The Three Rs (35 page)

Cain, to his credit, doesn’t even bother asking. He just gives my bottom one last firm caress before heading for the kitchen to rescue my pizza.

Chapter Twenty-One

That was almost nine months ago now. Nine months that have flown by, like they do when you’re having fun. Cain and I are good, better than good. He was true to his word, helping me to get better and better at reading. His choice of reading matter might not have been to everyone’s taste, but I have no serious objections. My horizons have been widened, my reading has improved in leaps and bounds now that the floodgates are opened and our collection of erotic literature is impressive by any standards, with or without pictures.

Phyllis retired three months ago, having decided that the supremely capable and efficient Jenna is fit to be left in sole charge. I agree. I do drop in occasionally, but the office was never my domain, never my comfort zone. Same goes for the flat above. Jenna needed a place to live, it made perfect sense. We let the flat to her—she moved in on the same day I handed in my keys to the housing trust in Bradford. Burning all my bridges at once. I’ve never regretted it.

I live at Cain’s, and have no intention of moving on. My stuff is everywhere, next to his. Even when he annoys me, which I swear he does deliberately, I only storm as far as the spare room. Cain does not allow me to remain there long. And the spankings make it all so worthwhile. Oscar seems to approve, and now he’s taken to shadowing me rather than Cain.

Our sex is delightful. Frequent, intense and deliciously kinky. Cain is the perfect lover for me, tender, dominant, demanding. He understands me, knows what I need and never disappoints. I adore him. And the truly wonderful thing is, he seems to love me too. He must do, he tells me often enough.

I enrolled for an art class at the high school, which takes place every Tuesday evening. From there I’ve graduated to weaving, textiles and pottery. I’ve never been especially keen on photography, but I’m beginning to think I might give that a go soon. Now that I can manage the intricacies of uploading my pictures onto the computer. My own computer that is. A funky little laptop that Cain bought me for my birthday and which is now open in front of me at the breakfast table as I nibble my toast and check out the forthcoming attractions at The Maltings, the arts center in Berwick, which offers a theater and a cinema to the local culture vultures. Of which I’ve become one, how amazing is that?

Cain ambles in from the hallway, today’s post in his hand. He sifts through the envelopes, sorting out junk from the real stuff. He drops two envelopes in front of me, one white, one brown. Both look official. In the past, my heart would have sunk at the sight of them. I’d have debated with myself whether to open them now or later. Not anymore. I seize the brown one first. I’ve been expecting this. It’s from the DVLA, Driver and Vehicle Licencing Authority in Swansea. My provisional license.

Cain convinced me I needed to pass my driving test if I’m to make myself properly useful to the firm. I need to be able to get around our different sites and jobs, making sketches, meeting with clients. I have a knack for charming new business out of people, whether I’m selling them a patio, an extension or a family portrait. As well as doing promotional stuff for Parrish Construction, I’ve also managed to sell a few pictures of my own. I feel I’m paying my way. And Cain’s right, being able to drive will give me an independence I now crave. I’m not looking forward to the theory part of the test—I don’t suppose anyone does, but at least now I reckon I can handle it. I open the envelope from Swansea and admire my lovely little credit card sized picture license, so symbolic of the new me and all the wonderful opportunities now opening up.

Cain grins at me as he sits back down to finish his black coffee before we leave for work. He knows full well how much being able to drive will mean to me. I smile back, no need for words. We’re going to Rothbury again today, to price up a refurbishment of a school that’s being converted for residential use. It’s a big project—I know Cain’s keen to land it if we can. I’m hoping to have a chance to call in at the converted mill while we’re down that way, make some sketches of the finished item now it’s fully occupied with new tenants and owners.

