Jen has tried her cell three times already, each call unanswered, Hannah working a police brutality story that is currently blowing up, two female cops, great angle, maced and pistol-whipped a van driver, great story, and now there’s a witness, Good Samaritan telling the investigating officers how one of the cops pointed a gun in his face and … Hannah’s phone makes a sound—Not now, Jen. But then she looks at the screen, not Jen’s number, and she answers.
I’m pretty busy here, McCluskey.
Sure, but look, something has come up. You and I, we need to talk.
We’re talking. So talk.
Nah, I have to show you.
I’m trying to get this witness—
Trust me, this is more important, Hannah.
OK. Where are you?
At my desk. But not here.
Coffee and a sugary repast?
Come on, Hannah, it’s Friday. Paddy Finn’s, thirty minutes.
* * *
WHEN SHE GETS THERE MCCLUSKEY is at the bar looking like a large scoop of vanilla with a cherry on top, acres of white shirting damp from the single-block trek, his round face reddened by exertion.
Georgie is pouring the drinks today, he greets her like family, McCluskey twisting on his barstool. He closes the copy of the New York Mail he’s been thumbing through, calls out to her, Hey, Aitch. And then, This one’s on me, Georgie, McCluskey’s big finger chalking it up in the air.
Ginger ale, Georgie.
Put something Russian in it, Georgie. Twice! And then seeing Hannah’s expression, he adds, What? Don’t make me drink on my own here, Aitch.
Hannah studies the liquid in McCluskey’s glass, which looks suspiciously unlike a beer, and steals a sip, seltzer water. Drink? she says. That’s not a drink. What’s going on, McCluskey?
Jeesh, OK, Lindy’s got me on this diet, he says, no alcohol for six weeks. And she makes me these smoothies for breakfast. This is about the only thing I’ve drunk for a week that isn’t green. Every morning’s like St. Paddy’s Day for fuckin vegans.
But for some reason I need two shots of vodka? Come on, Mike, you’re scaring me.
McCluskey looks up at one of the giant flat-screens decorating the bar, the baseball highlight reel jumping from city to city. You believe this guy? barks McCluskey, spreading his arms up at the TV. This bozo gets paid fifteen mil a year to swing at that junk? The pitcher smacks his fist triumphantly into his glove. Oh and you can talk, shouts McCluskey, you serve up homers like an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Behind the bar, Georgie finds a glass to wipe clean.
Sorry, Aitch, says McCluskey, turning back to her. This whole green diet thing is making me angry.
Everything makes you angry, McCluskey.
That’s true, says McCluskey, taking a sip from his seltzer on ice, his body bobbing back-and-forth in affirmation. But Lindy says it’s to be expected now, he says. She tells me I’m something called hangry, which dumbass me had no idea is a combination of hungry and—
I know what it is.
Right. Well, you know what else makes me angry?
The word hangry?
Fuckin A, Aitch. McCluskey sighs so heavily his newspaper ripples on the bar.
And then he points to Hannah’s drink and she drinks and says to him, Is there a reason we’re not getting to the point here, McCluskey?
Yeah, number one, because I haven’t eaten anything that doesn’t look like Astroturf for a week and, number two, because I don’t want to be the one who shows you this. McCluskey slides a piece of paper out from beneath his Mail. But before you turn it over, Aitch, remember a month ago? Fatal stabbing in that restaurant on Mott, perp still at large?
Of course. I suggested RED SAUCE JOINT for the headline, but apparently that kind of thing’s considered insensitive.
Fuckin clowns, Hannah. Anyway, so today, some guy was waving a knife outside the restaurant in the Park Square Hotel. Long story short, it ain’t my guy. Today’s guy must’ve been carrying the knife in his pants pocket and somehow managed to stab himself. Staff sees the blood, guy waves the knife around … Anyway, they grabbed some stills from the security cameras and sent them to me, just in case. Finish your drink before you turn it over.
The instruction seems odd, but she drinks anyway, the alcohol doing its job, her thoughts softening at the edges, McCluskey has turned up something juicy perhaps, someone famous, but then why the preparatory drink? And she turns the piece of paper over, an image time-stamped in the corner, colors faded, a man holding a magazine but not reading … McCluskey towels his face with his hand, she can hear the sound his fingers make scraping the bristles on his neck … And she sees the man in the image, not just some guy, but then unsees him, no, ridiculous.
I’m sorry, Aitch, says McCluskey.
No, she says, it can’t be.
McCluskey swallows, waits.
Why the hell are you showing me this, Mike?
Aitch, look, I’m trying to help.
There must be an explanation. Patch wouldn’t do anything like this.
