Buried (DC Jack Warr #1) - Lynda La Plante Page 0,18

like naughty schoolkids, thinking they were being completely silent when, in fact, they were making a terrible racket.

Two cling-filmed plates of food sat on the kitchen top, already pierced and ready for the microwave. The kitchen table was set, complete with two glasses for water and two glasses for whisky. Charlie heated the food and Jack filled all four glasses. While the microwave was on, Charlie said, ‘I’ve got something for you, lad,’ before disappearing. By the time he came back, the piping hot food was on the table.

Charlie put a dog-eared file down in front of Jack. At first he thought it was probably filled with the legal stuff that would have to be dealt with after Charlie had gone; but this file was as old as Jack, by the looks of it. He opened it up and, inside were several yellowing pieces of paper and tons of old photos. Charlie ate in silence as his son slowly took in the enormity of what he was looking at – a birth certificate, adoption papers, photos of a young woman holding a baby. Jack slammed the file shut. Charlie spoke before Jack could.

‘You’re my son. You took my name, you have my mannerisms and I’d swear that you’ve got my nose, even though that’s impossible.’

‘I’m not interested,’ Jack snapped, before stuffing his mouth full of chicken.

Charlie laughed for a second. ‘And when you sulk, I’d swear on my life that you’ve got your mum’s frown.’ He suddenly seemed to sober up. ‘You’ve never asked where you’re from, Jack, and you don’t have to ask now. Just know that you’re not disrespecting me or your mum if you choose to find out.’

‘Why would I want to, Dad? I don’t need . . . You think I’d want to call someone else “Dad”? You think I want anyone else calling me his lad?’

‘People come and go, that’s life ‒ and we make the most of them while they’re here. If you want to look into your past, all I’m saying is . . . you have my blessing.’

*

Jack lay on his fluffed-up pillows, on his childhood bed, and listened to Maggie’s phone send him to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. She’d know no message was the same as saying, ‘call me back when you have a second’. Jack waited for the screen of his mobile to light up silently, because tonight of all nights, he knew that Maggie would call him back within seconds.

It was actually three minutes later when his screen eventually lit up.

‘Hey, Mags,’ he whispered.

Maggie got straight to the point. ‘How are things there?’

‘He’s been given a few months. It’s in his lungs and his liver, but they’re both secondaries, they don’t actually know where the primary is.’

‘Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.’

‘That can’t be right, can it, Mags? Not knowing where it started? I mean, it can’t have disappeared, can it? Why can’t they find the primary? If they find the primary, maybe they can fix it. Do you think . . .?’

‘Do you need me there?’

By changing the subject, Jack knew that Maggie had no answers to his barrage of questions.

‘No, I’ll be home first thing.’ He sounded almost bitter in his reply. ‘I was only given one day off and, anyway, they’ve got it all sorted here. They knew before Christmas, so they’ve already got their heads round everything and they’re off on a world cruise, if you can believe that.’

‘So, no more treatment?’

‘It won’t do any good.’

‘Jack . . . you have to let them do this in the right way for them.’

Maggie could hear Jack holding his breath, then that slow exhale as he stifled the noise of crying.

‘What about me?’

‘This isn’t about you, love.’

Jack took deep, heavy breaths and regained his composure. Once his breathing was back to normal, Maggie continued.

‘Don’t be angry for long. The most important thing in times like this is to have no regrets. Give them your blessing. We’ll skype every day, and we can even meet them on one of their stops if you like.’

Jack’s voice suddenly perked up, just a little. ‘They go to St Lucia.’

‘There you go, then. We’ll meet them there and stay on for a few days. I can even book the same hotel we stayed in when we did that extravagant holiday we couldn’t afford. It’s nearly two o’clock, Jack. Go to sleep. I love you.’

*

By five o’clock, Jack was up, showered, dressed and heading out of the front door to catch the 5.45 train back to London. As he leant