Marcie had in her possession Tom’s passport, and the substantial majority of fifteen thousand dollars in cash given her by Johnson, from Prim, when he had flown the boy across the Atlantic. She also had his birth certificate: he had been registered in Lewes, Sussex, three years, three months and five days before, by his mother, Primavera Eagle Phillips. The father’s name on the certificate was given as Osbert Blackstone.
After the police had taken Johnson and his effects away, the four of us, three adults and Tom, stood in the bright, dusty, yet suddenly fresher car park. I had explained the happenings to a slightly alarmed Cameron and had booked rooms one and two for the night, for John and me.
‘What do I do now?’ Marcie asked her brother. ‘Nicky may have turned out to be a shit-heel, but he’s all I had.’
‘We all have our weaknesses,’ he replied, dismissing him. ‘But, sis, you should have told me about Paul.’
‘He wouldn’t have wanted me to,’ she countered, ‘even if he’d been capable of making a decision. And you said you never wanted to hear of him again.’
‘You want to know what I think you should do?’ I asked her, then told her, whether she wanted to hear it or not. ‘I think you should take what’s left of that fifteen grand, go back to Minneapolis, and hang out with your mother for a while. She’s a very nice lady, and she deserves better of you.’
As it turned out, that was exactly what she did want to hear. And so it was agreed. We stayed over in Cameron’s, had a few beers in his pub. . Its most spectacular attraction was a wall of beer cans. They turned out to be Cameron’s hobby: he’d been collecting them since he was a kid. . then ate in his restaurant, where I introduced John to bangers and mash, English style, but only after some serious Boston clam chowder. We even had a pot of PG Tips. Tom seemed to know the menu welclass="underline" he went straight for a burger and fries.
It turned out that the two buses weren’t there for show.
One’s for smokers, to give them a place to indulge their habit. . it’s a no-no in public places in California. . and the other’s full of video games for the kids. Tom took me in there and showed me a couple.
Next morning I … or rather the navigation system … drove both Wallingers to San Francisco Airport, and dropped them off for a flight eastwards.
Tom and I, we headed on south, down Interstate 5, bound for Los Angeles. . Marcie’s old jeep, which she sold to Cameron, who reckoned his brother could use it, had a child seat in it.
The drive’s pretty scenic and I enjoyed it, but even more I enjoyed my son’s constant chatter from the back. He’d been attached to Aunt Marcie; she’d done a great job of mothering him since he’d been in America, and I understood from what I’d learned the night before, and from what he said to me, that she’d been a fixture in his life for as long as he could remember. He’d been upset when the time had come to part, but I’d promised him he’d see her again one day.
He asked about his mother. . Mommy. . too, of course; he seemed to be used to her going in and out of his life, but still there was adoration in his voice when he spoke about her. I had to tell him that she’d be gone for a little longer, but that most of the time he’d have me around. That seemed to satisfy him.
I tried to explain to him why I hadn’t been around for him, but he was too young to take any of it in. The important thing was that he was glad I was there now, and bursting with pride that we were off on an adventure together. On the way down, I told him about his aunt Dawn, his uncle Miles and his cousin Bruce. As far as I could tell from his reaction, he’d never heard of any of them, apart from Miles. . Aunt Marcie had shown him a picture in a magazine, and had told him that he was very famous, more famous than me, or even Bugs Bunny. I came to understand that Bugs is Tom’s benchmark for fame.
With cruise control engaged, and the navigation system silent for three hours, I made good time, and reached Beverly Hills in the early afternoon. Dawn was expecting us, but Miles had been forced to go to his office for a meeting with the casting director on his next project.
Bruce was there, though. It was interesting to watch the cousins meet for the first time, sizing each other up like a pair of young cats, before deciding to get on. It made me realise that Tom had no experience of interaction with other children; that was going to change before he was much older.
We had lunch under an awning on the Grayson sun-deck watching the boys as they splashed in the pool. I made Tom wear armbands, but soon I could see that he didn’t need them. He’s like a fish; so was I at his age.
I told Dawn the whole story, from start to finish; some I’d had from Primavera, and I’d filled in a few blanks for myself. Prim’s nursing job in England, after our split, and after the confrontation in Edinburgh with her and Johnson had backfired on her, had been a sham. She’d lived in Sussex for a while, getting her affairs in order, carrying Tom, and then giving birth to him, alone all the time, with nothing to do but plot my humiliation and downfall.
When the baby was almost a year old, she’d taken him to Los Angeles, to meet up with Nicky Johnson. That was when she’d met Marcie Wallinger, and her brother: that was when the photograph of Tom and Paul together had been taken. Originally she’d planned to recruit Paul, to hire him like an actor, to play the part, but out of the blue, he’d had his stroke, during the run of a play in which Nicky was also appearing. So Prim had made a mid-course correction: instead of using him, they’d stolen his identity, knowing that he would be in Santa Fe for the rest of his inevitably short life.
‘It was like a legend in a spy novel,’ I explained. ‘Prim planned everything, then Johnson helped her make it happen, so that when the time came it would look real, and wouldn’t be questioned. They went through the ritual of the meeting at Gleneagles, so they’d be remembered. While they were doing that, Marcie looked after Tom. He’s spent half his life with her, you know. She’s a good woman; she didn’t deserve Nicky.’
‘Maybe we can find a way of looking after her,’ Dawn mused. ‘But about Tom?’ she asked. ‘If he was supposed to be Prim’s child with Wallinger, then he’d only have been a year old now. So how did they. .’
‘Easy. She registered a birth that never happened; she said it was a home confinement, to get round the hospital problem. Then Nicky, who had Wallinger’s passport by this time. . they looked alike, so with a moustache and some makeup it wasn’t difficult to get one. . added Tom’s name to it in London, using the fake birth certificate.’
‘But isn’t all that illegal?’
I laughed. ‘Too bloody right it is. As well as his date-rape charge in Vegas, Nicky’s committed a couple of federal offences as well. The boy’s cooked, I’ll tell you, completely bloody cooked. As for Prim, that’s where it all really got out of control for her. False registration’s a crime in itself, but when she did feed me the bait and get me involved, I brought in a lawyer, and that made it worse. He got her a court order requiring Tom’s return to Britain. It was based on a false statement and a fake birth certificate. At the very least that’s contempt of court, maybe even perjury, and perverting the course of justice.’
‘So she’s in big trouble back home?’
‘I’m afraid so. My future brother-in-law’s been acting for her, so he’s been embarrassed. I told him about it last night. He’s going to have to petition to withdraw the interdict, but more than that. He’s an officer of the court, so he’s going to have to report everything that happened. When. . I don’t think it’s an if. . she’s prosecuted, he won’t even be able to appear for the defence, as he’ll be a Crown witness. So, if it comes to it, will I.’