You sure, Aitch? The guy’s still out of work, right? You said he was having a hard time. He ever wave a knife in your direction? So help me, Hannah, he ever so much as touches you, I swear to God …
No, Mike, come on. I told you, he’s not like this, this isn’t … And she’s about to say this isn’t him, but she looks down again at the piece of paper, tilting her head, trying to see it another way as Georgie pushes another drink across the bar, and she reaches down and touches him in the image, Patch, so small and all alone. Whatever could make him do a thing like this?
And then everything starts to blur, McCluskey clambering off his barstool and clamping his arms around her so that Hannah can conceal her tears between them, crying into his shoulder not just for what Patch might have done, or what he might have been going to do, but for everything, the last nine months, the sick feeling that although she still loves him, something has faded, that when she should be strong, she is elsewhere, that when she should be there, she is here, or on the streets that she thrills to, in the job that she needs and she loves, wrapped up in the lights and the tape and the badges, in the place where things are resolved, not always, but bad people are caught and punished and everything has a strange sort of order, a logic, the crimes always the same, the hunt always the same, and the resolution happens or doesn’t happen. But is always the same.
She pushes McCluskey away, patting him gratefully, smearing her eyes dry. What will you do? she says.
You and me are the only two people who know who this is, Aitch.
Do you have to arrest him?
That was something I wanted your opinion on. But if you say he’s kept his hands off you …
I swear it, McCluskey. He gets sad sometimes. He doesn’t do angry.
Right, the kind that bottles it up and then boom. McCluskey slaps his big hands down on the bar, Hannah flinching, looking at the printout of her husband again. Sorry, Aitch, says McCluskey. Hey, do me a favor will you? Look over this list. McCluskey pulls a second piece of paper from beneath the Mail. These are all the people who made reservations at the restaurant that lunchtime, he says.
Alvarez, Bachman, Denby … Kim, McManus, Nathan … Samson, Suarez, Villanova …
No, nothing, she says.
McCluskey rubs at his thin white covering of hair. Aitch, I gotta let you make the call, he says. You want me to talk to him? Let me talk to him. I don’t have to bring him in.
I’ll talk to him, Mike.
Yeah, I was worried you’d say that. But I gotta get involved at some point, unless you can swear to me nothing else will ever happen.
She looks down at her husband again, as if this time it might not be him. Right, she says, distractedly, thinking about whether this might somehow be her fault.
Goddam, this makes me nervous as hell, says McCluskey, his leg jiggling against the bar. Aitch, you’re the person I’m most worried about right now, he says. If you talk to him, you gotta be careful how you put the questions.
I know how to talk to people, Mike. I know how to talk to my husband.
Yeah, but you have to make him think like talking’s his idea, like he wants to open up to you.
Mike, I know how to do this.
Right, right. But whatever you do, you don’t wanna corner the guy, Aitch.
I do this for a living too, Mike.
I know, I know. But handling a witness is a whole different ball game from handling a suspect.
He’s not a suspect, McCluskey, he’s my husband.
Not a suspect? Dammit, Aitch, I never won any gold stars for sensitivity, but there were other images I could’ve shown you.
Mike, you know I appreciate this, right?
Sure, this whole thing makes me nervous, says McCluskey, rubbing the back of his neck. You know, if I could just have one … Georgie, you got any of that green Guinness left over from last Paddy’s Day?
Georgie leans on the bar in front of them. It’s just food coloring, Mikey, I can knock some up for you, he says, whipping the bar with his towel as he makes to move.
Nah, says McCluskey, ignore me, I’m like that Greek guy tied to a mast.
Odysseus, says Hannah.
Right, I’m like Odysseus, Georgie, no matter how much I ask you for a real drink, you gotta ignore me, OK? I made a promise to Lindy. Here’s to promises, he says, raising his glass, and then, after swallowing a sip of seltzer, McCluskey makes a face like a kid after cough syrup. Jesus, Aitch, he says, you know the only thing in the world worse than fizzy water is green smoothies. You know why? Every time I get handed one I can’t help thinking of that joke—What’s green and goes round at a hundred miles an hour?
Go on then, McCluskey, if you have to.
Kermit in a blender. I’m tellin you, Aitch, frog purée would taste a thousand times better.
Georgie taps the bar. That reminds me of one—what’s green and smells of pork?
