Sleeping With Ghosts

From the corner of his eye, Calvin studied his father’s reaction as he repeated what he had been practising for days. ‘Highclare has been great for me; I’ve enjoyed it, well most of it. After you guys split, I felt a bit lost, and being away at school with lots of others in a similar position helped a lot.’ He was staring into the middle distance. ‘It was pretty hard at first, Dad, I just wanted it to be, well, how it was before; you know, happy families, and all that stuff.’ There was no bitterness in his voice, just regret.

Adam gave his son a long glance. Calvin’s angular jaw jutted forward in what Adam knew was a defiant gesture, his mouth was taut. But a few seconds later, his bottom lip had begun to quiver ever so slightly and he squinted as sunlight suddenly flooded his eyes. He shut them, but not before Adam had seen the thin film of unshed tears.

Adam felt the boy’s pain like never before, realizing for the first time that he’d been so selfishly obsessed with his own hurt, he’d failed to recognize his son’s. Reproaching himself, he was filled with a deep remorse, and the compulsion to make amends.

‘Believe me, Calvin, when I say that I know how hard it must have been for you; all kids want their parents to be together, whatever the cost. They don’t understand that it’s not always possible. I don’t need to tell you that your mother is a strong-willed lady, and once she gets her mind set on something there’s no turning her.’

‘Would you have her back now, Dad?’

The unexpected question caught Adam off guard. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just something she said last time I was home.’

‘Yeah, go on.’ Adam was curious.

‘A song came on the radio and she got a kind of funny look on her face, you know, wistful, and her voice sounded different, kinda foggy. She said, “This was the first song I ever danced to, with your father.” When the record ended, she turned to face me. Her eyes were full of tears, and I thought she was going to cry. Then she said, “I loved him very much.”’

Adam knew the song. ‘“I’m not in Love” by 10CC?’

Calvin nodded, ‘That’s the one.’

‘Next time you see your mother, ask her what song reminds her of Jordan Tanner.’ Adam’s anger altered his handsome face and his son was sorry he had brought the subject up. They travelled in stony silence for the next few minutes, until Calvin broke it.

‘I think you should know that I don’t want to go to Harvard next year, Dad. I don’t want to be a smart-ass lawyer. I want to go to Art College.’

This revelation did not surprise Adam who asked, ‘Is your mother aware of this?’

‘Yep, but you know her as well as I do, she’s a snob and all she cares about is what her fancy friends think. Harvard Law School is the ultimate as far as she’s concerned. She has this vision of art students with long hair, hanging out and doing drugs. Not the clean-cut Wasp image she has in mind for me! But I don’t want to do that preppy scene, and I hate the thought of being part of a hot-shot law firm. Most of the lawyers I’ve met at Grandma’s are creeps.’ Calvin spoke with the angry conviction of a headstrong sixteen-year-old determined to have his own way.

Adam agreed wholeheartedly. ‘You’re right about lawyers; most of ’em are assholes, give or take a couple, one of whom is my best friend. I never thought for one second Law School was right for you, Cal. You’ve got talent, real talent, and I would love you to be an artist. My greatest regret in life is that I can’t paint. That’s why I hang out in an art gallery for a living, you know, getting it all secondhand.’ Adam slid his hand across the car seat, covering Calvin’s, he squeezed gently. ‘You’ve got my support, son. If Art College is what you really want, and it makes you happy, fine by me. Your Grandfather Krantz would have been proud, he would have encouraged you every inch of the way.’

Calvin breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘You’ll back me then, Dad, when it comes to the showdown?’

An image of Jennifer’s enraged face drifted before Adam’s eyes. He blinked to clear it from his vision and said in a voice he hoped sounded reassuring and positive, ‘I’m absolutely certain that between us we can make your mother see sense.’ He increased the pressure on his son’s hand.

‘Gee thanks, Dad! I knew I could rely on you.’

That night Adam went with Calvin to Lusardi’s, an Italian restaurant he’d been taking him to since he was old enough to walk. Over linguine pesto they reminisced about Calvin’s thirteenth birthday party, spent in the same restaurant. The teenager had got very drunk on Chianti, it was a memorable first.

