He glanced up at the two teenage boys who were deep in conversation, the tall one inspecting the bruised hand of the shorter one, as if he was some kind of war hero. Was that the shy kid from the book club? And Michael had seen the old man who looked like a giant Father Christmas hobbling into the house too. How on earth had they all found him here? Michael closed his eyes again, trying to make sense of it all.
“Michael Watkins, I want a word with you!”
He opened his eyes and then wished he hadn’t. Phyllis was marching out of the house toward him. She didn’t look like she was injured, but the expression on her face was murderous.
“Why did you have a private investigator take photos of me?”
She stopped in front of him, so close he could smell her; a mixture of wool, dog and hair spray.
“It’s not what you think,” he mumbled.
“And what do I think?”
“I don’t know…that this is something sinister. That I want to hurt you.”
Phyllis let out a curt laugh. “You couldn’t hurtme. But you do owe me an explanation.”
There had to be some way to get out of this. Michael glanced toward the cliff path and saw it had all but disappeared, lost into the sea along with the front garden and his mum’s flower beds. Besides, even if the path was still there, he wasn’t sure he could outrun the five humans and one dog who were all staring at him, their eyes full of suspicion and contempt.
Michael looked down at his hands, shaking in his lap. There wasnothing for it, he was going to have to tell them the truth. He glanced up at Phyllis and was struck once again by her bright green eyes; the same eyes he’d noticed the first time he saw a photo of her.
“Okay, I’ll explain. But you might want to sit down.”
—
Michael had been an only child. His parents, Eve and Martin, were already in their thirties by the time he was born—our miracle baby, they used to call him—but they had adored him, and his childhood had been a happy one. He’d enjoyed school, gone to Exeter City football matches with his father on the weekends, and every holiday they’d come down to Chy Pysk, their tiny bolt hole by the sea.
At eighteen, Michael had gone to university, where he met Cynthia, and shortly after he graduated, they got married and settled in Bristol. But he’d remained close to his parents, coming to visit them regularly. And so when, last November, his father had suffered a massive stroke, Michael had rushed down and sat by the hospital bed for hours, holding his father’s hand and willing him to wake up. The doctors had said to prepare for the worst, that the damage done to his father’s body was too much for him to survive, but Michael knew something they didn’t: that his father was the strongest man he’d ever met, and this was not how he was going to die.
Sure enough, after forty-six hours, Martin Watkins opened his eyes and looked at his son. Michael had been about to call out to the doctors with the good news, when his father had squeezed his hand, still powerful despite everything that had happened.
“There are things I need to tell you,” he’d said, his words slow and labored.
Michael had shuffled his chair closer to the bed. “What is it, Dad?”
He’d watched his father take a deep, painful breath. “The money’s gone.”
“What—”
“I lost it…Pension…Savings…The house…All gambled away.”
Michael had stared at his father in disbelief. Martin Watkins wasn’t a gambler: he was a sensible, solid man, someone who mowed the lawn every Sunday and never forgot to put the bins out. But the look on his dad’s face—the fear in his eyes—told Michael that he wasn’t lying.
“Look after your mother,” Martin had said, wincing with the effort of the words. “She has no idea…Protect her from the truth.Please, Michael.”
There had been so many things Michael had wanted to ask his dad: whys and hows and whens. But the look on the old man’s face told Michael he didn’t have time for that now, so instead he’d just nodded. “I’ll take care of her. I promise.”
Martin had let out a sigh of relief in response and closed his eyes, and for a horrible moment, Michael thought his father had taken his last breath. Then he opened his eyes again.
“There’s something else,” he’d wheezed. “You’re adopted.”
It was such a ridiculous statement that Michael’s initial reaction was to laugh. “What?”
“We should have told you…years ago.”
“What are you talking about, Dad? I’m not adopted.”
“Through the church,” Martin said, his words barely more than a slur now. “Reverend Platt at St Piran’s…our miracle baby.”
