‘Who’s Daniel Sheppard?’
‘Just some bloke I used to know.’
‘Why would he hire a private investigator to find you?’
Rob shrugged, heart pounding. He opened the letter, took out the single sheet of paper and read the same message as Josh McBain had a day earlier.
It’s happened again. We need to meet. My place, Saturday 4 July. Danny.
‘Rob?’
Rob stood up and walked to the bedroom. Thoughts appeared in his head and then vanished like lemmings over the edge of a cliff.
Burn it.
Find out what he wants.
Forget it.
Ask Michelle what she thinks.
Jump out the window and make sure you do a proper job this time.
Chapter Five
Kieran Clarke was in a good mood after attending church and listening to a sermon about forgiveness – a subject high on his list of important virtues. Kieran had spent half an hour with Reverend Moore after the service talking about God’s grace and His capacity to offer an olive branch to even the most sinful of sinners. Reverend Moore had reminded Kieran that they were all rough diamonds – it just took longer to polish some than others. Perhaps many lifetimes, although he wouldn’t be drawn on the subject of reincarnation.
Reverend Moore had helped Kieran through his darkest days since he’d first walked through the doors of St Thomas’s Church six years ago. With nowhere left to turn after gambling and drugs had failed to clear his conscience, Kieran had turned to the church in one last desperate attempt to get his life back on track.
The move had turned out to be the best thing he’d ever done. Not only had Reverend Moore become his own spiritual mentor, he’d met his future wife at a weekday service. He’d never told Reverend Moore the real reason for his downward spiral, just the catalyst that had pushed him into a maelstrom of drugs and gambling.
Kieran had always wanted to be a boxer ever since he was old enough to have thoughts of his own. The ring was his calling. He’d dreamed of standing in front of thousands of people, holding his world champion’s belt aloft and listening to the roar of the crowd. Weighing in at barely eight stone, and small enough to go almost anywhere without ducking his head, Kieran was quick on his feet and a real prospect according to the gym owner where he’d trained. He was even put forward to fight in a tournament being held at a local nightclub in Portsmouth.
All was on track. After winning his first bout, they’d pitted him against a guy several years older than him. The guy was also taller and had a much better reach. Kieran was losing the bout by quite some distance. Outfought and on his last legs, Kieran had been about to hit the deck and give up the ghost when the guy had leaned in close and called him a retard.
Kieran had no recollection of what had happened after that. His trainer told him later that he’d torn into the bloke like a man possessed. Pinning him to the ropes and raining down blow after blow. By the time they’d pulled Kieran off, the man was unconscious. Lying on the canvas and pouring with blood.
Kieran had kicked and lashed out at the two trainers and the referee as they’d hauled him out of the ring. Kieran would later wonder if it was his opponent’s use of the derogatory term ‘retard’ that had sparked his furious outburst. His brother had learning difficulties, and people could be so cruel and ignorant if you just happened to be different. Or maybe it was just years of pent-up frustration pouring out of him. Either way, it was his last fight. His gym membership had been cancelled and he was damned lucky the guy hadn’t wanted to press charges.
Kieran had swapped the ring for the bookmakers. The thrill of the race. The excitement of the football match. But Kieran soon found out that the odds were well and truly stacked against him. He’d chased his losses with evermore ridiculous stakes.
Within two years of pitting his wits against the bookmakers and losing, Kieran was consoling himself with booze. Lager turned to strong cider; strong cider to vodka. His job as a window fitter was becoming too much for him as the debts mounted and his life plummeted. Threatened with the sack and unable to pay his rent, Kieran had gone to St Thomas’s with the sole purpose of asking the vicar if he knew of anywhere he could stay for free.
Reverend Moore had asked him if he’d wanted to talk. A problem shared and all that crap Kieran didn’t give a donkey’s hind hoof about. Kieran just wanted somewhere to stay to buy him some time. Allow him to get his head straight. Think about where to go when all the signposts seemed to be pointing straight to hell.
Reverend Moore had made him a cup of tea – that great British cure for everything from heartache to missing limbs. He’d not said much. Just occasionally smiling and nodding as if assessing him.
‘What are you running away from?’ he’d asked, after treating Kieran to a stale sandwich and three fairy cakes.
‘Nothing. I’m just a bit down on my luck.’
‘Your eyes tell a different story, young man. A very different story.’
And then, from nowhere, he’d spent the next half an hour telling Reverent Moore about what had happened in the boxing ring. How the guy had called him a retard and he’d responded by beating the crap out of him. He’d even broken down several times recounting the story.
Moore hadn’t said a word for a long time afterwards. Just sat there in the vestry gazing into space. When he did speak, the words were simple and measured: ‘I know you’ve had a rough time, lad. I can see it in your eyes. I also know your loss of control stems from something far greater than you’d care to talk about right now. But I want you to know I’ll be here for you should you need me. If you want to talk. If you need a friend.’
The man’s kindness and compassion had moved Kieran to fresh tears. He didn’t believe in God – he’d seen enough of life to know He didn’t exist. But he believed in Reverend Moore. Or, more importantly, the goodness inside him.
Kieran had never looked back after that first meeting. His secret, the big dark blob that contaminated his heart, would never see the light of day. As much as he now loved the church, and believed in a higher force, he could never tell a soul about what had happened on that terrible day all those years ago. The real reason he’d almost killed that man in the ring. The real reason he’d moved to Portsmouth to get as far away from Feelham as he could.
Reverend Moore had convinced him that even the most wretched of souls could be forgiven if they truly repented. That had given Kieran hope. A reason to get up in the mornings and carry on with his life. Get a reprieve at work and a job in charge of a fitting team.
But his greatest reward for turning his life around had been meeting Brenda at a church service. It was as if God had rewarded him for his efforts. Blessed him with something worthwhile. Set him on a road to salvation.
Brenda was six inches taller than him and without shape. Her long, pointed nose and hawk-like eyes gave her a predatory appearance. But she was tangible proof that looks could be deceptive. She was warm-hearted, kind, patient and non-judgemental.
He’d told Brenda everything he’d told Reverend Moore. But nothing of what had happened in Feelham. Brenda had listened to his life story without prejudice. Shared his bed and taught him how to love. To be gentle. Giving. A man who could take pride in his life. Face the day and be able to look himself in the eye. Go to bed at night and know he’d done the very best he could do.