I look at the white envelope now. My name, and Cain’s address—these days my address too—is printed neatly on the front. It’s a thick, heavy envelope, expensive paper. I slide my fingers under the flap to open it and pull out two handwritten sheets. I’m surprised, I didn’t expect handwriting, not in such a formal looking package. The ink is a bright blue, vivid against the creamy white of the page. I’ll need to concentrate, handwriting is more difficult to read than print. I glance at Cain, but he’s busy scanning our electricity bill. He’s scowling, but I’m unsympathetic. He shouldn’t have so many gadgets. I return my attention to my own affairs. Flattening out the sheets, slowly, carefully, I start to read.

Two lines in I stop, and flick the pages over to look at the signature. My heart lurches in disbelief. It can’t be…

I gasp, drop the sheets as though they were on fire. They flutter to the floor. Cain glances up at me then does a double take.

“Abbie, are you all right? You look ashen, like you’ve seen a ghost.”

My hands are shaking, I glare at the sheets lying innocently by my feet, make no move to retrieve them. I raise my eyes to Cain’s, his expression worried now as he reaches to take my hands in his.

“I have. I have seen a ghost. Or at least, I’ve seen a letter written by one.” I shake my head in disbelief. This has to be some sort of a hoax. A sick joke. I’m astonished that I managed to form any sort of coherent answer. I’m totally stunned by the name I saw and recognized instantly at the end of the letter.

“Abbie?” Cain is leaning down to retrieve my letter. He stiffens as he looks at it properly for the first time, as he sees the same name I saw.

Nevertheless, I state the obvious, “It’s from James. Your uncle James.” I’m staring at Cain, wide-eyed. “How? How could that be?”

Cain studies the first sheet, before handing the letter back to me. “I have no idea, love. It certainly looks like his handwriting though. Can I see the envelope?”

I place the letter carefully on the table now, reluctant to touch it, but mindful I should be at least respectful. However bizarre, this does seem as though it could be genuine. I pass the envelope to Cain. He studies the front, turns it over to look at the reverse. “It’s franked by a firm of solicitors in Edinburgh. Looks as though they sent it.”

“But, it’s from James. Isn’t it?” I’m looking from Cain to the handwritten letter and back again. I’m not given to fanciful notions, not even slightly, but the back of my neck is prickling and I swear if I turn my head at this moment I’ll see an elderly gentleman standing behind me. I never met James Parrish, would not know him by sight, but I sense his presence now. Here in this room, in his cozy kitchen. With us.

“Do you want me to read it, love?”

Cain makes no move to take the sheets, but I can tell he’s curious. Baffled, like me. But we’re both desperate to know what this letter says. What it means. It must be something to do with the business, has to be. I’m on the point of shoving the letter at Cain, but I don’t. James Parrish wrote to me. This came addressed to me, not Cain. He wrote to me for a reason, the least I can do is read his letter.

I shake my head, mumbling my thanks, then take a deep breath as I pick up the now slightly crumpled sheets and carefully, respectfully, smooth them out again on the table top. And I start to read James Parrish’s words once more, slowly. Out loud.

“My Dearest Abigail

Firstly, I trust that my letter finds you in good health, and that you are happy. I appreciate that the last few months will not have been easy for lots of reasons. It may have been a turbulent time for you, but I know you’ll cope. Have coped. I’ve probably caused you massive upheaval, but please be assured I meant nothing but the best for you.

Secondly, I hope that you are reading this yourself. If you are, that means my meddling just might have paid off. You’re a bright girl, Abigail, lovely, vibrant. You can’t spend the rest your life in the shadows. That’s just a waste and I never could abide waste. Ask the lad, if you and that nephew of mine are still on speaking terms. If you’re not reading this yourself, it is my fondest hope that one day soon, you will. That would make an old man very happy.

I owe you an explanation. Cain too. If you and he are in touch, please would you consider passing this letter on to him? If you’d prefer not to, though, I do understand. It was never my intention to invade your privacy. I left instructions with my solicitors that this letter was to be forwarded to you, wherever you were living, exactly one year from my death. I want you to understand my actions, and ideally I’d like Cain to understand too. You have my letter—what you do with its contents is now a matter for your judgment.

