Chapter 49

I washed up my coffee cup, then emptied my suitcase, sorted out my laundry into piles of lights and darks, and finally filled the washing machine.

I spent the rest of the day cleaning up the house, which I guess was a throwback to my army days. It had been drummed into us from day one as soldiers to make sure we kept everywhere clean and tidy.

It was early evening by the time I had finished, and my stomach was rumbling. I got dressed, grabbed my wallet, and walked into town. There were restaurants of all types, Chinese, Indian, and Italian, as well as a couple of steak houses, but I knew what I wanted.

It was called Bunnies Plaice, nice play in words, I thought, and it was a takeaway fish and chip shop that also had a restaurant attached to it.

I was shown to a table, and I ordered haddock and chips with two pieces of bread and butter, plus a pot of tea, as they didn’t serve beer.

The food was excellent, piping hot and well tasty. As I ate, all I could think about was that letter and the appointment I was due to attend the following day. It was all a mystery, and to be fair, I was sure that it would all be some sort of mistake.

I paid my bill and walked the long way home through the local park, needing time to think and clear my head.

I did not sleep well and was awake before five; I put on some running gear and headed out into the cold morning air. I did some warm-ups and then headed off for a five-mile run; it was so different running in England than it was in Spain, that was for sure.

I got home covered in sweat and mud; I took a shave and a shower and dressed in my dressing gown. I made tea and toast before reading and rereading the letter again. I was looking for signs of a wind-up or a scam, but I didn’t find any!

One of the last things it mentioned was bringing some form of ID. I had my passport handy, but I also dug out my driving license and my old army ID card. I glanced at the clock; it was eight thirty, and then I glanced out of the window. It was raining cats and dogs, so I called a cab to pick me up at nine and then got dressed.

The cab was dead on time, and it took me into town. The solicitor’s office was huge, and it was old school. There were wooden panels on the walls as well as oil paintings of old men whom I guess used to work there. The smell of bee wax and old cigars filled my nose.

A receptionist told me that the man I was due to meet, Mr Truman, was running late. She made me a cup of tea, and I sat on a leather sofa and waited for my meeting. There were magazines on the table in front of me, house and hound, country life, and stuff like that, so I just sat and drank my tea.

In the end, he was over ten minutes late, and I was shown to his office by his receptionist. He stood up, apologized and shook my hand. He offered me tea or coffee, and I took a coffee. Introductions were done, and he told me to call him Bill, and I said he should call me Zak.

We sat down, and he smiled at me.

“Well, this is all new to me; we have never been asked to do anything like this before!” he said, “So, first of all, do you have the forms of ID that the letter said you should bring?”.

I passed over the three documents, and he took some time to read them. Then he smiled at me and handed them back to me.

“Right, it seems we have the right man then, Zak,” he smiled and took a file out of one of the desk drawers.

He opened it and looked at me; he took off his glasses and polished them before continuing. I was not sure if they needed cleaning or if was he doing it to give himself more thinking time. OR was it to build up the tension?

“So, give me a little potted history of your life, please, Zak,” Bill said and sipped at his coffee.

I told him about my life, how I had grown up in a children’s home and then how I had joined the army and then how I had been released and now I was working for a movie studio; I did not tell him I was a porn star I figured that that was too much info.

“So, I have been contacted by a lawyer in New York; they had traced you from the children’s home to the army to living back in town,” Bill said with a smile.

“But how did they know I was back here?” I asked

“From what they said, the army put them in touch with your regiment’s old boys Association,” he said after looking at a document in the file. That made sense; I had written to them when I changed address.

“And I guess my biggest question is why?” I asked.

“Okay, sit back and let me tell you a story,” said Bill and lifted a sheath of papers from the file.

So, it seems the reason the American lawyers have been chasing me was that I had a father, his name was Eric Tomey, and he had moved to the USA.

It seems my mother died in childbirth, and my father didn’t think he could cope with me; he had no family that would help and nor did my mother, so he put me in care.