Hey, Georgie, not now, says McCluskey, his voice turning sharp. Can’t you see we’re trying to have a serious conversation? He raises his hands in confused disbelief as Georgie skulks away, and then McCluskey turns back to Hannah. Look, Aitch, he says, Patrick’s head’s gotta be going in ten different directions at once right now. Let’s just let him calm down, you go home when you normally go home. McCluskey takes Hannah’s hand and stares hard at her. Aitch, you call me and tell me when you’re getting there, right? I’ll be in the lobby and you lock yourself in the goddam bathroom and call me if he even breathes at you funny, you hear?
She squeezes his hand. I love you, Mike.
Terrific. And you know what I love? says McCluskey. Three words, retirement full pension, he says, using a hand to block out the words in the air. Because if anyone finds out I knew who this was and kept quiet … So you gotta promise me, Hannah, this is the right way to play this.
On my soul, says Hannah, pulling her hand away, placing it over her chest.
McCluskey gives her a dubious look before dropping some notes on the bar. Hey, Georgie, he says, sorry about cutting you off like that, apparently I’m hangry.
No problem, big fella, says Georgie.
Come on, Aitch, says McCluskey. I’ll hail you a cab.
As they climb from their barstools, Hannah puts her hand to her mouth and stage-whispers it over the bar. Kermit’s finger, she says, Georgie seeing her off with a wink.
* * *
SHE WISHES THE CAB COULD drive around forever, Hannah like a child in the backseat being soothed by the motion, nodding off perhaps, the way she always did when returning home from family trips and vacations as a young girl, and if she could only fall asleep today might she wake up to discover that none of this was real? The taxi lurches urgently downtown, the concrete city speeding by, not unlike her thoughts, nothing settling in one place, nothing that can quite be grasped or held on to, her husband brandishing a knife, the evidence clear, but also making no sense at all. And she wishes they could just keep driving round and round in circles, and when she has looped past the same thought a fifth or seventh or thirteenth time, maybe she could pluck it from the crowded sidewalk, maybe she could hear its words clearly, this is what it means, Hannah, and this is what you have to do. And then they hit a red light, the taxicab coming to a halt alongside Union Square, and if they pulled forward just another few feet she would be able to see the exact spot where they first kissed, five years ago, she and Patch, and before their lips touched she already knew he was the one, the one she felt safest with, the one who would give purpose and direction to her future, and what does all of this mean right now? That she was wrong?
Moving again, Broadway, movie theater, bookstore, McCluskey, Patch, The Shack, but how can she think of work at a time like this? And soon, back at her desk, all she can concentrate on is the waiting, pretending to work until the moment when she will go home, Hannah carrying something too huge in her chest, who, what, when, where, she has all these pieces, her husband, a knife, this lunchtime, a hotel, which means there is only one more thing she needs for the story, and she can hear herself asking it over and over.
Why?
* * *
SITTING ON A PADDED BENCH with his newspaper, McCluskey nods at her from behind its pages as Hannah crosses the lobby, steps into the elevator, and then, too distracted to find keys in her bag, rings the doorbell when she reaches their apartment.
When Patch opens the door, she pauses, as if waiting to be invited in, her husband giving her a look as if she is the one behaving oddly, the sadness that recently has been worrying away at his eyes still there, but nothing more she can detect, nothing new, he kisses her cheek.
Is anything wrong? he says.
No, of course not, she says, shaking her head as if coming out of a work fog, and then stepping inside.
Sorry, he says, it’s just pretty basic pasta for dinner tonight. I didn’t get around to buying anything special. I’ll go get everything started, he says, smiling weakly, turning around, and then, with a faint limp, heading into the kitchen.
Hannah touches her lips when she sees the limp. Why did she need confirmation? Hadn’t the photo been conclusive enough? And then she thinks, How did he seem? Normal? But at some point in the last year, Hannah might have lost her sense of his normal.
The apartment looks neat and clean, always neat and clean when she returns home, maybe this is how Patch hides his secrets, concealed beneath order, buried in tidiness, she imagines him making a mess of the place every day, the evidence of his hidden life strewn across the room, and then scrupulously packing everything away at night, just before she comes home.
Hannah moves through the orderly space and steps into the bedroom where she takes off her shoes, pulls her sweater over her head, and thinks, I don’t know him at all. Have I ever known him at all?
After a minute, Patch comes to the bedroom door, rubbing his hands on a dish towel. Any crimes of the century I should know about? he asks, Hannah looking at the thigh of his pants as if expecting to see blood. But of course he is wearing a different pair from the ones she saw on McCluskey’s piece of paper.
What’s that? Sorry, what type of pasta did you say you were making?
Just some spaghetti, he says, spaghetti and red sauce, ready in ten. Patrick drapes the dish towel over his shoulder and heads back to the kitchen.
She takes out her phone and thumbs out a message.
