Angel and the Assassin 3: Sins of the Father

the original search, Kael clicked on another couple of links but
    found very little of interest. Romodanovsky had grown up rich and privileged in
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    Switzerland, had a degree in law, had had a career in diplomacy, and was now in
    politics. He lived full-time in Moscow and owned a large dacha on the Moskva River in
    the countryside outside the city.
    Rising, Kael began to pace. Between Shawn and this man, he was confused and
    angry. He wanted to kill them both and for largely the same reason: for putting their
    filthy hands on people who did not want it. But what had Conran said to him in the
    garden at Dorneywood? “You raped me.” It was true; he had. Was it possible he was
    Romodanovsky’s biological son? Even Angel said he looked like the man. His mum
    must know who his father was.
    With his mobile, he dialed her number. For safety reasons, he never programmed
    numbers into the throwaway mobiles he bought. With his excellent memory, he didn’t
    need to.
    “Hello?”
    “Mum, it’s me.”
    “Hello, son. How are you?” The tiredness in her voice tore at his heart. He
    couldn’t do it so fast on the heels of Shawn. He could not ask her to go back to that
    place that had made her sob for hours when he was twelve years old.
    “I’m okay. I was wondering about you. Has Shawn phoned you?”
    A long sigh followed his question. “Yes, he phoned. I told him he was a pedo, and
    I hung up on him.”
    What could he do to ease her pain and appease some of his own guilt? “As soon as
    I get a chance, we’ll go away for a week, the three of us. Would you like that, Mum?
    What about Angel’s half term?”
    “That would be nice, luv. Anyway I’d better go. I’m due at the flower shop in half
    an hour.”
    “Have a good day, and don’t think about Shawn.”
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    “That’s a tall order.” She gave a little laugh. “Kael?” Her tone took on a sudden
    urgency. “Did he ever hurt you?”
    “No, not physically,” he said. “But he broke my heart at the time. Now I don’t give
    a damn about him, but then I did. I’m so sorry we hurt you.”
    “You didn’t hurt me, son. He did. I’d better go.”
    Pressing the phone to his ear as if it was her hand, he said, “I love you, Mum.”
    “And I love you. Kiss Angel for me.” She hung up.
    He grabbed his diary from its hiding place, sat at the kitchen table, and began to
    write.

    It was at College Grange that I first heard the word bastard directed at me. I had
    been there a couple of months and was getting ready to go home for the Christmas
    holidays. All the other boys were picked up by parents, but my mum couldn’t take
    the time off work to come and get me. She had never had a car and could not drive
    anyway. She had arranged for a master to take me to the train, and I would travel
    home alone. It was a wintry December day, and I stood outside with my bag in the
    freezing cold, waiting for the master to come out.
    One of the other boys asked me, “Where’s your parents, Saunders?”
    “There’s only my mum, and she couldn’t leave work,” I told him.
    That was when an older boy, Chisholm, who should have known better, said,
    “He’s a bastard.”
    Naturally I dropped my bag and went after him, not stopping until his father dove
    out of the car and dragged me off. The master was there by then, Mr. Bowker. He
    demanded to know what the hell we were up to. Chisholm said I had attacked him
    for no reason, but Freddie, my new best friend, was there too and he told the master
    what had happened. We were both dressed down for fighting, though there was
    hardly a mark on me and the other boy had a bloody nose and the beginnings of a
    black eye. His father told Mr. Bowker, “That’s what happens when you let
    scholarship boys into the school.” He said he wasn’t paying good money for his son
    to have to deal with the likes of me.
    On the way to the station, I was defiant and angry, using swear words that were
    not allowed at College Grange. “You’ll be up against this sort of thing a lot, you
    know, Saunders,” Mr. Bowker said. “Don’t let it get you down. You’re a brilliant
    student. You excel at sports. You just need to be a little friendlier and less angry. Do
    you see your father?”
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    I said, “I’ve never seen him, and my mum has never talked about him.”
    When we pulled into the train station, he looked at me. Mr.