Lost City (An Eoin Miller Mystery Book 3) (24 page)

Still holding the empty bottle in my hands, I staggered back across the settlement to my Dad’s caravan. In the living room, I flopped down onto the sofa. He was still sitting in his chair, but he’d taken off his coat and was reading from a book,
The Third Policeman,
by Flann O’Brien. He looked up at my expression and chuckled. It came out as a low rumble. He put his book down and leaned forward, nudged my knee with his hand.

“Women, eh?”

He climbed to his feet and went into the kitchen, returning after a moment with two fresh glasses and a full bottle. He poured two glasses and set the bottle on a table by my feet before he lowered himself down into his chair. I heard both his knees make popping sounds as he sat, and he stretched his legs out before settling down.

“Any good?” I said, pointing to the book.

He eyed me for a second, remembering that the Eoin he knew had hated reading. “Ask me again when I’m finished,” he said.

“The story of my life.”

He laughed. “I used to think getting older would mean I’d know how to figure things out. Most especially, that I’d learn how women work.”

“And?”

He smiled as he sipped his drink. “Then I got older, and realized you’re always the same prick you were at twenty, you’ve just run out of mistakes to make. What happened, she tell you she goes the other way?”

“How did you know?”

He let out his low chuckle again. “You remember the first time we watched
Planet of the Apes
? You were about ten, I think, and it was on TV. Past your bed time, but me and your mum were never good at that. You sat up and watched it with us, you remember?” I nodded. I vaguely remembered. “You talked us through the whole film. First time you’d seen it, but you were explaining it to us. Space travel, suspended animation, evolution, how apes could rule a planet. You told us the film was about racism, and showing how the white men wouldn’t like it if they were judged for their skin. Then we got to the end and you remember what you said?”

I did, but I said I didn’t. I wanted to hear his version.

He let out a loud laugh. “You asked how come their planet had a Statue of Liberty just like ours.”

I smiled and drank. It was a good memory and I wanted to treasure that moment, to concentrate on the few times things worked the way they were supposed to.

“I tell you, you’re the smartest person in any room you walk into, but you don’t half miss the obvious sometimes. Speaking of smart, you were right to throw that letter back at me. It was a cheap trick.”

I started to mumble my regret but he put his hand up to wave it away. “Forget it. Wouldn’t have worked anyway. Your sister lost the appeal at the high court. She’ll get here tomorrow. The eviction will start in a couple days now that they have the go-ahead. I’m just glad you got to see the place before they try and take it from us.”

I watched him think that through. I didn’t know who this man was. All my life I’d had an idea of my father. A mythic figure. The demon behind all my problems and the motivation behind my few successes. The loud voice that used to argue with my mother, and the slamming door that used to mean my Dai would be gone for days. Now I was sitting drinking with him, two adults shooting the shit, and he was nothing like the person I’d been holding a grudge against. Did he change or did I?

“She’s a good kid, Veronica. Doesn’t deserve the family she’s been stuck with. But none of you did. I’d like to think I didn’t either. Maybe at some point it stops, the bad blood can only roll on for so many years.” He ran a hand over his harsh beard. “Your mum was right about that. Wanted different for you, your brother and sister, all of you. I wouldn’t listen.”

“Sounds a bit like me.”

He nodded, and I saw myself in his smile. I was seeing more and more of me and my brother in his movements. “She fought harder for you, you know that? When we had your brother, she was a teenage runaway—lost in the romance of being with a Gypsy, I think. You don’t know much about my side of the family, do you?” I shook my head. “No, you wouldn’t. The Smiths and the Petulengros, most of them coming from the Black Patch at some point, they were good people. My mai’s side, your grandmother. Hard working, god fearing. Never spent a penny they didn’t earn with their own hands. But there’s always been a bad drop in the Millers. There’s a choice made when you’re born, when you’re given a name. Some names mean you can be anything you want. But if you’re a Miller there were only certain names, and each one meant you were walking in the same boots as men before you. There were Noahs. Aarons. Samsons. Josephs. They’re a life sentence, saying you can only be that one thing, same as all the others. Your mum didn’t know better when your brother was born, thought Noah sounded nice. And I thought—well, I was young—I thought I was strong enough to carry my family away from its past. To be what my mai wanted and escape the bad drop. But we made a Noah, and look how that turned out.”

My older brother was the dictionary definition of a fuckup. I’d lost count of the times I’d watched him run away from a mess of his own making.