Afterwards, back at Adam’s apartment on Central Park West, on Calvin’s insistence they played a selection of his all-time favourite blues artists. The boy whistled and snapped his fingers in tune with the music, commenting that he been the only kid in the neighbourhood to be lulled to sleep by John Lee Hooker, Robert Cray and Wolf Man Jack, instead of the usual nursery rhymes. Adam chuckled to himself thinking how much he loved being like this, just the two of them together. Later they shared a couple of beers, whilst watching a late-night TV movie in the small den that had once been Calvin’s playroom.

Halfway through the movie Calvin fell asleep. Careful not to wake him Adam switched off the television, then bending down he extracted the half-empty beer can from his son’s grip. Straightening up, he stood very still for a long time, gazing with admiration at his son’s body sprawled across the sofa. Calvin was lean and tanned, and toned from hours on the playing field. And Adam was suddenly filled with an indescribable rush of pride and wonder at the fact that he had somehow created this undeniably handsome young man. All the hackneyed parent-and-child clichés sprang to mind. Adam plumped for ‘the best investment I’ve ever made’.

Briskly he walked down the hall, past the kitchen into the living room. It was a vast space with large floor-to-ceiling windows filling one wall, whilst pictures filled every other available square inch – including the bathrooms and the back of the kitchen door. Adam had never particularly liked the apartment, but now as he looked around he realized he hated it. It was more like a gallery than a home.

‘It’s got no soul,’ he muttered, pouring Scotch into a tumbler and lighting a Marlboro Red, thinking of the months Jennifer had spent decorating the interior with her camp interior designer friend, ‘Jovi’ or ‘Javi’, some stupid name he couldn’t remember. Rolling the whisky around the glass, he listened to the ice clinking while finally deciding that the apartment was a monument to his wife: monochromatic, ultra chic and seriously expensive.

Crossing the room he stood next to the window. It was an exceptionally clear night. The dark sky high above Central Park was wild with stars, gold and white lights twinkling like scattered jewels above and below his eyrie on the twenty-second floor. It reminded him of another night five years ago when he and Jennifer had moved in. Memories of the hours of frenzied unpacking flooded back; hanging pictures in great excitement, and eating Chinese take-aways sitting on packing boxes, drinking Cristal champagne out of hastily washed mugs. Yes, it had been a night similar to this one and they had made love on the floor in exactly the same spot where he now stood. Afterwards, he recalled his bare soles had pressed against the side of a suitcase as he had lain, still deeply embedded in her softness. Adam had been awed by the look of radiance on Jennifer’s face: the serene afterglow when desire has recently departed and love remains.

Turning abruptly away from the window, and the memory, Adam finished his drink, then poured himself another before leaving the room. Padding quietly down the hallway, he passed his favourite painting, a Renoir he had acquired at his first auction. He had been a year older than Calvin, almost eighteen at the time.

During his Spring break he had been invited to accompany Benjamin Krantz, his father, and a world-renowned art dealer to a sale of French Impressionist art at Sotheby’s in London. Encouraged by his father, Adam had entered the bidding, acquiring the painting for three thousand dollars below the estimate. Adam would never forget the thrill he’d experienced when the hammer had come down, with the auctioneer’s shout of ‘Sold’ ringing in his ears, or his excitement when the painting had arrived at the Krantz Gallery on Madison Ave along with several others his father had purchased. Benjamin had given him the picture and Adam’s life-long love of fine art had begun.

His stockinged feet made no sound on the thick pile carpet when he entered his study. Adam knew this room like the back of his hand and easily negotiated his way in the dark. Sitting down, he flicked a switch, illuminating the desk-top. Taking a key out of a drawer, he used it to open another drawer to his left. Lifting out a box file, he began to riffle through the assorted papers. It took him a few minutes to find what he wanted.

Holding the old newspaper cutting under the strong spotlight, he drank deeply of his whisky whilst staring into the arrogant face of Klaus Von Trellenberg standing next to Heinrich Himmler at a Nazi party rally in 1939. Adam narrowed his eyes in hatred, and allowed a cruel smile to distort his generous mouth.

‘I’m going to get you this time, you son-of-a-bitch.’

He was still smiling as he crushed the paper into a tiny ball in the palm of his hand.

