Chapter sixty-one

Tasmin Kelly was the petite girl with the bright eyes and the free spirit. She lived unburdened by problems like mine and was the independent, energetic, compassionate one out of everyone I knew. She was the reason the short-lasting smile I wore on my face in my final year of primary school lingered a little longer than I thought it would. Her presence had both comforted and terrified me, and there is no difference between that feeling then than now.

The problem is: Ally warned me about this.

"You know your mission," she told me sternly after a long late-afternoon of planning at the Reprisal. I remember nodding. "You know the risk, and you know what Boss is risking for you."

I nodded again. "I do."

"You must get to know her."

"I know."

"But get to know her too well and your mission will switch entirely."

Her warning was sudden and startling, and it took me a moment to understand what she meant. At that point, all I could muster was a weary grin and a shrug.

"You know I wouldn't do that," I reassured her.

She smiled after that. "I was hoping you'd say that."

That night, I returned home, sneaking surreptitiously through the hall, ducking at the entrance to the living room, slightly surprised to find my father sitting at the kitchen table, forehead in his hands. I did this on a monthly basis, sneaking in and out, but most of the time it was a breeze when my father was occupied solely on his work in his study. I could almost be grateful he paid almost no attention to me. But it didn't stop the guilt from running through me.

I was only three big strides away from my bedroom when my father's voice boomed from the kitchen.

"You're back, Harry?"

I cringed. I had a feeling this wouldn't go well. I furtively slid through the doorway, glancing at him cautiously. "Hey, dad," I tried.

He tilted his head, eyeing me, and I thought for a moment that he could see through me and what I was doing. But I had to keep my dad out of this, because I didn't think he'd accept the fact that I was doing this for him, too.

"Come over," he said.

I ran my hand up the door frame, attempting a tired and dead-student-like composure. "I have homework."

"So do I." A smile.

With a roll of my eyes, I shuffled over to lean against the bar, not bothering to sit down; I didn't intend to stay long.

"You're going soon."

"Huh?"

"The cruise your mother and I organised."

Hardly your organisation. "Yeah."

"Are you excited?"

My eyes fell to the floor. I didn't want to have any polite father-son small talk any time soon, especially with what I was going to pull off in a few weeks.

"I guess," I replied as normally as I could muster.

My dad didn't say anything after that, so I rendered the short-lived conversation complete, and turned to take my leave. But then my father spoke up casually, as if I were still standing at his side.

"Want to hear something about your mother?" he queried.

I perked up. How could I say no to hearing something about my mother? Of course I wanted to hear memories of her. Not just for the sake of her being my mother, but for the time lost, for the love lost, for the memories we made, for the memories we could've made. And most importantly, the drive for my mission.

My mind was at war. I wanted to hear about my mother; I didn't want to hear from my father. I didn't want to know; I had to know. I had a choice; it was mandatory.

"Yes!" I said, much too excitedly.

My father smiled at me, then stared at the ceiling, as if regarding it with complete and utter interest in it. I could see my mother's shape in his vision.

"I met your mother on a cruise."

My head shot up to meet gaze with him. "You did?!"

"Knew you'd be glad to hear it," he mused. Then paused. "I was working for a travel agency boss at the time, almost two decades ago. My plans for him were successful, and he became a wealthy man. I was invited on a cruise that he had planned, departing from London. I didn't see her the first or the second night: I was busy drinking with colleagues. But when we arrived on island number one, I wandered off from my group to look through the markets, and that's where I found your mother," he explained.

I leant towards him. "What was she like?"

He sighed, slightly flustered. That's when I noticed the almost-empty champagne glass he was playing with between his fingers. "Beautiful, Harry. Beautiful in her childhood photos, on the day I met her, and even…" His breath hitched. "And even in death."

I gulped down the mouthful of shattered glass-like nothingness in my mouth. I couldn't look at him. Then why didn't you take better care of her? You loved her, yet you ignored her.

I wanted to say it. But I couldn't. All of me was shaken, torn, tired. And there was my father, staring upwards, and I thought that maybe his gaze was following my mother up there, invisible but present, and, like my father said, beautiful as always. For once, I could see truth in my father's eyes. A youthful gaze, a young man's cocky smile.

"I wish I could go back and do it all over again."

The wish felt like a slash to the heart. It was an immature, naïve desire for a life already lived. But it was also the heavy door slamming shut behind me. The thing that changed my 'Should I?' to an 'I should'.