After a detour to my office to catch up with Faye and day-to-day business, I drove home to shower and change my clothing. I was in desperate need of a cool shower, to combat the heat and humidity, and to relieve the stress from my encounter with Frankie Quinn. Then I drove twenty-eight miles west along the coast, to the seaside town of Porthcawl.
Gawain Morgan lived in a smart house overlooking Rest Bay. The house contained three bedrooms and an attic conversion. When I arrived at the house, the sun was sinking into the sea. Looking out to sea, I noticed that one section of the sky was black while another was pink. The pink sky hinted at sunshine in the morning, while the black clouds suggested a storm, which stubbornly refused to break.
I rang the doorbell, listened to the door chimes, then saw Gawain’s outline in the frosted glass of the door panel. He opened the door to greet me wearing jeans, an open-necked tee-shirt and comfortable slippers. Given his roguish reputation, the slippers seemed an incongruous touch, proof positive that even hard men enjoyed their creature comforts.
“Princess,” he said while guiding me into the living room, “any news?”
I nodded, “I found Frankie.”
“Tell me all,” Gawain enthused. While I eased myself into an armchair, he walked over to a cocktail cabinet, one of many standard pieces of furniture in the living room. On balance, Gawain kept a neat house, dominated by pastel shades. Indeed, as a budding housewife, I’d do well to take tips. “A drink?” he asked, holding up a bottle of whisky.
“No thanks.”
“I’ll have a little one,” Gawain grinned. “My regular nightcap.” With two fingers of whisky nestling in his glass, Gawain sat beside me, in a second armchair. “Tell me about Frankie,” he said.
“He’s in Brecon,” I explained, “in an old longhouse. I have no idea who owns the house or its connection to Frankie, but he seems at home there.”
“Brecon?” Gawain frowned. He sipped his whisky, then swirled the amber liquid around in his glass. “That’s a new one on me. Must belong to a mate of a mate, someone away on their summer holidays, perhaps, and Frankie’s squatting. Will he meet me?”
“Reluctantly, yes.”
“Well done, Princess.” Gawain placed his glass on a side table. He clapped his hands together in glee. “I knew you’d do it.”
“But you give me your word,” I said, “no violence.”
“Scouts’ honour,” Gawain grinned and saluted.
“You won’t lose your rag with him?”
“I only want to talk, make him see sense.”
“No threats, no violence?”
“Just a civilised chat, I promise.”
“What will you say?” I asked.
“I’ll remind Frankie of the old times, of the occasions when I pulled him out of the mire, of the laughs we shared; I’ll appeal to his better nature. I can be very persuasive, without using my fists.”
“He has a girlfriend,” I said.
“Who?” Gawain asked, retrieving his glass, sipping his whisky.
“Gina McBride. She’s nine months pregnant. She lives in an attic, an unfinished attic, and she’s young enough to be Frankie’s granddaughter.”
Gawain nodded. He offered me a rueful smile. “Frankie always did like them fresh.”
“I think he’s holding something back; he’s looking to grass on someone, apart from you.”
“Who?” Gawain repeated.
I shrugged, “I don’t know; do you have any idea?”
Gawain glanced at his whisky then he stared at the wall. Maybe he was running a series of mental images on that wall, the film of his life. For some reason, a picture of Stanley Baker in Robbery came to mind, though my dad looked nothing like that splendid actor.
“I could toss some names around,” Gawain said, “but I’d only be guessing. As far as I know, I’m the biggest fish in Frankie’s pond; he’d get more value out of shopping me than anyone else.”
I reflected on that statement. If true, then who was Frankie frightened of? If he planned to land a bigger fish than my father, who could that be?
As I tossed a few names around in my mind – Vincent Vanzetti, Rudy Valentine, Maria de Costa – Gawain stood and walked over to me. He gave me a parental look, a mixture of solemnity and satisfaction.
He said, “I’m proud of you, Princess, real proud. Your mother would be proud of you too. If I could turn back the clock, I’d do many things different. Forget all that ‘no regrets’ malarkey, I don’t buy into any of that. I wish I could turn back the clock to the day you were born. I should have quit the thieving and married your mother. Maybe then, she wouldn’t have gone on the booze. She would have married me, I’m sure of that. But I was too busy playing Jack the Lad, wasn’t I. And where did it land me? In prison, away from you. I should have been there for you as you grew, should have guided you away from the pitfalls.”
Gawain placed a hand on my shoulder. He gazed through the window, to the pink and black sky, to the sun dipping below the horizon, to the somnolent sea. He sighed, “Easy to be wise after the event. You make a decision, thinking it’s for the best, and it affects so many lives. Take me back to the day you were born and things would be different. We’d be different people, leading different lives.”
I reached up and placed a hand over my father’s fingers, an act that dragged his thoughts back into the room. He smiled at me, a broad smile that touched his eyes.
“So, you’ll take me to Frankie then?” Gawain said, his voice eager, his look keen.
“First thing in the morning,” I promised.
“I’ve been a fool,” he said. “In all my years, you’re the best thing that’s happened in my life. Yet I’ve neglected you most of my life.”
“So, from now, we start anew.”
Decisively, my father nodded, “We do.”