The Forgotten Holocaust. Scott Mariani
often that it had felt more like a base than a proper home. The roving, spartan existence of a freelance kidnap rescue specialist had often seemed hard to distinguish from the harsh military life he’d known before that.
The house looked different now, and even though he’d expected it to, it gave him a strange pang to see how it had changed.
Funny, he thought: when the place had been his, he hadn’t cared much for it, never thinking about it on his frequent travels around the world; but now he could feel a creeping sense of nostalgia.
Stupid. What am I doing here? he asked himself once again.
Where the pebbly beach ended, stone steps led up towards the back of the house. The iron safety railing was new. Health and safety regulations, he guessed. So was the large conservatory that the new owners had added where the sea-facing terrace used to be. The dropping sun reflected in its glass panes.
Ben walked around the side of the house, along a neat path that hadn’t been there during his time. At the front of the house, he stopped and looked up. Of all the unfamiliar additions to his former home, the most striking was the sign over the front door that said ‘Pebble Beach Guesthouse’. It was a strange feeling, looking at it. Like something telling him definitively ‘this is no longer yours’. You no longer belong here.
Final. Irreversible.
So where did he belong? He didn’t know any more.
He was just about to turn away, feeling defeated and sad, when he heard a voice.
‘Mr Hope?’
He turned to see a hefty woman in her late fifties smiling at him. Dressed in a baggy black dress, her grey-flecked hair wrenched back into a bun, there was a matronly look about her. Unlike the house, she didn’t seem to have changed since he’d last seen her, the day the sale had gone through. Maybe a little thicker about the hips, but it was hard to tell. She’d probably been built like a sideboard since the age of twenty.
‘Mrs Henry,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘And you,’ she said, smiling back.
‘How’s business?’ he asked, for want of anything better to ask.
‘Can’t complain. What brings you back out to Galway? On holiday?’
‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Is Mr Henry well?’
‘Much better since the hip operation, thank you. He’s out on the golf course today. Won’t be home until later. He’ll be sorry he missed seeing you.’
‘Likewise,’ Ben said, quietly relieved that he wouldn’t have to get dragged into a conversation about the absurd game of golf, which he recalled seemed to be all Bryan Henry could talk about with any enthusiasm, other than his gammy hip. How the man even managed to hit the ball straight with eyes like that was anybody’s guess. The right one looked at you, the left one looked for you.
‘Come inside and have a drink,’ Mrs Henry said brightly. ‘We’ve just had the new bar put in.’
Ben followed her inside. More strange memories struck him everywhere he looked. The dark period woodwork of the entrance hall had been stripped out to create a bright modern reception area. Full of pride, Mrs Henry led him down the passage to what had once been his living and dining rooms, the wall between them knocked down. He inwardly winced at the floral wallpaper and tacky paintings. Through an archway that hadn’t been there before, he could see into the new conservatory, filled with tables neatly set for Sunday dinner. On the other side of the room was the bar, and beyond that a lounge area where a couple of septuagenarian guests were sitting placidly reading in the silence.
A young woman sat in an armchair by the window. Ben glanced at her just long enough to see that she was in her early thirties or thereabouts, with sandy hair cut short, giving her an elfin kind of look. She was wearing light blue jeans and a white T-shirt. There was a mini laptop open on a low table in front of her, next to a half-finished glass of red wine and a small, square jotter from which she seemed to be busily copying handwritten notes into the computer. Someone was obviously having a working vacation.
Ben looked back at Mrs Henry to see she was watching him expectantly. ‘Well?’ she prompted him at last. ‘What do you think?’
‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ he forced himself to say.
‘Really? I’m so glad.’ Mrs Henry wedged herself in behind the bar and picked up a glass. ‘What can I get you, Mr Hope? On the house, naturally.’
Lies and flattery could get you anywhere. ‘Thanks. I’ll have a Guinness.’
As she was finishing pouring it for him – the proper touch with the shamrock on top – the bell rang in reception and she hurried off to attend to business. Left on his own, Ben perched himself on a bar stool and sipped the cold Guinness. He thought about all the times he’d got drunk in this room and poor old long-suffering Winnie had had to bring him strong black coffee to help sober him up.
He sighed quietly to himself and shook his head. He’d been a screw-up then, and he was one now. What a mess he’d made of his life. The woman he loved despised him. His own son, Jude, would barely speak to him. His sister, Ruth, thought he was a lowlife.
Nice job. Well done.
It was two months since Ben had walked out on his fiancée, Brooke Marcel, virtually on the eve of their wedding. The way he’d seen it, he’d had no choice but to help a friend in need. The way Brooke had seen it, the friend in need was a very attractive old flame who’d mesmerised him into running off with her to get involved in yet another of the crazy, high-risk adventures that littered his past life.
When Ben had returned to England two weeks after they’d been due to get married, he’d been hoping he could pick up the pieces with her, try to make her understand why he’d needed to do what he’d done. Then, fix a new wedding date and get back on with the life they’d planned together. But it hadn’t worked out that way. The house in Oxford was empty. Brooke was no longer there, and had taken all her things with her: everything except the little neck chain he’d once bought as a gift for her. It was lying on the bedside table, snapped in half. Next to it had been a handwritten note. Just four scribbled words.
Don’t look for me.
Brooke knew all about Ben, his past, his skills. She knew about the kidnap victims he’d retrieved from the most cunning hiding places their captors could have kept them in, and brought them home safe.
She knew he could find anyone.
But she didn’t want him to even try to find her. It was the most painful thing she could have said to him.
He couldn’t let go that easily. He had to try. Had to see her. Thinking she might have returned to her former place in Richmond, he’d called only to find that a new tenant had moved in. Next, Ben had tried calling Brooke’s friend and former upstairs neighbour, Amal.
When they’d last spoken, Amal had been warm and friendly. Not any more.
‘She isn’t here.’
‘I know that already. But do you know where she went? I really need to speak to her.’
‘I don’t know where she is,’ Amal said in the same cold tone. ‘But if I did, Ben, you’d be the last person I’d tell.’ Then he hung up before Ben could say more.
After that, Ben had tried calling Jude on his mobile. It had taken two days of trying, and when he’d finally got through, his twenty-year-old son had given him the same frosty reception as Amal. ‘I’m not surprised she’s gone off. She cried for a solid week after you left and you never called once to ask how she was. Basically, you’ve been a real shit to her.’
‘I would never have hurt her on purpose.’
‘You walked out on her! I was there, remember? How did you think that would make her feel?’