“You, when it was your turn, your mum fought hard. I wanted a Sam, Samson, like my brother, god bless him. He was thoughtful but hard. Didn’t drink like the rest of us. Worked hard, mostly straight and narrow. I thought it would be a good sign for you. But she wasn’t having it. Said you were going to have a name from her family, that you were going to be whatever you wanted to be.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“He pulled over to the side of the road in his van for a kip—back in 1985, I think—and someone torched it with him still inside. Police never did anything about it, were more worried about whether Sammy had been breaking the law by sleeping at the side of the road.”

“And then your son became a copper. You must have been so proud.”

I poured myself another full glass, some of the liquid spilling over the side because of my drunken grip. I’d never talked to him about my decision to join the force, but this was a night of long-overdue talks.

When I looked up from the drink he had his eyes fixed on me. I couldn’t read the look on his face. Was it anger? Regret? I realized a beard can hide a lot of emotions, and wished I had one.

“You know why I stopped talking to you after you joined the police?”

“Yeah, Noah told me. You were ashamed.”

“Is that right?” He stared down into his drink. The silence stretched out. A moment filled the room like an inflating balloon. Then he took a quick sip and looked up at me with an emotion I could read. Shame. “I’ve handled a lot of things badly. Your brother most among them, and you not far behind. But he was right. I
was
ashamed. Too ashamed to tell you how proud I was.”

That cut through the booze to half sober me up. “Proud?”

He raised his drink in a mock toast, his arm leaning from the effect of the alcohol. “Proud. We’re born with a lot to prove. Not just as a Miller, but as a Romanichal. I spent half my life thinking I needed to disprove everyone’s stereotypes, to show the Gorjers that they’re wrong. Then I spend the other half of my life fucking that up. Because I’m just a man, I’m an idiot. Then you come along, and your mum has fought so hard to make you different, to break the cycle. You grow up not caring what other people think, and you go on to be a cop. Something I would never have been able to do. And I was holding you back. It wasn’t enough that you were a Gypsy and having to deal with all that, you had to deal with your old man, too. I was ashamed because of me, not you.”

“It’s funny.” I tapped my leg, saying my thoughts out loud. “I spent so long holding the same things against you. Working to be someone else, and thinking you hated me because of it. You wanted me to read books, so I hated them. You hated Gorjer music, so I listened to it loud. You hated the police, so I became one. So long trying to be the exact opposite of you. But I look around at the life you’ve got now, and at who you seem to be, and I can’t think of a single reason I’d not want the same.”

He laughed. It was loud and long and so forceful it turned into a cough. He slapped his chest to shake it out. Then he eased back in his chair, catching his breath.

“We’ve led each other on a long dance, haven’t we?” he said between gasps.

I leaned forward and put my hand out. “My name’s Eoin Aaron Miller, pleased to meet you.”

He took my grip in a strong shake. “Aaron Joseph Miller. Pleased to meet you, son.”

The dam broke. All of the walls that had been built between us over more than three and a half decades vanished. We sat talking about novels and plays, about music and politics, and about my family history.

Somewhere along the way, night turned into sunrise, then into early morning.

I woke up on the sofa with sunlight streaming in through the thin curtains. Outside were the sounds of shouting and chatter, hammering and banging. I climbed up off the sofa and got shakily to my feet. Straight away I felt a great weight in my stomach heave up to my throat, and found the bathroom just in time to throw up.

I stayed with my head resting on the toilet bowl for a few moments. Every time I opened my eyes the world tipped around and my head buzzed. When I closed my eyes again those feelings faded, but nothing reduced the constant gagging sensation I had at the back of my throat.

I felt someone step in behind me, and then the sound of the shower being turned on. Water splashed on to me as it hit the tiled wall. My father pulled at my shoulder, moving me aside so that he could shut the shower curtain. “Get in there, get clean. There’s a toothbrush on the sink. I’ll get some food ready.”

I stripped out of my clothes on the floor and crawled into the shower to sit back down. I tipped my head back and let the water hit my face, driving back the worst edge of the hangover. I closed my eyes again and lost track of time. After a while I climbed to my feet—less shaky after a soaking—and washed up. I climbed back into yesterday’s clothes, then brushed my teeth, but the punch of the toothpaste made me throw up again. Still, it got rid of the remaining weight in my stomach. I brushed my teeth again and then stepped out into the hallway feeling halfway from the grave.

I heard the sounds of frying coming from the kitchen and the smell of oil and spices greeted me. Dad was working over the hob, fat spitting back up at him as he flipped large slices of bacon in the frying pan. He handed me a plate that had two slices nestled between two large wedges of toast slathered with butter and garlic. I took a seat at the kitchen table.

“She’s gone,” he said, his back to me as he cooked his own. “Took off first thing in that car you turned up in. Said you’d know where to find her if you wanted to.” He sat opposite me with his own food. “You going to follow her?”

