Kyle

My dad died twice. He was killed by a hit-and-run driver a couple of weeks before I was born—at least, that’s what my mum told me when I was old enough to ask why I only had one parent, unlike the rest of my friends. And for years, I believed it. She only revealed the real story when she got her cancer diagnosis. She admitted she couldn’t keep the secret to herself any longer, and that’s how I found out I was actually the son of Charlie Fox, head of the most notorious crime family in North London.

Discovering the truth could have been a profound shock for me, but somehow it didn’t change the way I thought about myself. It might be a cliché that the apple never falls far from the tree, but in my case it was true. I’d first got involved with petty crime when I was still at school—mostly shoplifting on the local high street or breaking into cars to steal anything of value—and from there I’d only been sucked deeper. I was never cut out for university, or even for a steady nine-to-five job. Not when I could earn so much more money dealing drugs to the kind of people who wanted a couple of ecstasy tablets to liven up their nights out, or a line of coke for their nice middle-class dinner parties. Sometimes I wondered how long I could keep doing this, whether one day I’d sell a bag of pills to a stranger who turned out to be an undercover cop, but so far, I’d kept out of trouble. I’d always had a pretty good nose for knowing who I could trust. And now I knew I had Fox blood running in my veins, I figured I’d always been destined to become part of the criminal underworld. You can’t fight fate, or at least that’s what my mum believed.

I still didn’t know what compelled me to attend his funeral. Maybe I wanted some kind of closure. Maybe I just wanted to be close to the only family members I still had, even if none of them had the faintest clue who I was. There’d be enough ghoulish hangers-on that afternoon, whether they were the kind who found criminality seductive and exciting, or those who simply wanted to dance on Charlie Fox’s grave.

The media scrum at the gates to the cemetery proved my instincts correct. For good or ill, images of the funeral would be all over the internet even before the service was finished.

I pulled up the collar of my coat and kept my head low as I sneaked into the church. I doubted anyone would recognise me, but it was safer not to take any risks, especially with all the cameras being shoved in people’s faces as they passed by the gaggle of reporters. The funeral wasn’t limited to family members only, judging by the number of people packed into the tiny chapel room. I found the last remaining spot on the end of a row right at the back. The elderly man in the adjoining seat didn’t even look up as I sat down. On another occasion, I might have taken a moment to look around and appreciate being in such a historic spot, but I didn’t want to do anything that might draw attention to myself.

People shuffled to their feet as music began to play. Frank Sinatra crooning My Way. I almost laughed aloud. What else could have summed Charlie Fox’s life up so perfectly, yet still been such a cheesy and predictable choice for bringing the coffin into the chapel?

The pallbearers made their way down the aisle, their footsteps slow and steady. I glanced up as they passed me, being careful not to make eye contact with any of them. Three of the men shared the same blond hair and tall, lean build. Grief and loss were etched into their features and the one who held the back of the coffin on my side of the aisle had tears glistening on his cheeks. These had to be Charlie’s sons—my half-brothers. A lump rose in my throat. We were connected by blood, yet we couldn’t have been further apart. And this was definitely neither the time nor the place to introduce myself to them.

As they set the coffin down at the front of the chapel and took their places in the front row, I began to wonder whether I’d done the right thing coming here. Even though Charlie was my father, I didn’t belong among these people. I envied their strong sense of family—the way one of the brothers had his hand on another’s shoulder, while the third wrapped his arm around a brassy-looking woman I assumed to be their mother.

The vicar—a short, plump woman with greying curly hair—spoke, but I wasn’t listening, still too busy studying the Fox brothers. When everyone around me murmured “Amen,” I joined in a beat after everyone else. At least the hymn that followed, All Things Bright and Beautiful, was one I remembered from school. Still, I was growing increasingly uncomfortable in the middle of all these strangers, some of whom had to be wondering who I was and what I was doing here. I shook my head, telling myself not to be paranoid. The only person anyone cared about at this moment was in that wooden box with the ornate brass handles next to the altar.

