Chapter thirty-one
Harrison and Violet's Apartment, The Level
Harrison
“Harrison, never give yourself to anyone completely. Don’t sign your life away. People can never be trusted fully. Once you give them your soul, they are free to use you as they please.”
My mother’s words circle in my head. I may only have been eight when she said them, but I remember them word for word.
“Love, but don’t submit. Always be the one prepared to walk away.”
We had been sitting in the kitchen one morning.
It was only a few days before her death.
I’d been eating the crumbs from the bottom of the cereal packet while she sipped an Oxo cube dissolved in hot water.
Things in the house were getting more volatile by the day.
I noticed the ladies had more bruises, normally around their eyes or on their arms.
When we tried to sleep in the living room, us kids all huddled together, it was more difficult as the screams were getting louder.
It was a terrifying place to grow up. I do wonder what happened to the others. I can’t even remember their names now.
Last year, for the first time, I researched my past.
My mother. Who she was, where she came from, and how we ended up living in a whore house.
My birth certificate has no father listed, not that it was a surprise; she probably didn’t even know herself.
I remember asking who he was and if I would ever meet him.
She would talk my queries away without ever answering the actual question.
“He isn’t important.”
“We only need each other.”
“You don’t have a father; you were a miracle. A beautiful result out of intense pain.”
Then I found the marriage certificate. She had been married to a man called Waite.
Jeffery Waite. The man who owned the whore house.
The man who bundled me into his car wrapped in a blanket and threw me into a ditch.
The man who teased me with chocolate and would watch me go hungry.
He had stood in front of her, promising to love her, honor her, until death took one of them away. He did none of it.
***
I returned to my apartment an hour ago. Violet was curled on the sofa under a duvet, fast asleep.
She looked so peaceful; I didn’t want to disturb her.
So, I’ve retreated to my office to contemplate what happens next.
It was agreed that marrying her was the sensible decision.
It would put another layer of protection between that maniac and us.
It would give me parental rights over our baby.
It would give me standing as their father.
We would be a unit, not only in emotion but legally, tied together until one of us undid the knot.
I pull the copy of my mother’s marriage certificate from my drawer. The phone number of the prison her husband is held in is written along the top. I’ve never called it. Even though visiting him has crossed my mind, there was never a true reason to.
Now, I feel there is. I need to understand how you can be married to someone then put them to work for you. Allow other men to have their pleasure with them. The thought makes my skin crawl like it always does.
After I pull my phone from my pocket, my finger rolls the contacts until I find the number of the prison governor.
I know him well. Many of my clients have been held in custody here over the years.
I’ve visited dozens of times in the past twelve months, always ignoring the fact that he was there too.
But with the rapidly changing situation I’m in, he’s the only person I know alive who can tell me more about my mother and her tragic life.
These are questions I need answered before I can commit to Violet fully and propose we join together forever by signing on the dotted line.
The phone rings, and he answers on the first ring.
“You do know it’s Christmas day?” he says in a jovial tone. “I know we get on, Waite, but this is a bit overfamiliar, don’t you think?” He belly-laughs, then coughs into the handset. I automatically move it from my ear.
“I need to see a prisoner in your custody today,” I tell him, not bothering with pleasantries.
“Today? Surely, it can wait. It’s their Christmas lunch today. There is a lot of excitement, I can tell you. You’re allowed to take a day off.”
“This is a personal matter,” I say firmly. “And due to the circumstances, I need to speak with him urgently.”
He sighs, knowing I won’t back down. “What is the prisoner’s name?”
“Jeffery Waite. He was married to my mother. And I need answers.”
***
HMP Belmarsh holds some of the most dangerous criminals detained in the United Kingdom.
It houses murderers, rapists, drug dealers and thieves.
The entrance to the building is relatively inconspicuous, being built in clean red brick, but inside the atmosphere is one of unrest.
After checking in and going through the necessary procedures, I am escorted to a visiting room.
It’s a simple white space with high windows, a stainless-steel table, and four red plastic chairs surrounding it.
The man I’m visiting is already waiting for me.
He’s older now—the past twenty years haven’t been kind to him.
Most of his hair is gone, and he’s withered to a man half the size I remember.
But then again, I was a small boy the last time I saw him.
His eyes, though, are the same. The same evil glint flashes from them as I look at him.
The same nasty smile plays on his lips, the way it did as he ate that bar of chocolate while I licked the remnants of food from his plate.
