‘Nobody need ever know,’ he repeated thickly, in a voice which was different suddenly.
Gowrie’s eyes glittered. ‘Nobody, Paul. We can keep it to ourselves. None of us would lose out. You won’t regret it if you support me now, Paul. I can be a big help to you. Even if I don’t get the nomination, don’t make it to the presidency, I’ll still be a very wealthy man, and Cathy would still be the heiress to the Ramsey money. So long as nobody ever finds out, we’re safe.’
Paul gave him a twisted little smile. ‘Offering me all the kingdoms of the world, Gowrie? I’m tempted, Satan, I admit I’m tem
pted, but you’re wasting your time – too many people already know. Have you forgotten Sophie’s mother, the woman in Czechoslovakia? I had, but she is still there, still alive, still able to testify and blow your clever schemes to kingdom come. And who else has she told? How many people know and could come crawling out of the woodwork?’
Gowrie looked confused, taken aback, then visibly pulled himself together. ‘Don’t worry about the Narodni woman – she won’t dare risk talking. She has too much to lose, and, anyway, you heard Sophie . . . she’s dying.’
‘And when she comes to her last confession on earth – you think she won’t tell the priest?’ Paul drily asked. ‘She’s a devout Catholic. She’ll confess all her sins on her deathbed.’
‘Priests can’t repeat what they hear under the seal of confession,’ Steve reminded him. ‘But she’s told one other person, to my knowledge.’
‘Shit!’ Gowrie burst out, his face crimson with temper. ‘Who? Has he talked? To you? And to who else? How many others am I going to have to square?’
Steve almost felt sorry for him – he looked demented. Almost sorry for him but not quite, because every time Steve thought about what Gowrie had done to Sophie, to Cathy, he wanted to strangle him. Gowrie deserved the torment he was going through now.
‘You won’t know him, but he’s a decent guy,’ Steve said sarcastically. ‘If you remember what that is! He wouldn’t do anything to harm Sophie, or Cathy, for any money.’
Paul gave him a cynical look. ‘I hadn’t imagined you would be so naive! Haven’t you learnt yet that you never know with people? They keep surprising you, and it’s rarely a pleasant surprise, in my experience.’
‘Not this guy. He’s a one-off. I only met him yesterday but I’d trust him with my life. But if Mrs Narodni has told him and Sophie, she might have told others, and when she’s dying who knows who she might not talk to?’
Gowrie was breathing thickly, his body tense, hands screwed at his sides.
‘I’ll deal with it,’ he thought aloud. ‘I’ll find a way. They aren’t stopping me getting there, I’m not giving up, I’m going on somehow, anyhow.’
The other two men contemplated him with a mixture of horror and awe, like people watching the undead walk. Steve almost believed, at that instant, that, in spite of everything Sophie had revealed about his past, Gowrie wasn’t finished, would go on with his campaign, might still make it to the presidency.
And God help America that day, he thought.
As Sophie re-entered the house, she heard Cathy running up the stairs, and followed, hearing a door slam shut before she reached the first floor. Sophie slowed as she got to the top of the stairs and stood there, irresolute, hearing wild sobbing from Cathy’s bedroom. Guilt made Sophie hesitate about going in – all this was her fault, she wouldn’t blame Cathy if she screamed at her to get out, leave her alone.
She must hate me. In her place I would. Poor Cathy. She’s undergone so many shocks over the past twenty-four hours, God knows what is going on inside her now.
The weeping went on and on, and Sophie felt tears spring to her own eyes. All my fault, she thought. This is all my fault.
The Latin words she had learnt as a child, in the little village church in whose graveyard her father had been buried, beside the body of Don Gowrie’s baby daughter, came back to her now. Mea culpa . . . Out of the past; it came like a ghost from the past – Don Gowrie’s sins, ambition, greed, selfishness had been the first cause, the original sin, but she had been the one who resurrected the buried secret.
My fault. Mea culpa. Words no longer used in the mass, but still so powerful, resonant with centuries of use, full of contrition and guilt, welling up in her mind like tears. Mea culpa, mea culpa . . . My fault, my most grievous fault. She should never have come looking for her dead sister, she should have forgotten her mother had ever told her.
She pushed open the door, and Cathy’s crying was stifled at once, as if she had put a hand over her mouth to hold back the sound. Across the elegant bedroom, Sophie saw her lying face down on the bed. Her body was shaking violently. The sobbing was silent now, but had not stopped.
Sophie ran over and sat down on the bed, close to her, put a hand on her shuddering shoulders.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault, please stop crying, I can’t bear it.’
‘You can’t!’ Cathy’s bitterness was like a blow in the face. Sophie winced.
‘Go away,’ Cathy said, then. ‘Leave me alone.’ The words were barely audible. Sophie had to bend to hear them.
Miserably Sophie said, ‘I can’t leave you like this.’ She pushed the tumbled hair back from Cathy’s face, touched her cheek, her skin chill as death under Sophie’s fingers. ‘Oh, you’re so cold,’ Sophie whispered. ‘I’ll get a quilt for you, shall I?’
‘I don’t want one.’
‘Can I get you a hot drink then?’
‘No! For Christ’s sake, just go away, will you?’