The Marks of Cain (37 page)

Stepping from the shower Simon dried himself and threw on a shirt. He could still hear the mild laughter outside, the happy noises of a summer holiday.

Briskly he walked to the top of the stairs. Not for the first time this week, he stared out of the window at the blue and sunlit Pyrenees, across the valley, their summits confected with snow. Then he jogged down the sunny steps, into the villa’s airy kitchen. He wanted to join his friends, in the sun, before the afternoon ended.

But his attention was snagged
en route
.

A package lay on the kitchen table. The address was Simon Quinn,
c/o
David Martinez.

The stamps were South African. And he recognized the scrawly handwriting.

Nerves jangled, he opened the package. Two items fell out. A clasp of hair. And a little toy dog. And there was a note.

Call me on this number.

Calming himself, Simon walked to the door that led to the riverside lawns. He dialled the number. The answering voice was quite unmistakable.

‘Hello, Angus.’

‘So you’re holidaying with Mr and Mrs Martinez?’

‘For a fortnight or so.’

‘Excellent news. Soaking the rich!’

‘And what about you?’ Simon was desperate to ask the question; but he desperately didn’t want to know the answer. He leaned against a sun-warmed wall. ‘Why the sudden phone stuff? Thought you were still a bit paranoid?’

‘Well I’ve calmed down now. I reckon they really
must
have agreed to Amy’s deal. Our lives for Miguel. The Fischer data destroyed. If they were really planning anything it would have happened by now, three frigging years later. So, yes, I have opted to chillax. Move on. Get some putting practice. You know.’

‘Well, good, glad to hear it. So…’ Simon watched a heron gliding across the sky, down the long Gascon valley. ‘So where are you?’

‘Little town near the Cedarbergs. And I got enough diamonds to keep myself in biltong.’

‘OK.’

Again Simon wanted to ask
the
questions yet he couldn’t quite stomach it. So he asked something else:

‘You know…’

‘What?’

‘You never told us. Did you ever find Alphonse?’

The thoughtful silence carried halfway across the world. Then Angus replied: ‘Took me six months. I searched the desert. But, yes, I found…what was left of him. He’s buried out there now, in the desert. Poor old Alfie.’

Simon wondered, ‘Did it help?’

‘You mean closure? Yeah maybe. Reckon I’ll always feel guilty. But then I always did. It’s probably
genetic.
Talking of which…’ Angus’s voice was quieter. ‘I wanted to tell you this personally, rather than in some silly email. I’d like to
have told David but…maybe it’s easier through you.’ He paused. ‘I did both the tests, Simon. Successfully.’

‘Well done.’

‘
Dankie.
In fact, without shipping the entire horn section into the recording studio, I like to think I’m the only geneticist in the world who could have done some of that – got enough genetic material from the toy dog, for instance, but, yes, I managed it. I got your brother’s DNA. And compared it to the DNA in your son’s hair.’

‘Where?’

‘Borrowed a lab at Witwatersrand.’

The moment was coming. Simon felt the tension like a steel grip around his throat. Angus gave the answer.

‘Timothy Quinn, your late brother, carried the classic genetic markers for schizotypal mental disorders, DNA sequence alterations in NRG1 and DISC1.’ A sober pause. ‘I can say with 99.995 percent certainty that your son Conor Quinn does
not
have the same sequential alterations.’

‘That means…?’

‘
He hasn’t inherited it
. Of course yer little Conor might drop dead from a heart attack at fifty, I didn’t check that. But no schizophrenia. He’s fine.’

The sense of shocking relief was like diving into a cold pool in hot weather. Simon exhaled, and said: ‘Thanks, Angus. And?’

‘It’s also good news. It was pretty damn unlikely that Miguel could have fathered a child, anyway, because of his congenital problems. But now we have proof. Little Miss Martinez is indeed the daughter of David Martinez. 99.99 percent sure. That’s as good as it gets. And neither David or his daughter carry any of the markers of…the Cagots. He is Basque, so is his daughter.’

He stammered, ‘OK, well…Well
thank you
– for doing all this.’

‘Ach. Think nothing!’ Angus said, rather wistfully. ‘OK, I better go. Send my big love to David and Amy, when you give them the news…Tell ’em I like the name they chose. Maybe we’ll meet again soon. See ya.’

The call ended.

Simon slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked outside. Amy and David were sitting in plastic chairs, by the riverbank; a scene of tranquil contentment.

The journalist felt a gladness, a lifting of his spirit. Yet the happiness was twinned with a pang of abiding and persistent remorse. As it always was, as it always would be. Conor was going to be OK; but Tim would always be dead. The harmony of life would never change: the sonorous bass tone of grief, and the purling treble of love.

He took a plastic seat by David. Who turned.

‘Suzie’s gone to the supermarket…with Conor. More wine I think.’

‘OK.’

David continued: ‘The package. I saw it. From Angus?’

‘Yes.’

A pause.

‘So?’

‘She’s
yours.
Just as you said. You said you were sure.’

David nodded.

‘I just wanted to make
really
sure. Not that I would love her any the less. She is my daughter. But…medically, we needed to know. What about Conor? Is he…?’

‘Cool. He’s fine. Clean bill.’

‘Good. That’s really good.’

‘Yeah…’

They fell silent. Amy was up and playing with her little girl; the blonde-haired two year old was giggling, jumping up and down, and pointing at the birds in the trees across the river.

‘Funny thing is,’ said Simon, quietly. ‘Your daughter…she actually looks English. Of all things. She’s got her
grandmother’s
genes…’

‘And she’s half Jewish
and
a quarter Basque. I guess she is the bright future of the world! And all she can say right now is –
Daddy go shopshop
.’ David leaned over, and called to his little girl. ‘
Eloise Martinez,
be nice to your mother. She’s teaching you about trees…’

Eloise smiled.

The breeze was soft in the riverine trees; the air was warm yet fresh with forest scents. David lifted his wineglass, and tilted it at the horizon, as if he was toasting the Pyrenees themselves.

‘Of course this means…they really have died out. The Cagots. The poor
Caqueux
. They have disappeared forever.’ He raised the glass higher. ‘And now only the mountains remember.’

Simon nodded, and drank his juice, and gazed at the babbling water of the young River Adour. The scene was beautiful, and wistful, and serene. The river was racing jubilantly through the greenwoods, to the distant sea. It reminded him of a laughing little girl: running towards the waiting arms of her mother.

Tom Knox is the pseudonym of the author Sean Thomas. Born in England, he has travelled the world writing for many different newspapers and magazines, including
The Times
, the
Guardian
, and the
Daily Mail
. He lives in London.

To find out more about Tom Knox and
The Marks of Cain
, visit: www.tomknoxbooks.com

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © Tom Knox 2010

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