Chapter Three

Kathryn was very cold. She could not feel her hands and feet, and when she opened her mouth to speak no words came, in fact she was unable to make any sound at all. She was completely naked, and her body looked different. Not quite like her own. It was very thin, and totally hairless. Slowly she parted her legs and to her horror saw that she was covered in open sores.

She was alone in a small room, it was about ten foot square, there were no windows or doors, and the walls were painted white, perfect new snow white. There were no lights, yet it was glaringly bright. It felt like being inside a large floodlit cardboard box. She looked up when she heard the voice, which seemed to be floating out of the ceiling. It was a soothing sound; like a caress it washed over her, and she wondered why she felt afraid.

‘Kathryn, Kathryn, it’s so good to meet you at long last.’

She pulled her legs into her body to cover her nakedness, dropping her head to her knees. She began to shake, her whole body jerking uncontrollably as the voice got louder.

‘Kathryn, it’s your Grandfather Klaus; look at me, Kathryn, please.’

She was afraid to look, but the voice kept insisting, and eventually she raised her head, opening her eyes wide. A disembodied head floated in front of her face. It was covered in a black mask, resembling the type worn by executioners in the Middle Ages. Her mouth opened to scream, but no sound came, and still the voice kept on.

‘I’ve come to save you, Kathryn. I love you, I want to take you home to Germany with me, where you belong.’

The hideous mask came closer. She tried to cover her face, but her limbs were paralysed. The head was an inch from her now. She wanted to close her eyes, but her eyelids refused to move. She could feel hot breath on her cheek; it smelt strangely sweet, like boiling sugar.

The death mask moved up and down, the voice repeating, ‘I love you, Kathryn, your grandfather loves you. I’m going to take you to Germany, you’ll be safe there.’

She could no longer feel her heart beating and thought that perhaps she was dead. Then, suddenly the mask was stuck to her face like glue, the lips fatty and very wet. They began to suck at her, first at her mouth, then at her nose – sucking harder and harder. She struggled to breathe as she felt her whole face being suctioned into the huge gaping gash until she was gasping for air.

Her heart was banging, when a minute later she woke up. The bedclothes were tangled around her head, and for a split second she wasn’t sure where she was. Pulling the sheets off, she sat bolt upright in bed. Her palms were clammy and her hair stuck to her head, soaking wet.

Kathryn took a few deep breaths, she stayed very still until her breathing returned to normal. This was the second time she’d had the dream since her Aunt Ingrid had told her about Klaus Von Trellenberg less than a week ago. She closed her eyes again, willing herself not to think of him. But she could feel her lids twitching as with nagging consistency the cold repetitive voice in her head kept banging on: Klaus Von Trellenberg, Klaus Von Trellenberg. Then her grandfather’s face, as it had appeared in the photograph, materialized in her head. But instead of wearing the arrogant half smile, he was laughing. She could hear him. The sound rose to a hysterical screech, pealing in her ears.

With the flat of her hand, Kathryn wiped small pearls of perspiration from her brow and the back of her neck. Sweat rolled down her temples and she experienced a return to the unreality of the day she had learnt about her unwanted SS connections.

The thought of her mother’s father as the archetypal Nazi, a cold-blooded psychopath on an indiscriminate killing spree, made her feel physically sick. Suddenly she began to cry. Kathryn realized it was the first time she had cried since Freda’s death. With a sense of shame she buried her face deep in the pillow, admitting to herself that she had never loved her. In fact she conceded there were many times when she had hated her. Hated her resentment, her hostility, and her lack of communication. Was it such a terrible crime to dislike your own mother? Until now she had thought so, and had berated herself for not trying harder. But after what Ingrid had revealed, it seemed easier to accept that her mother had been impossible to love.

Kathryn spent the remainder of the night wide awake. It seemed interminably long, and she was pleased when dawn broke with a roll of thunder, heralding the start of a storm that was to last all day. Unable to face food, she made herself a pot of strong coffee and was just pouring her third cup when the telephone rang. She glanced at the clock in the hall, wondering who could be calling her at seven-thirty a.m.

It was Emily de Moubray, her father’s second wife.

‘Good morning, Kathryn! I do hope I haven’t woken you, but I wanted to catch you before you left for the office. I can never get through to you there. You’re such a busy girl these days.’ Emily sounded infuriatingly breezy.

