Page 10

She felt sick to her stomach, her innards knotted.

Emilia Garanita had walked these corridors numerous times before, her role as a local crime reporter affording her frequent access to Winchester prison.

Her previous visits had all been in a professional capacity, however, and had often been illuminating, even enjoyable.

Today was different. This time it was personal.

Following the straggling line of mothers and children into the visitors’ centre, Emilia sought out the nearest table, smoothing down her collar and flicking out her hair.

This was not done for her father’s benefit, but for hers.

She wanted the old bastard to see what an impressive, successful woman she’d become.

Keeping her chin high, she tried to project strength and defiance, even though her stomach was turning somersaults.

Once more Emilia felt the urge to turn and run, but she stayed where she was, refusing to show any weakness.

And then suddenly there he was. Emilia was catapulted back years as a small, hunched man in his early sixties shuffled towards her, looking plaintively in her direction.

Time seemed to stand still as he covered the final few yards, Ernesto Garanita’s eyes projecting a humility and tenderness she’d never seen before.

Moments later, he was seated in front of her, smiling warmly at his daughter.

Emilia exhaled slowly, her face rigid, determined to resist his overtures. Ten seconds passed, then another ten, the elderly man continuing to beam at his estranged daughter, before finally her patience snapped.

‘Why am I here, Dad?’

Ernesto Garanita stared at his daughter in surprise, running a hand over his greying moustache, before replying:

‘Is it so odd that a father wants to spend a little time with his daughter? Hell, nobody else comes to visit me here.’

‘You’ve been here for over fifteen years. And now you decide to play the doting father?’

Her scorn was clear, but the prisoner seemed barely to notice, his expression remaining penitent and remorseful.

‘Please, Emilia, I know I’ve been a bad parent, I know I’ve let you down …’

‘That’s the understatement of the year,’ the journalist fired back quickly. ‘You prostituted your own children, turned them into drug mules and then when we resisted, you let your paymasters do this .’

Emilia gestured angrily to the heavy scarring on her left cheek, the emotion suddenly bubbling up within her.

Her refusal to carry on the family’s trafficking business had cost her dear, memories of the acid attack she’d suffered as a teenager pulsing vividly in her mind now, fury suddenly assailing her.

Where was this all coming from? As far as she was concerned, she’d dealt with her trauma, her anger years ago.

But perhaps it had just lain dormant, waiting for an outlet.

‘Please, please,’ Ernesto protested, looking pained. ‘That of all things I reproach myself for. I didn’t ask for that to happen, I didn’t want it to happen, but I couldn’t stop those guys. Once you work for them, you work for them, no exceptions.’

‘Then you should have chosen your “friends” more carefully, shouldn’t you? Because it was me who paid the price for your stupidity.’

There was a long silence, father and daughter eyeballing each other unhappily, before the former broke into a nasty coughing fit that racked his whole body. When he finally managed to gather himself, he looked up at his daughter once more, his eyes rheumy and sad.

‘Look, I know I messed up, that I let you down badly,’ he said eventually. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. I wanted to say sorry …’

‘Too little, too late, Dad.’

Annoyed with herself for wasting her time, Emilia rose abruptly.

‘Please, Emilia,’ her father pleaded, reaching out to her, as another coughing fit threatened. ‘Listen to me. I was weak, I know that. I was greedy, I was selfish. Yes, I was doing what I felt I had to do to put food on the table …’

‘Oh, spare me, please!’

‘… but I know now that my choices were wrong . That every decision I made, every step I took was wrong . Because of what it meant for you, for us. Do you think I wanted to spend most of my life behind bars, separated from everyone and everything I loved?’

‘That was your choice. You’re not here by accident.’

‘Which is why it hurts so much,’ he continued, as if keen to get everything out. ‘All the suffering I caused to you, to your brothers and sisters, it’s all my fault.’

‘Well, at least that we can agree on.’

Emilia towered over him, if not satisfied, then at least victorious. Her heartless, absent father had finally owned his immorality, his cruelty. Not that he would gain anything from it. Her wounds might be old, but they were still raw.

‘But it doesn’t change anything and much as I’d love to stay here chatting, I’ve got work to do. So, if you’ve said your piece …?’

‘No, not yet.’

This time there was frustration, even anger, in his voice.

Slapping his chest harshly to still his barking cough, he gestured urgently at Emilia to resume her seat.

And such was his sincerity, his passion, that to her surprise Emilia found herself complying.

Something told her that she was about to learn the real reason for her surprising summons.

‘Emilia, my love,’ he eventually continued, his emotion evident. ‘I didn’t ask you here to fight. Or for absolution. I know it’s too late for that. But I do want to ask for your help.’

Emilia said nothing, suddenly wrong-footed and suspicious. Her father had never asked for her assistance before. Had not tried to contact her once in all the years he’d been behind bars. What could he possibly want from her now?

‘Well, if you’re hoping that I can get you out of here, you’d best think again,’ she replied caustically. ‘I’m no lawyer and to be honest, I’m not much of a baker either, so we might have to forgo the chisel in the cake.’

‘For God’s sake, Emilia, can you not be serious for one minute?’ he said, slapping the table, silencing her and causing several heads to turn. ‘I know I’m never getting out of here, I’m not an idiot.’

Aware that he’d caused a commotion, her father leaned forwards, lowering his voice as he continued:

‘I just … I just want you to help me end things the right way …’

This time Emilia had no comeback, the import of his words slowly taking hold, as he added:

‘I’m dying, Emilia.’