The Family Firm

Chapter 57

2002

The sun was shining despite the cold, and while the skies were still covered with a thick sheet of grey clouds, the beams of light glistening through the breaks gave the impression of hope after weeks of a seemingly endless rain. As Junior stood in St Patrick's Roman Catholic Cemetery, these were the thoughts that fluttered through his mind.

It had been one of the roughest years of his life. All of the physical trauma he had endured, and the subsequent recovery, coupled with the loss of his Niamh, had set him in a very deep depression. But today, he had the oddest sense that perhaps there would soon be a break in the clouds of his own grief.

There were a few other families dotted across the cemetery. Perhaps Easter had instilled a hopeful thought in all their grieving minds as well, thought Junior. The sunshine and spring flowers certainly painted a better picture than the dreary landscape the cold winter had covered London in. Maybe, like him, things were starting to look a little brighter for the other families as they sorted through their flowers and wreaths, keeping the resting places of their loved ones tidy.

The wound the loss of Niamh had inflicted upon Junior was still very fresh, but as he laid out a fresh bouquet of white roses atop her grave as he had every month after the incident, his eyes felt dry. For the first time in a long time, as he saw that familiar date on the headstone, he didn't think first of the horrific violence that had accompanied that happy day, but instead of how beautiful Niamh had looked in the cathedral as the priest married them.

His eyes fell on the engraved name just above the dates that spanned only twenty-two short years. Her parents had buried her with her maiden name, O'Shaughnessy.

'She was an Evans,' he voiced his opinion aloud, feeling a tinge of anger tighten in his chest. But he was thankful for it, the anger. Thankful that he was feeling something besides the dread that had occupied his mind for nearly a year now.

The brisk spring wind cut into his cheeks despite the sunshine, and so he tightened his jacket around himself, looking at the grave one last time before heading through the rows of headstones back towards the black BMW waiting for him kerbside. There was his uncle Freddie, standing outside the car with his gloved hands folded ahead of him and squinting out into the late morning through a pair of dark sunglasses.

As Junior approached him, still limping slightly without the use of a cane, Freddie nodded in a silent understanding between the two of them. Without a word, they both got into the car, and neither of them spoke through the entire ride back to Romford on the A12.

Frankie was hosting Easter Sunday dinner at the big house for their immediate family. It was the first holiday that the Evanses would finally be together, properly anyway, since the incident. And that's what they were calling it then, "the incident". Needless to say it wasn't spoken of enough to be brought into casual conversation; even strangers seemed to be shrewd enough to understand this. No one wanted to dig up old bones.

Inside the house, Frankie was joined by her mum and Katie in the kitchen. They were having a beef brisket they had picked up from the butcher's, already in the AGA roasting with carrots and potatoes. The three women were handling the veg and Yorkshire puddings together while Charlie and Donny lingered in the lounge, chatting and watching The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Beth was shelling peas and going on about an old boyfriend of hers, and all the girls were laughing. Frankie couldn't remember the last time she really joked around with her old mum; most of her time spent around the woman she felt criticised and demeaned. But it was Easter, she supposed, and everyone was having a good time.

'Speaking of priests,' said Frankie as she quickly poured the batter into the muffin tin, watching each dollop bubble and sizzle in the cooking fat. 'Father Elliott said he'd come round later so remind me to keep a plate warm for him.'

Ever since the incident, Frankie had tried to rekindle her relationship with God and had started regularly attending Mass. Father Elliott was a young American priest and had married Junior and Niamh, and so Frankie had devoted quite a bit of time to try and sort things out with him. He was a good man, but he was relatively new and so he and yet to give in to the Evanses ways and inevitable demands. Furthermore he had not a spot on his record—Freddie had checked—and willingly bore his soul to God. So, while Frankie was playing nice, she also had a bit of an ulterior motive; Father Elliott might prove to be an incredible resource. But that didn't mean she was any worse of a Catholic, mind you; she was only taking the opportunities God presented her with. There was no harm in that!

The front door opened, and while at first Frankie presumed it to be the man himself (inwardly thinking speak-of-the-devil be an inappropriate turn of phrase), standing there in the doorway was Freddie and young Junior. As she popped the tin of puddings back into the oven, she smiled fondly at the sight of them, father and son. Junior really was the spit of her brother. Now that she knew that Freddie was the boy's father, she was almost surprised no one else could tell. The similarities between the two were astounding. All likeness of Donny was in her mind, like she had forced herself to believe in all those years. But now it just seemed bloody obvious.

'There they are,' said Frankie fondly as both men headed into the kitchen. Freddie took a moment to remove his jacket while Junior kissed his mother's cheek, squeezing her upper arms fondly.

'Smells good in here,' he said to the group of women before making his way over to Katie, who was washing up in the sink.

She peered over her shoulder at him and lit up instantly, flashing her crooked teeth in a wide grin. 'Hey, you. Where was you two?'

Junior just looked at her a moment before kissing her firmly on the lips to avoid answering the question. His kiss was needy, and she laughed against it, almost embarrassed.

Pulling away from him slightly, she asked, 'Missed me, eh?'

Frankie was watching the two from her spot leaning against the kitchen counter. Her mouth felt dry, and she plucked up her neglected glass of Liebfraumilch to wet it. It was as if she was looking into a crystal ball and seeing her and Fred in the old days. Junior and Katie were half-brother and -sister after all, even if they didn't know it. In fact, it was only she and Fred who knew anything.

Junior was Freddie's son, and that she was absolutely certain no one could ever know. But Freddie, too, had kept his paternity of Katie a secret as well. In fact, most people didn't even know he had ever gotten married to Sara, let alone had a child with her. It had been his dirty little secret back in those days. He had been estranged from the family when he gotten her pregnant in the first place, and Beth and Charlie had encouraged a quiet marriage to sort of brush things under the rug. He had left school and really dropped off the map for some time. For the longest time, only Frankie had known where he was. At least, until he got banged up on a GBH.

Freddie, as if reading her mind, approached her and lowered his head near hers to say quietly, 'It's our little secret.'

Turning, Frankie looked at her brother, her brows knitted, for a moment or two until her expression softened. That's what it was for them, a secret. A secret no one anyone could ever uncover. Junior and Katie were brother and sister, and that knowledge would die with their parents. Maybe it was a curse, thought Frankie inwardly. Maybe history was doomed to repeat itself.

Frankie nodded at last, and as Freddie fondly clasped her cheek in comfort, she leaned into his touch, feeling the roughness of him. Neither sibling realised Frankie's mother Beth stood watching them from a few paces away.