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CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
George had been worrying about telling Owen since they’d brought him back him from Aldershot. He knew Dad might pass himself off as a businessman, rough around the edges but still legit–but when the gang called in as they often did at Christmas, Owen, even in his currently almost catatonic state, couldn’t fail to notice they were villains. But telling Owen was a challenge. How could he tell the son of a war hero? What would he say?By the way, my dad’s a criminalwasn’t something you just tossed into casual conversation. If it had been, he would have told Owen in their first year at university.
George stared again at the book he was trying to read, fixing his eyes and getting stuck on the colour illustration of Henry VIII. It was useless. He knew he would never finish this book until he told Owen about his dad.
He glanced over at Owen stretched out on the old fold-away bed. Too tall for it, feet dangling an inch above the floor as he lay scowling at a battered paperback.
George shifted on his own bed and tried to imagine how he would have reacted if it had been his mum. What would he have done if he’d found her suspended from the upstairs banister? The thought filled him with horror as he realisedit couldhave been his mother. Marriage to Chas Halcyon was enough to drive any woman to suicide.
When I finish college, he thought, when I’m making something of myself and Millie and I have a home of our own–then I’ll take Mum out of this place, get her away from the murdering bastard. Millie wouldn’t mind. Would she? A sneaking doubt wormed into his head. He’d still not toldherabout his dad and when he did, maybe he’d no longer have a girlfriend.
Again, he looked over his book at Owen, motionless for at least an hour, and, shifting up on his elbow, George squinted. Was Owen breathing?
Yes, yes, he was. But the tension emanating from the man fairly buzzed in the space between them. Like being too close to high power electricity cables.
‘I’ve got something I have to tell you,’ George said, his stomach seizing with anxiety.
Owen lowered the paperback. ‘Yeah, what?’
‘Something about my dad.’
‘Does he want me out of here?’
‘No! Why do you say that?’
‘Just the way he was talking about my family or lack of it, the other day. I thought maybe he wanted me gone.’
‘No, that was just him trying to make conversation. He’s not good at it.’
Owen grunted.
‘It’s just…’ George started again. ‘I have to tell you something about him.’
Owen set his book aside and shifted on the creaking camp bed to face George.
George said, ‘My dad’s a criminal.’
Slight surprise flitted across Owen’s face, before he said, ‘And they say crime doesn’t pay.’
George sat up. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘All your stuff… this house rammed full of quality product, your high-end brand-name clothes, the BMW.’
‘Does it bother you?’
‘Your family’s addiction to consumerism?’
‘No. My dad, how he earns the money.’
‘It’s none of my business. You needn’t have told me.’ Owen flopped onto his back again.
‘Had to,’ George grunted, confused by Owen’s reaction. ‘Some of the gang will drop by over Christmas. They’re rough.’
‘Rougher than your dad?’
‘Yes, most of them. Psychopaths, some of them.’
‘And your dad’s not a psychopath?’ Owen lifted his head to look again at George.