‘Hi, Emily. How are you?’

‘Since you only spoke to me yesterday, I doubt there’s much change,’ she giggled.

Kathryn bit her bottom lip, suppressing the rising irritation that Emily frequently engendered in her.

‘I’m calling because your father can’t make supper next week. Would it be possible for us to come up to town this Saturday? Sorry to mess you around like this, Kathryn, but he has to attend an important lecture on Friday the eighteenth. He only found out about it last night. Frank Kamer, the doctor he’s working with on the cancer vaccine, is over from America and has agreed to speak. The lecture will be followed by a dinner – you know, the same old boring surgeons’ do.’

Since she had never been invited to any of her father’s lectures or functions, Kathryn did not know, and was tempted to remind Emily that she had not shared her father’s life since she was nine. She bit back the recrimination, afraid to sound bitter or, worse, a martyr. She had no time for whining self-pity. Yet she had to resist the urge to ask why her father could not speak to her, himself. Anyway she knew the reply would be the same as usual, delivered in a brisk defensive manner. You are aware how busy your father is, Kathryn. I try not to bother him with mundane matters.

‘If you can’t make it, Kathryn, I’m sure your father will understand, but don’t forget we won’t be back in England for at least a year.’ Emily sounded rather pleased by this prospect.

‘Well, I was supposed to be going to a big society wedding, but I’ll have to cancel.’

‘Oh dear, never mind, I’m sure there’ll be others.’ Kathryn felt her hackles rise at Emily’s dismissive tone. ‘We’ll be in town at lunchtime. I have some shopping to do, so perhaps you could amuse your father for the afternoon.’ Not waiting for Kathryn to respond she said, ‘And please, Kathryn, something simple – you know how he loathes fancy food. The last time you made that rich creamy sauce he felt most unwell for days.’

Kathryn was seething. On the occasion referred to, she had spent hours shopping and preparing a meal she knew her father had loved. He had even called her the following day to compliment her on the best dinner he’d had in years. So she had to bite back an acerbic retort. Past experience had taught her that agreeing with Emily, or simply saying nothing, was infinitely easier than any other course. But it was at such times that she wondered anew what her father saw in this sanctimonious and frivolous woman, who was neither intelligent nor amusing.

Tony Mitchell, her former husband, had suggested once – after Kathryn had been complaining hotly about her stepmother – ‘She’s a lot younger than your father, good for the old man’s ego and his libido. The quiet ones, still waters and all that; she’s probably dynamite between the sheets.’

Kathryn had grimaced. The thought of Emily in the throes of passionate lovemaking with her father was so repulsive, she’d had to push it firmly out of her mind.

Now she could not suppress her irritation for a moment longer. ‘OK, Em, I get the message; I won’t cook at all. I’ll book a restaurant, then we can all have exactly what we want.’

‘No need to get tetchy with me, Kathryn, and don’t call me Em, you know how I detest it; anyway, don’t you think it much better that I say, rather than you spending a ridiculous amount of—’

Kathryn interrupted. ‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got a breakfast meeting. Like you said, I’m a busy girl! I’ll see you both on Saturday, my place at noon.’ She put the telephone down, without saying goodbye, then sipped her coffee whilst imagining Emily making a point of seeking her father out, wherever he was, to inform him in her high-pitched, sing-song voice that his daughter had slammed the phone down on her, and that the older Kathryn got the ruder she became. Kathryn had long ceased to care what Emily thought of her, but she accepted with a sharp pang, that she did care very much about her father’s approval. Climbing the stairs to her bedroom, she could not help wondering how he would react to Ingrid’s revelations. As she showered and dressed she decided to tell him everything on Saturday afternoon.

Half an hour later she left the house. With her mind in a fog, she climbed into her car, throwing her coat on to the back seat. It was raining hard when she pulled into the multi-storey car park in Brewer Street. She donned her mackintosh, realizing at the same time that she’d forgotten her umbrella. With the collar of her coat up tight to her ears, and using the Daily Telegraph to cover her head, she ran across Golden Square into number forty-six.

Kathryn shared the lift with Roger Thompson, a junior accountant. They chatted about the weather, before alighting on the fourth floor and walking together through the double glass doors that led to Trident Productions. Kathryn smiled at Helen the receptionist who was busy making coffee.