“And now,” the vicar said, “I would like to invite Cameron Fox to say a few words about his father.”

One of the brothers got up and walked to the front of the room. He pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and took a slow, deep breath.

“What can I say about Dad?” He shook his head, making the effort to keep his voice steady. I admired his strength, knowing how hard it had been not to fall apart completely when I found out how little time my mum had left. “I mean, there’s been a lot said about him over the past few days, and most of it I don’t think I could repeat in a place like this.”

A smattering of soft laughter echoed around the church, and Cameron took a moment to appreciate the assembled congregation. A smile flickered across his face. It didn’t lighten the sorrow in his eyes.

“Well, I feel like I’m among friends here, and so I can talk about the Charlie Fox we knew, the man who may have done some bad things in his life, but who was a great father to us and a loving husband to my mum, Lynda.”

The brassy woman, wrapped up in a stylish black coat with what I doubted was a real fur trim, raised a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. The Fox brother sitting at the side of her put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug as she leaned into him.

“You know,” Cameron went on, “even now, it’s so hard to believe Dad’s really gone. There’s part of me still thinks this is all some cruel practical joke on his part and he’s going to come striding in here any minute, asking how the Arsenal got on and who fancies a pint in the Duke of Canklow…”

I couldn’t listen to any more of this. Every word Cameron spoke, every in-joke he shared, made me realise that however much Fox blood I might have in me, I was still on the outside looking in.

But that’s going to change, I vowed. I’m a part of this family, for better or worse, and I’m going to make damn sure they know I exist.

Not here, though. Not now. Wait until the time is right…

I got to my feet, unable to spend a moment longer in the claustrophobic little room that smelled of beeswax and calla lilies, and headed for the door. No one noticed me go, still caught up in whatever outrageous anecdote Cameron Fox was telling about his father.

Head down, I made my way out of the chapel building and towards the main gates. The pack of journalists had disappeared, and only a few visitors milled around, some clutching flowers to lay at a grave, others taking selfies on their phones. A stall stood on the forecourt, selling hot drinks and cakes. The enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted on the wind, reminding me how long it had been since breakfast.

Unable to resist, I wandered over to the stall. It had the kitsch name of Highgate Grounds and a middle-aged woman in a white Arran sweater serving behind the counter.

“Hello there, what can I get you?” she asked.

I studied the chalkboard with the list of drinks written on it. “I’ll have a flat white, please. Oh, and I’ll take that brownie, too.” I gestured to the lone cake sitting on a plate in the display case at the front of the stall, and she slipped it into a paper bag.

“You’re lucky, it’s the last one I have,” the stallholder said. “A bunch of journalists polished off the rest of my stock while they were waiting for the funeral cortege to arrive. Apparently, they’re burying some famous gangster—someone mentioned his name, but I’d never heard of him.”

I gave a noncommittal grunt in reply, not wanting her to know my connection to the deceased. While I waited for my coffee to brew, I took a bite of the brownie. Rich and studded with chunks of dark chocolate, it almost had me moaning aloud as I savoured it.

“That’ll be five pounds fifty,” the stallholder told me, setting a paper cup in front of me. “We’re card only. I hope that’s not a problem?”

“Not at all,” I assured her, even though I’d always preferred the anonymity of cash. I reached into my wallet and fished out the pre-paid debit card I used whenever I didn’t want my bank to know where I’d been or what I’d been spending money on. I tapped it against the little square card reader and waited for the transaction to go through. “By the way, I have to say this is probably the best brownie I think I’ve ever eaten.”

The stallholder smiled. “Oh, well, you can thank Millie for that.” She called over to a red-haired woman who was stowing some boxes in the front pod of a solid-looking cargo bike. “Hey, Millie, there’s a gentleman here who loves your cakes.”

When Millie turned around, my breath caught in my throat. She had the cutest spattering of freckles across her nose and green eyes that seemed to see deep into my soul. I shook my head and told myself not to be so overly dramatic, even if she was the most attractive woman I’d seen in a long time. I’d always had a thing about redheads, and this one ticked all my boxes.

