She was standing in front of the library door and I realized she had been waiting for me. Her eyes drifted furtively across my face then down my body with a feminine curiosity I had long become accustomed to. Her lips parted slightly and the pink tip of her tongue made them glossy. When her gaze traveled back to my eyes I was staring at her. She seemed to flinch.
“Is the old man in there?” I gestured at the closed library door.
The young girl nodded.
“Is he waiting for me?”
She nodded again.
“Is he alone?”
The girl shook her head and the flicker of fear I had seen in her eyes became something closer to terror.
“Who’s with him?”
She averted her eyes. “Mr Alistair,” she said in a whisper, as though even mentioning the name was to curse herself.
I squared my shoulders, bunched my fists and took a last calming breath. It was time to enter the lion’s den one final time.
“Open the door,” I said.
The library was thick with the acrid blue stench of cigar smoke. It writhed in lazy tendrils around the low, dim lights and seemed to pervade the antique furniture and the shelves of books so that everything in the room seemed tainted by the odour. I wrinkled my nose and stood for a long moment in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the
Nothing in this house stayed a secret for long. By now my return would be common knowledge both here in America, and perhaps even back in Europe.
I paused for a long moment and studied the old man’s eyes. They were nestled deep in a cobweb of wrinkles: the dark intelligent eyes of a man who had kept a lifetime of family secrets… but also honest eyes.
“Is it true?” I asked at last.
Albert pressed his lips together into a thin pale line as though to say the words aloud was too much.
“He’s dying?” I wanted confirmation.
“Yes.”
“Really dying, Albert? This isn’t another of the old bastard’s tricks?”
Albert tried to look dutifully outraged but we knew each other better than that. “Mr Jonathan is dying,” he said. “The doctors have given him maybe a week or two…”
I felt a lift of relief; a giddy sense of vertigo. It was true, then… and I didn’t know exactly how I should feel. For all my life the old man’s shadow had been cast across my life, the tentacles of his reach seeping into every corner of my existence – even after I had walked out and blazed my own trail in the business world. Through it all I sensed his presence, dark and brooding like a vulture waiting in the distant tree tops to pick the flesh from my carcass and to drag me back into the clutches of his control.
Now it was coming to an end. Now he was dying. I would be free at last.
He could do no more damage…
I reached the top of the grand staircase and turned left down a wide corridor. The carpet was thick, the walls decorated with the gaudy opulence of wealth that lacked any sense of taste. There were oil paintings in heavy frames along the walls and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. At the end of the passage was an antique sitting chair and standing beside it, a young woman.
She was blonde; a slim pale-skinned girl, no more than twenty years old. She was wearing a pink slip, the fabric so sheer as to be almost transparent. I could see the dark shadow of her nipples as she straightened her back and turned towards the sound of my footsteps. Her eyes were like dark pools of sadness and restrained fear. It was etched on her face – the way she trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and the nervous flutter of her hands as she clasped them behind her back and stood to attention.
She was wearing a simple black collar around her neck – a thin strip of leather joined by a small silver padlock. She shifted her feet apart, adopting a classic stance of the submissive, and the fabric of her slip was drawn tighter across the tops of her thighs so that I could see the hint of her naked sex through the backlighting.
She said nothing. She was standing in front of the library door and I realized she had been waiting for me. Her eyes drifted furtively across my face then down my body with a feminine curiosity I had long become accustomed to. Her lips parted slightly and the pink tip of her tongue made them glossy. When her gaze traveled back to my eyes I was staring at her. She seemed to flinch.
“Is the old man in there?” I gestured at the closed library door.
The young girl nodded.
“Is he waiting for me?”
She nodded again.
“Is he alone?”
The girl shook her head and the flicker of fear I had seen in her eyes became something closer to terror.
“Who’s with him?”
She averted her eyes. “Mr Alistair,” she said in a whisper, as though even mentioning the name was to curse herself.
I squared my shoulders, bunched my fists and took a last calming breath. It was time to enter the lion’s den one final time.
“Open the door,” I said.
The library was thick with the acrid blue stench of cigar smoke. It writhed in lazy tendrils around the low, dim lights and seemed to pervade the antique furniture and the shelves of books so that everything in the room seemed tainted by the odour. I wrinkled my nose and stood for a long moment in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the
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