The girl held up a cup. ‘Want one?’

‘No thanks, I’ve had four already this morning. I’m all caffeined out.’

Kathryn walked down a long corridor interspersed with doors. She stopped at the last door but one, experiencing the familiar quick thrill, as she read the brass nameplate. ‘Kathryn de Moubray, Producer.’ It was only four months since her promotion, and she was still waiting for the euphoria to wear off. ‘You’ve worked bloody hard for it,’ her boss Rod Franks had said at the time. Rod was not generous with his praise, and she knew he was right: she had worked hard, damned hard, but it still felt good to be rewarded. The achievement made all the long hours, and the self-sacrifice, worthwhile.

Kathryn crossed the room, her feet making little sound on the thick carpet. She had chosen the office interiors herself and wished, now, that she had gone for the more traditional oak desk and bookcase that she had liked originally, instead of being talked into the smoke-grey and chrome furniture Rod had favoured. ‘Too macho,’ someone had said, adding that it was a dyke’s office. She hung her coat up and, running her fingers through her recently bobbed hair, sat down behind her desk and began to write a list of things she had to do. At the top of the list she put, ‘Fax Steve Fisher in Washington. Ask him to research Von Trellenberg in archives.’ Then she followed it with, ‘Call Bob Conran re pilot for Girls in the Red.’ When her direct line rang, she continued writing as she picked up the phone.

It was Jack McGowan. ‘Good morning, Kathryn, how are you on this hideous Monday morning?’ Without waiting for her reply, he went on, ‘Don’t you think we should be somewhere, anywhere else, than London in this bloody rain? It’s been pissing down for weeks! How about we slip down to my house in the South of France, it’s wonderful in June, we can sip chilled rosé on the terrace, and watch the sun set …’

‘I’m in the middle of a big job; you know that, Jack. I can’t just schlepp off to the Med at the drop of a hat.’ The word ‘hat’ jolted her into saying, ‘Speaking of which, I’m afraid I can’t make the wedding on Saturday. I’m really sorry, but my father wants to see me.’

‘Well, tell him you’ve got a prior engagement.’ His tone implied there was nothing more to say.

Kathryn drummed her short fingernails on top of her desk. ‘I am sorry, Jack. But he’s leaving for a lecture tour of the States soon. He’s only going to be in London for one day. I have to see him, we’ve got a lot of things to sort out. I need to discuss my mother’s estate, and all that stuff, you understand don’t you?’

Jack did not. ‘Can’t you see him on Friday? I could send a car for you first thing Saturday morning. You could still make the wedding, it doesn’t start until midday. Call your father now, tell him it’s a case of life and death; he’s a doctor, he’ll appreciate that. Tell him you’ve got to work on an important project all weekend, tell him anything!’

‘I’ll tell him the truth, Jack,’ she interrupted tersely. ‘That’s not difficult for me,’ she added, intimating that deceit came easily to Jack McGowan.

‘Business is about avoiding the truth, playing the game, Kathryn. Come on, you know that as well as I do.’

She chose to ignore this remark. ‘I’m not sure if he can make it on Friday, but I suppose I could ask.’ Kathryn was merely placating him; she was secretly pleased to get out of what she suspected would be a posh but boring wedding.

Encouraged by her hesitation, Jack said, ‘Now when are you going to get another opportunity to wear that fabulous hat?’

She was smiling. ‘Ascot?’ she ventured. ‘Ladies’ Day, perhaps?’

His voice dropped an octave. ‘I would prefer you to wear it this weekend. First for the wedding, then later for me, with nothing else but high heels, and that special smile. You know the one you wear when I—’

She interrupted with, ‘Shame on you, Mr McGowan!’

‘I’ll be totally inconsolable if I have to spend the weekend alone,’ he told her.

Kathryn also lowered her voice. ‘Since when have you ever done that, Jack? Oh and by the way, I’d love to wear the hat and heels, specially for you. If not this weekend then some time in the near future.’

His loud expulsion of breath was followed by, ‘This weekend, Kathryn.’

‘I’ll let you know by Thursday when we’re going to the Buchanans for drinks. That will give you twenty-four hours to find a replacement.’

The humour had left his voice when he said, ‘There is none.’