I left you a substantial inheritance in my will. I hope you’ve found some good use for it. I asked my lawyers to make absolutely certain that Cain couldn’t bully you into giving it up. He’d try, I know he would. And he can be very forceful when he wants to be. He’s determined and he usually gets his way. But not this time. I instructed my lawyers to consider every possibility, every route he might try to take to get his business back, and to block it. Time will tell if they succeeded.

You will have met Cain by now I’m sure, and I want to assure you that despite everything, he’s a good lad. He looks after those he cares about. That included me, and I’m grateful to him for all he did, shoring up the business in my later years when I was in failing health. I hope it can or has come to include you too, and forcing you into each other’s orbit for a while might have had the desired effect. He’s a good friend to have.

Cain will have been angry to learn I’d left most of the business he worked so hard to build to someone else. A stranger at that, at least as far as he knew. I’m sorry I messed him about, messed both of you about, but I really felt I had no option, that ultimately this was for the best. I was meddling, but I couldn’t help myself. Blame it on the vagaries of old age. And please pass on my apologies to Cain if you are in a position to.

But I’m not making myself clear, and I really should. This is not the first time I’ve meddled in your life. Although we’ve never met, we’ve been aware of each other for many years now. I still vividly recall the day I received a letter from the bone marrow screening trust telling me that preliminary tests suggested I might be a tissue match for a child needing a transplant. They invited me in for further tests. I went, of course. And the rest is history. You’ll realize by now who I am, and perhaps why I’ve always taken such a keen interest in you, in your welfare. I didn’t save your life, the doctors did that. But I played a part, and in return I won a sort of immortality. I’m dead now, but you’re still there, my bone marrow swilling around, doing whatever it does inside you. Keeping you healthy. In time, maybe you’ll have children. I love that thought.

Donors are not supposed to have any information regarding recipients of bone marrow, but I had my sources and my ways of finding out. I kept in touch, always from a distance, careful never to intrude or interfere. Until now, of course. I was so relieved, so pleased when I learnt you were free of cancer. It was my triumph, too, in a way, and made it all so worthwhile. There was a happy ending. We both came through it and in my mind from then on I was linked to you forever. I’ve always told myself you’re not my daughter, and of course you aren’t. But still, you are the closest I’ll ever get. I care deeply about you, I always have. I feel a responsibility toward you. I always wanted the best for you.

As you grew up, I made it my business to keep track of you. I worried about you, first about your health, then later about your welfare. I wanted to know you were safe, doing well. And as it became clear to me that despite having beaten your illness your difficulties with reading were holding you back, I hated knowing that. It frustrated me after all you’d already been through. I wanted to help but I didn’t know how. I was even more concerned about you after your mother died. You were all alone then. I wished you lived nearer. I considered moving to Yorkshire myself, but my health wouldn’t stand it. I’d have been no use to you. Then I hit on my little inheritance scheme. I believed I could grab your attention. I thought if I gave you an incentive, some reason to need to read, and a way to change your life, then you’d do something about it. I knew you’d be well able to do it yourself, but I thought Cain might help, once he calmed down. As I’ve mentioned, he gets things done. With my lawyers’ help I locked you together, at least for a while, and I hope he remembered his manners eventually.

I’m not a well man myself these days. The doctors tell me I have heart failure and need to take it easy. I do, with Cain’s help, but even so I doubt I’ll be around for that much longer. So I’ve instructed my lawyers make sure the provisions in my will are all tied up nice and tight. Now I sit back to wait, and trust that neither of you disappoints me.

I hope it worked out.

Yours, with love

James

P.S. If you do see Cain, tell him I expect him to take good care of Oscar.”

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

The Dark Side: Darkening

Ashe Barker

Excerpt

Chapter One

Don’t you just love Beethoven?