The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller by Peter May (learn to read books .TXT) 📕

‘All those years he was alive, sending money. And I grew up without a father. And then I find out he was a – a murderer!’ She looked at him, daring him to contradict her, her eyes blurred and wet. ‘And you were, too.’

Blair was embarrassed by her tears, hurt by her words, sharing the pain of them. ‘You mustn’t be too hard on him, Lisa.’

And immediately she punished the inadequacy of the only words he had been able to find in response. ‘Why not?’ Her eyes blazed at him. ‘Do you think it wasn’t hard on me? All the other kids had dads. Dads who took them skating, picked them up from dancing, read them stories.’

‘And all those dads had little girls to pick up from dancing, to read stories to. It goes both ways, Lisa.’

‘Maybe. But whose fault was that? Mine?’ All the resentment that had been growing inside spilled out in bitter words. Now she knew why she wanted to find her father so badly. She wanted someone to blame. Blair reached across and took her hand. Such a small hand in his. There was compassion in his eyes. Understanding. And Lisa wondered how it was possible that this man, too, was responsible for killing all those women and children.

‘I think you could do with some air,’ he said. A wry smile. ‘I think I could, too.’

*

Lisa said, ‘Not having a father, not knowing anything about him, I invented him for myself, made up stories about him.’ She felt better for the fresh air, strangely comfortable with this man, able to talk to him as she had never talked to anyone before. They followed a path through the trees by the water’s edge, scuffing through the dead leaves that still lay thick and rotting on the ground.

‘He was very handsome and kind, and brave, and he died in some heroic gesture trying to save the lives of his men. It had broken my mother’s heart and it still hurt her deeply even to talk about him, so she never did. It’s what I told my friends. There was a time, I think, I actually believed it myself. But somewhere, deep down, I suppose I always knew it wasn’t true. And as I got older I started to hate him, blame him for dying and leaving us. Just as I blame my mother now for leaving me to face everything on my own. Not very rational. How can you blame someone for dying?’

‘It’s quite common when someone close to you dies,’ Blair said. ‘You feel let down, betrayed.’

Lisa glanced at him, sensing that he wasn’t generalizing, that he was speaking from personal experience. But she didn’t ask. ‘I was never close to my mother, though,’ she said. ‘I didn’t love her, and I’m sure she didn’t love me. Sometimes I even felt that she resented me. Maybe she did. Maybe all I was to her was a constant reminder of my father.’ She shook her head. ‘But if that was true, why did she go to such lengths to protect me from the truth? From ever knowing anything about him?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Blair, ‘she wasn’t so much protecting you as punishing him.’

Lisa looked at him, startled. But he refused to meet her gaze. Of course! It would fit with her mother’s twisted logic. The thought had a profoundly depressing effect on her.

‘But that’s probably oversimplifying it,’ Blair added lamely and too late.

They came to a bench overlooking the river and sat down, watching the slow movement of the water in silence for some time. Finally she asked the question that had been consuming her for days. ‘What’s he like, my father?’

Blair shrugged. ‘That’s like asking how long is a piece of string.’

‘But you know him – or did.’

The Scot shook his head. ‘Jack’s not a man you ever know. Not really. Though I suppose I’m the closest thing he’s got to a friend. But even then, I don’t know him. He’s a complex character. If you’re asking if I like him the answer is yes. Very much. I admire him and respect him, but I also like him.’

‘How can you like someone you don’t know?’ And immediately she recognized the paradox of her question. She didn’t know the man she had asked it of, but she knew she liked him.

‘Jack never confided in me,’ Blair said. ‘At least, not anything personal, never what was really in his heart. But there was always a rapport between us. Sometimes it’s the things left unsaid that say the most. He never spoke of your mother, or of you, but I knew he was hurting. And he still carries the scars of that hurt, though you can’t see them like you can the scar on his face.

‘When they sent him to prison he asked me if I would make sure that you were both provided for – until he could pay me back.’

‘It was you that paid the money into my mother’s account?’

He nodded. ‘And, of course, he did pay me back. It wasn’t easy for him at first, when he got out. He went to Vietnam for a spell and fought for the Diem regime. And then in the Seventies to Africa. Rhodesia, Angola.’

‘A mercenary?’ Lisa could not hide her distaste for the word.

Blair smiled wryly. ‘A soldier of fortune,’ he said. ‘After all, it was all he knew, soldiering. It was what he was trained for, and he was very good at it. If it hadn’t been for Aden . . .’

‘Why did you do it?’ Lisa broke in, accusation again in her voice. ‘How could you shoot all those people in cold blood like that?’

Blair got up and walked a few paces towards the river’s edge. hands in his pockets, remembering how it had been. The heat. That scorching, dusty, white heat. The casualties, on both sides, the dead and the dying, men with horrific injuries. Betrayal and counter-betrayal. Never knowing who to trust. And the flies.