Thunderbolt by Wilbur Smith (reading strategies book .txt) 📕

‘I don’t think Jack sees it that way,’ Xander pointed out.

Pete tried to make light of the mistake. ‘Worse things have happened at sea,’ he said. But he couldn’t stop himself lashing the oxygen tank back in place with a harshness that undercut the joke.

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated.

‘Easy mistake to make,’ he said evenly. ‘Try not to let it happen again.’

I’d almost have preferred him to be outwardly angry with me, but he didn’t say anything further. After we moored up, I walked the length of the quay slowly. Pete hadn’t examined the boat in front of us, but when I turned back from the shelter of the pines fringing the beach, I saw him bent down in the stern, inspecting the damage.

3.

Mum wasn’t sunbathing on the white sand beach or kicking back by the pool. She wasn’t sipping fizzy water under the striped awning of the bar or making an early start on lunch in the waterfront restaurant either. No, she was in her suite, online, doing some research. She looked up guiltily when I knocked and entered, but the last thing I wanted to do was make her feel bad. If I’d had a tough time in the Congo, she’d been to hell and back.

We were supposed to be here relaxing, blotting out what had happened to us, but neither of us is particularly good at lounging around doing nothing and Mum’s idea of a good time is to do some good. Though she’d couched the trip as a holiday, for Mum it was all about protecting the Indian Ocean’s coral. We’d already seen bleached skeleton reefs right here off Zanzibar, and Mum was looking into who was responsible for protecting marine habitats in this part of the world. That didn’t surprise me. It was her version of our treasure hunt, finding something valuable to do with her time.

‘Detect anything?’ she asked, snapping the screen shut.

‘No, but we will,’ I replied. ‘Probably.’

Sunlight pouring in across the bureau illuminated the side of Mum’s face and neck. Her cheekbone seemed sharp, her jawline too. She’s a strong woman but the ordeal in Kinshasa had taken its toll on her. Never mind being held captive all that time, the revelation that her own husband – my father – had staged the entire kidnapping was a bombshell that blew our little family apart.

She wouldn’t let him back into the house. I didn’t blame her. I wanted nothing more to do with him myself. It struck me, as I put my arm around her bony shoulders, that I hadn’t told her I’d reached that conclusion myself, and before I knew what I was doing I was putting the mistake right.

‘You do know I’m glad we’re shot of Dad, don’t you?’

She went very still within my hug.

‘Obviously I wish he hadn’t done it, but he did. He lied to us both. He had you locked up by thugs, for God’s sake. I don’t care that he’s my father, I’ll never forgive him for doing that.’

She took a breath to say something, but held back.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I really don’t.’

‘Don’t know what?’ She was shivering lightly. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘What are you frightened of?’

She twisted away from me, stood up, folded her arms, fighting to compose herself. ‘Nothing,’ she said firmly. ‘You deserve to know the truth.’

‘Er, I do know the truth. It was Amelia and I who pieced it together.’

‘I don’t mean about the kidnapping,’ she said slowly. She looked at me steadily. Spokes of brightness bisected her irises. ‘I mean about your father.’

‘What more is there to know? He’s a lying, greedy …’

I petered out. The intensity of her gaze was extraordinary. I swear I knew what she was about to say in the nanosecond before she said it: the revelation made complete sense as it landed, clumping into perfect place like an expensive car door.

‘Nicholas Courtney isn’t your father,’ she said.

So simple a sentence, yet to begin with the words refused to make sense. If Dad – Nicholas Courtney – wasn’t my father, then that meant I wasn’t a Courtney at all. But the family name defined me. It stood for endeavour and guts and not backing down.

He’d tainted it himself of course, but after discovering Dad was a crook, I’d felt more for the family name, not less. It was all the more my responsibility to uphold what it really stood for. And now Mum was telling me that the man who’d given it to me was not my real dad. I was dumbstruck.

‘Jack,’ Mum whispered. ‘Say something, please.’

‘I knew it,’ I replied, surprising myself. A sudden rush of understanding made everything click into place. That’s right, now that she’d spelled it out, the brutal fact of Nicholas Courtney not being my real father made sense of a lifetime of doubt. I had never wanted to admit it to myself, but he – ‘Dad’ – had always treated me coldly, made me feel somehow unworthy. I thought it had to do with my brother Mark’s accident. And perhaps my part in Mark’s death did make things worse. But in truth he’d treated me differently when my brother was alive too.

‘He was Mark’s father though, wasn’t he?’ I said.

Mum nodded.

‘But not mine.’

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’ A strange feeling was rushing through me, odd because it was out of place. Of course, sadness and confusion were bubbling up as well, but the main sensation I experienced as the news sank in was relief. ‘In a way that makes things easier,’ I said under my breath. ‘For me, if not you. You chose to be together. Now you’ve chosen to be apart. But I couldn’t be, not until now. Now I’m free. I don’t have to think about his blood running through my veins.’

‘He’s been good to you in many ways,’ she whispered. ‘But he isn’t your father. He always knew it. Now you do too.’

The obvious question