I nodded as I chewed. “Have to.”

“You don’t, you know. You can stay here. Either here or there you’re fixing for a fight, but you get to choose which one.”

I looked out the window. The sounds of hammering had grown, and I could see people building new fences at the main gate, barbed wire and gas canisters fastened around them. “They’re definitely coming in, then?”

“Yes.” He ploughed into the food, taking an age to chew between words. “And let them come.”

I leaned back after clearing the plate and felt the temptation to close my eyes and drift back to sleep, to wake up when everything was over and pretend it was an accident. I was wondering if I could pull that off when he spoke again.

“Not that I’m kicking you out, but if you
are
going, you need to do it now. We’ll be sealing up the back entrance soon to stop them coming in that way. Once you’re out, you’re out.”

“I don’t have a car.”

He smiled. “Take mine. I won’t need it.” He leaned to one side as he rummaged in the pocket of his jeans and then threw a set of keys at me. “It’s not fancy but it will get you there.”

I climbed to my feet. The shakes had retreated, or had lifted just enough that I could stand without worrying about falling off the edge of the world. I put my hand out to him and he took it, clasping his other hand around my wrist in a vice grip.

“It was good last night. I enjoyed it. Maybe we can do it again, once the dust settles.” He shifted to the edge of the seat but didn’t stand up. “Hope you don’t mind me not walking you out, but I seem to have a hangover.”

I laughed and said it was fine. Then I paused, hesitated before reaching for a moment of unguarded honesty. “Your mai would be proud,” I said. “You’ve done what she wanted. You’re the Miller that’s escaped the bad drop.”

I turned and left before either of us had to figure out the next thing to say.

I found his car parked round the back of his caravan. It was a rusted old VW bug. I climbed in and started her up, and had to fight with the gears and the steering to get it across the uneven field to the back entrance. I wasn’t sure it would get me back to the city, but I had no other option. The settlers waved at me as I drove out through the open gate. I saw them slide it back in place in my rear view and start hammering as I drove off. Locking themselves in. I felt a pull for the first time, like I was dragging an anchor along behind me, but the remaining hangover made it easy to pretend I didn’t feel it.

I steered the bug out of the dirt lane and onto the main road, and found the handling improved on the smooth road. I picked up speed and the metal frame rattled, air hitting me through little cracks around the edges of the windows. I imagined this was how World War II fighter pilots felt in their tin-can planes. Then I had to change gears and the illusion of flying was shattered by noisy mechanical crunching.

There was no CD player or tape deck, and it turned out to be a welcome silence. I sat with my thoughts as I took the scenic route back to Wolverhampton, passing farms and villages before heading into the more built-up areas at the outskirts of the city. The air hitting me as I drove chased away the layer of wool that had been wrapped around my brain, and brought with it a lucidity I couldn’t remember having for a long time. My clearest moment in years had come while hung over.

When had I taken my last pill?

The world had turned around a lot since then.

At the thought of drugs I felt my gut tighten, the familiar feeling that reminded me of a snake crawling around inside me deep down. I closed my eyes for a second and fought the sensation. No more pills. I pictured Matt’s corpse, and the feeling in my gut felt less intense. It didn’t go away, but I felt strong enough to ignore it.

Everything came into focus and thoughts burned my brain. Was this how everyone else’s brain worked? If
thinking
was always going to be this good, then I had found my new addiction.

Get.

Into.

Your.

Own.

Head.

My thoughts ran through the last few days. All the connections I’d already made. The avenues I’d exhausted. And behind them, marching toward me, a whole army of Statues of Liberty. All of the obvious things I’d completely ignored.

There was still somebody else out there.

After Branko had taken Matt, I’d given up on the murders. Then I’d found out Gaines was the leak, and all the events that had started with finding Jelly’s body had fallen to the back of my brain. But there was still a killer out there. Someone who had taken out the Cartwrights, and maybe even Jelly and Tony before that. Someone else who knew Gaines was the leak, and probably had possession of whatever proof Jelly had promised to give Veronica. Not to mention the pile of money that had been under the bed.

There was also Letisha to think about. I’d never truly suspected Dodge—and now I had his word that he hadn’t done it. And we didn’t order it. Someone out there had wanted us distracted. Someone had wanted to pit us against each other. There was still another plate in the air, and if that was the case, then maybe there was still another way out of this mess. A way to avoid the bloodshed that Gaines was preparing for.

If she wanted a big brother, fine. But big brothers don’t always do what you want them to. Gaines would have to wait a little longer for me to turn up.