He sits on his chair, leaning back with his legs spread wide.
His wrists are secured with handcuffs in front of him.
The steel gray sweatpants and sweatshirt he wears are standard.
Every man I’ve visited wears them. Here, you are a number.
A blended sea of the most deplorable individuals in our society.
“Well, boy,” he says. “I never expected to see you again.” He sits up straighter in his chair. “Come and sit down. Your old man wants to hear everything you’ve been up to.”
Without speaking, I walk over and pull out the chair opposite him, then lower myself into the seat.
The welcome he’s given me has confirmed my worst fear.
This man is my father. I suspected as much.
The marriage certificate was dated nine months before my birth.
I’d been conceived when they were newly married.
“You were married to my mother,” I state.
His mouth splits into a wide grin. “That I was.”
“Why did you marry her?”
“She was a good fuck.” He shrugs. “If you’re not married already, I suggest you choose a wife with a tight cunt.” I ignore him.
“According to your records, you’re detained here at Belmarsh on various offenses including slavery charges. You’ve been incarcerated for ten years now with no hope of ever seeing the outside again.”
“So they say, but my lawyer is shit. I need a better defense lawyer. Know of any?” he says with a wink. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in here, but I hear you cost a pretty penny. Fancy doing your dad a favor and taking a look at my file, see if there’s a technicality you can get me off on?”
“You will never be my father,” I growl.
“Oh, but I am, Harrison. It was my spunk that shot up inside your mother and created you. When you look in the mirror, you will see me staring back at you. You are a reflection of me, moving in a dark world, dressed up in an expensive suit. I’ve followed your career. Impressive.
It was a good move to get involved with Edward Chase. He has every connection you’ll ever need.”
“I was eight,” I hiss, furious. “It wasn’t a planned encounter. His sons found me lying where you left me. Where I’ve ended up is the result of unconnected events spiraling out of control and throwing me down a dark path. You being the fucking instigator of it.”
He chuckles then leans forward, holding my stare. “Ask whatever you came here to ask, then fuck off,” he says. “To come and visit me on Christmas day, it must be important. Go on, tell Daddy what’s bothering you.”
“You are not my father,” I repeat.
“Stop using my name then, Harrison Waite.”
“That was my mother’s name,” I spit back. “I want to know why. Why you married her? How she ended up as a working girl under your instruction, and if that was always the plan? Why I never had a fucking family or childhood because of you, you bastard.”
His eyes run over my face, considering what to say and how to react.
“No, it wasn’t the plan,” he says simply. “Your mother and I were in love. She fell pregnant on our wedding night, the first time we had sex. It was a shock. We were young and didn’t have the means to start a family. We needed extra cash.”
“So, you fucking pimped her out?”
“I got talking to a guy in a bar,” he says casually.
“Yet again, our rent wasn’t paid and we were spending every fucking penny on baby milk.”
He chuckles. “You were an expensive little shit.”
He readjusts himself in his seat then touches his crotch.
“This guy told me his wife had started fucking men for money on the side. Between the mounting debt and lack of options, it seemed like a good idea.”
“Could you not have found a job like a normal person?”
“I wasn’t in the best place. Things were difficult…I owed people, dangerous people, some money and couldn’t be seen in public.”
He lifts his joined hands and waves them to signal he’s moving on.
“Your mother wasn’t overjoyed at the suggestion, but as the days passed and you screamed with hunger, she relented and gave in. It was a positive business decision, although it destroyed our marriage.”
“A positive business decision?” When I arrived here, I had the intention of sucking this man for information.
I’d thought that he could give me some sort of answer for the fuck-up that was my childhood.
Now, I realize he means nothing to me. His opinions count for nothing.
I couldn’t be further from him in reality.
His DNA may flow in my veins, but I’m nothing like him.
“Absolutely,” he says, his eyebrows drawing together. “I made a fortune in pimping out pussy. Your mother started that. It was a worthwhile sacrifice.” I stand abruptly. “Leaving so soon?”
“You are the scum of the earth. You not only sacrificed your wife but also your son. I see now, you are no part of me. I’m a million times the man you ever were. All I feel now for you is pity. Sadness that you have lived such an abominable life,
and sympathy for my mother who never found the love she deserved.”
He smirks nastily. “Laugh if you want, but I’m the one walking out of the door. I’ll not be dying alone in a prison cell. That’s you.”