Anselm had hoped to find Justin and speak to him privately about Harlech and about the memoir: he’d hoped to find the link between the two because, while Anselm had exposed Justin as Harry’s attacker, he couldn’t picture how Justin was implicated in a wider scandal involving the Lambertine Order or how that scandal might involve the Bowline, if, indeed, there were any connections at all. These were the remaining, critical questions and only Justin knew the answers. Carrington, Littlemore and Martin Brandwell had all been silenced. Getting Justin to speak was therefore vital. If needs be, he would have to be broken down … gently and kindly so he didn’t clam up and refuse to cooperate. And now was the moment to do it, in the aftermath of the trial, when he was weak and frightened. But Anselm had lost control of the encounter. He’d lost control of the entire meeting. Dominic was in charge.
‘My son stole a knife, Justin. The eight-inch kitchen variety. It seems he planned to stick it in your back. Any idea why?’
‘I’m going to see Harry,’ said Emily, unable to take the strain. ‘He’ll have heard all the noise and I want to tell him everything’s fine.’ Her eyes were almost closed as she made for the door.
‘Would you like some tea, Justin?’ said Maisie but Dominic silenced her with a punch to the door.
‘Tea isn’t always the answer, Mum. It might have been when we were kids, but it isn’t any more.’ He turned on Justin. ‘Dad said he’s been silenced. What the hell does that mean? For once look me in the eye for longer than a second and tell me if—’
Anselm intervened. ‘This isn’t the way to proceed, Dominic. Trust me. Let’s just—’
‘You’re out of your depth, Father. You don’t know what it is to have a child. You don’t know what it is to have a son. You don’t know what it is to go upstairs and smell his burning skin. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting there with your arms folded. You’d feel something here’ – he stabbed his gut – ‘you wouldn’t sleep at night. You wouldn’t eat. You wouldn’t give a second thought to—’
‘Harry? Harry?’ Emily was opening doors, walking along a corridor. ‘Harry? Where are you?’ She came halfway down the stairs. ‘He’s not in his room.’ But Dominic wasn’t going to be sidetracked. He’d moved from the doorway towards his brother. The quiet guy with the books and maps was capable of the outdoor stuff too.
‘Don’t worry. Harry probably went out for a walk while his granddad was wrecking the table. He’ll be talking to Fraser because he can’t talk to me. So, let’s find out why. Tell me, Justin, what did you say on “Speakers’ Corner”? Did you tell him to—’
‘He’s not with Fraser,’ said Justin, one fist locked into his hair. There was a twist to his mouth and his green eyes were squinting. ‘You won’t be seeing Fraser again. He’s gone back to Scotland. I put him on the train this morning.’
‘Who gives a stuff about Fraser? I want to know about you. I want to know how—’
Anselm stood up. His mind couldn’t move quickly enough. ‘Fraser was not on that train. I saw him half an hour ago on the common.’
‘You can’t have done,’ whispered Justin.
‘But I did.’
Justin looked wildly at the ground. Emily’s voice came loud and shrill. She’d gone back upstairs. ‘He’s taken his sports bag.’
‘Fraser’s going to kill him,’ said Justin.
Dominic gaped at his brother. Martin collapsed on his knees, shocked like Anselm. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Fraser. Fraser’s going to.’ Justin ran to the door, then he stopped and turned. ‘Stay here. Leave this to me. I’ll bring Harry home, I promise.’
Anselm chased after Justin, climbing into the dinted Volvo even as it pulled away from the pavement. They didn’t speak as Justin, leaning forward, drove round the common, Anselm staring anxiously at anyone walking with a boy, trying to spot that loping walk of the trusted gardener. Not finding them, Justin accelerated along Battersea Rise, swinging into a side street that lead to a housing estate. ‘Fraser lives here,’ he muttered, pulling up; but Anselm, on the turn, had seen the outline of a man and boy on a bridge. Leaving the car door wide open, he ran towards them, followed by Justin. Coming closer, they slowed. Fraser was on his knees in front of some flowers in pots, clustered on the pavement in the middle of the bridge. He was talking, while Harry stood behind him, one hand searching through his sports bag.
‘Fraser,’ called Justin, ‘what are you doing? You promised. You said you’d leave town.’
Harry turned. Recognising his uncle, he dropped his bag, but he didn’t move.
‘Come here, Harry,’ said Justin, edging forward, arms open. ‘Just get over here, now.’
After hesitating, Harry began walking … but not towards Justin. He came towards Anselm, his face folding inwards, his mouth plunging horribly at the corners as he began to cry. And then, as if set free, he ran. Instinctively Anselm raised his hands as if to catch a life thrown away and then Harry was sobbing against him. After a moment, Anselm lowered a hand onto the boy’s head. ‘Don’t worry, Harry,’ he said. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. You’re safe now.’
Fraser, still on his knees, was watching with a narrowed eye, his fingers still smoothing the plants. His attention flicked onto Justin. ‘You’ve told him, haven’t ye?’
‘I swear I’ve said nothing.’
‘But he knows’ – Fraser made a tilt towards Anselm – ‘I can tell. He’s lookin’ at me like he once looked at your father and like he probably looked at you. It’s not very nice, frankly. You broke your word, Justin. You went and ruined things. We were sorted, you and me.’
A train rattled beneath the bridge heading towards Clapham Junction. Fraser stood up, watching the carriages pass, shaking his head. He was muttering to himself. When the rumble and clatter had stopped, Justin made a plea:
‘Keep your side of the agreement, please. I promise, I’ve kept mine. We can still walk away from this.’
Fraser turned from the empty tracks, one eye closing. ‘You came a runnin’ here, didn’ ya? The two o’ ye? You’re both a-lookin’ worried … you didna think I was goin’ to harm the wee laddie, did ye?’ He was astonished and reproving. ‘You didna think I’d go and hurt the boy … that I’d injure him?’ He laughed indignantly, unable to comprehend his accusers. ‘Me? I wouldna touch a hair on his head. I only wanted to say goodbye. I was goin’ to leave, like I said I would …’ He turned again to look down the line. A train was approaching the bridge at St John’s Hill, heading towards them, gathering speed, the rattle getting louder. Fraser watched it coming, shaking his head. Suddenly, he began to smile, his lips stretching over large, yellow teeth.
‘You’re a fool, ye know that?’ There was delight in his eyes: the first twitch of a coming ecstasy. ‘A numpty. Did you really believe anyone coulda touched me?’
‘You’re still a victim,’ said Justin, edging forward once more. ‘No matter what you did afterwards, you remain a victim. And—’
‘Victim?’ Fraser’s breath caught in his throat. ‘I made it up, laddie. Cos I know what goes on, don’t I? Just like you. We’ve both of us had a lot of experience, haven’t we?’
Justin froze.
‘Yes … that’s right …’ And Fraser suffered a squirt of joy. ‘I made it up … and you … you believed me.’ After a low sigh he looked down the tracks, wistfully. His pleasures had always been short-lived. ‘You know, I really thought we were sorted, you and me. I wonder where I went wrong?’
Anselm’s hand locked onto Harry’s head so he couldn’t move, because Fraser had swung a leg onto the bridge wall. Within seconds he was on the far side, with Justin running forward, yelling, ‘No, no, no,’ but Fraser only grimaced, dropping backwards, arms extended, the horn from the train sounding, the brakes screaming … so much noise, come too late to make a difference.