“So, I have a fan?” She had a strong Manchester accent and a hint of laughter in her voice. I could listen to her speak all day. She’d even sound sexy if she was telling me to take the bins out.

With a smile, I held up the half-eaten brownie. “Guilty as charged. But this is delicious, honestly. Now I know how good the snacks here are, I’ll have to visit on a regular basis.”

I half-expected her to turn away then, bringing the conversation to a swift halt, but instead, she seemed more than happy to keep talking to me. Maybe she didn’t hear many compliments from the customers who bought her cakes. “So, were you on a guided tour, or…visiting a particular grave?”

I took another sip of my coffee, appreciating Millie’s sensitivity. “No, I was here for my father’s funeral.”

“Oh.” Her expression shuttered for a moment. She must know who I’d been here to mourn, and she didn’t seem to like it. The darkness left her eyes as swiftly as it had arrived. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Whatever I’d expected her to say, it hadn’t been that. “I can probably guess what you’re thinking, me being related to someone like Charlie Fox, but to be honest, we weren’t that close. In fact, I only discovered we were related a few weeks ago.”

“That must have been hard for you…finding him and then losing him again so soon.”

So soon I’d never even had the chance to meet him, let alone get to know him at all, but I didn’t need to tell Millie that.

Her gaze met mine, and she patted my forearm in a gesture of sympathy. My body tingled at the slight contact, responding in the most unexpected of ways, and boldness gripped me. We’d made a connection—I was sure I wasn’t deluding myself about the way she looked at me, or the strength of my reaction to her touch—and I was anxious to spend more time in her company. “Look, I hope this doesn’t sound too forward, but I was thinking… After the day I’ve had, I could do with something a little stronger than this coffee, good though it is. Would you like to come for a drink with me?”

“Oh, I’d love to, but…” Millie glanced at her bike. “I really need to drop everything off at home.” I must have done a pretty bad job at hiding my disappointment because she went on, “Why don’t you come over to mine? I have a nice bottle of merlot in the wine rack that a client sent me as a thank-you. Maybe I could open that and we could talk?”

“You know, that sounds just what I need right now.”

“Okay, well, let me give you my details so you can meet me there.” When I didn’t reply immediately, wondering why she didn’t want us to travel to her place together, she added, “I mean, you will be driving over, won’t you? And I’m on my bike, so…”

“Sure, of course.” I snapped back to the moment, dismissing any thought that she might not want to be seen leaving the cemetery with the illegitimate son of a crime boss. I handed her my phone and she typed her address and phone number into my contacts list. “I gave you the postcode so you can put it in your satnav.”

I glanced at the details she’d given me and shook my head. “No, I think I know where you are. Just off Rosebery Avenue, right? I make a couple of regular deliveries round Myddelton Square, so I know the area pretty well.”

Millie fished a cycling helmet out of the bike pod and started buckling it in place. “Well, I’ll catch you there…”

It took me a moment to realise I hadn’t given her my name. “Kyle.”

“And I’m Millie.” She flushed, even the tip of her nose turning a pretty shade of red. Somehow, being flustered only made her more adorable. “Oh, but Sheila on the stall told you that already, didn’t she?” She patted her pockets and fished out the lock to her bike chain. “Anyway, I’ll see you shortly.”

“Can’t wait,” I murmured, but she’d clambered onto her bike and was already heading for the cemetery gates.

She lived a good four miles from here, and I tried to work out how long it would take her to cycle home. I didn’t doubt it would take me less time to get there, avoiding the worst of the early evening traffic by taking a shortcut through the back streets of Camden.

Behind me, a car door opened and slammed shut, and I wondered whether people were beginning to leave Charlie Fox’s funeral. Not wanting to be caught hanging around, I dashed over to where I’d parked up.

As I put the key in the ignition, Millie’s cute, freckled face swam in my vision. The thought of her kind heart and that oh so arousing accent kept me smiling all the way to the heart of Clerkenwell.