* * *
SHE SITS AT THE DINNER table, waiting for him to come out of the kitchen, wondering how to speak to him, wondering whether to tell him that she once did something terrible too, perhaps she should know how he feels, but she has no idea.
Patrick comes into the room, places two bowls on the table, kisses the top of her head, and picks up the Parmesan, grating it over her food, stopping when she says thank you, touching his leg softly, feeling something through the fabric, the edge of a bandage.
So tell me what you got up to today, she says.
The usual, he says, grating cheese over his own bowl, sitting down.
I think I lost track of what the usual is, she says.
He picks up his fork, puts it down again.
What is it, Patch?
I don’t know, he says, I feel like I’m running out of words, Hannah. What could I tell you? You come home and you’ve been to a murder scene, or you know the inside details of the latest robbery that’s all over the news, or you can tell me what the police are saying off the record about a drug bust on Wall Street. Those are stories, Hannah, those are real talking points, things the world finds genuinely interesting. Me? I could tell you about my latest trip to the laundry room—two loads, Hannah, normal and delicates. A two-load day, Patch? Fascinating. Or I could talk to you about having the same conversations I always have with our neighbors in the elevator—the weather, and here’s your headline, IT’S STILL HOT—or that the grocery store was inconveniently out of blueberries. Really? No blueberries, hold the front page. So excuse me for saying nothing about nothing. Why don’t you just do all the talking for both of us, Hannah? he says, out of breath when he finishes, as if he has returned from a run.
Did something happen, Patch? she says to him. What’s wrong?
No, Hannah, nothing ever happens, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, nothing happens.
And there it is, she sees it in his eyes, the crack in her husband’s look, the concealment of something with a neat truth, but whatever you do, you don’t wanna corner the guy, Aitch.
Do you remember how much we used to talk? she says.
Yes, I remember, he says, his body sinking.
We’d talk about books, or thoughts, what made us happy, what made us angry. But I think I lost track of you somewhere, Patch. So you don’t have to tell me about your days, you can say anything you want to me, you know that, right?
He covers his eyes with one hand, drops his fork from the other, and she can see that he’s crying, she takes his empty hand in hers, Patrick squeezing it, but still keeping his hand over his face until the tears have slowed enough to be wiped away. And finally, after a few gasps and sniffs, he manages to talk. I’m sorry, Hannah, it’s just, I don’t know, I think I’m unwinding, he says. And I don’t think anything can help me, or anyone. And I’m sorry, I don’t want to unwind. I don’t want to, I’m sorry.
She stands up and holds his head to her belly. Please talk to me, she says. Patch, please let me know what’s happening. I haven’t been very good, but I’m going to be better. Please, if you let me inside …
I just want it to be over, he says.
Want what to be over?
I don’t know. Nothing.
Patch, you’re scaring me.
No, it’s all right. I’m going to tell you everything, I promise.
I want you to, please, she says, rubbing his head.
I will, Hannah, I promise. But not tonight, not like this. Is that OK?
OK. But when?
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I promise.
And you’ll tell me everything, everything you’re feeling? Everything that’s going on in your life?
Everything, he says, I promise, Hannah. But tonight can we just drink wine and watch something crappy on TV, and you can make jokes about it, and I’ll fall asleep on the sofa. He pulls his head from her belly and looks up at her.
I’d like that, says Hannah, sitting back down. Apart from the last part. You always refuse to admit you were ever asleep when I wake you up thirty minutes after you start snoring.
You never have any evidence, he says.
I’m going to get you on video one day, she says.
And Patrick doesn’t seem to notice Hannah’s small catch of breath as she realizes what she’s just said. Well, he says, until then I remain innocent of all charges.
She glances down at the table.
How about I make something special for dinner, tomorrow? says Patrick. And then we can sit down and properly talk.
Good, she says, picking up her fork, good, something special.
I’ll get up early and go buy what I need, he says.
Great, she says, that’s really great. Hannah sinks her fork down into the bowl of pasta. And Patch? she says.
Yes?
Don’t forget the honey, sweetheart.
* * *
SHE TAPS OUT ANOTHER MESSAGE after dinner, but McCluskey refuses to go home, so when Patrick falls asleep on the couch, she heads to the bathroom, switches on her electric toothbrush, sets it on a shelf by the door, and then turns on the faucet before making the call.
Still alive then, Aitch.
What, you think he was going to bake me into a pie?
It sounds like he’s sawing you up into pieces right now. What the hell is that?
Toothbrush.
You got a lawn mower engine in that thing?
Don’t think of grass, McCluskey, it’ll only make you hangry.
Fuckin A, Aitch. Anyway, what’s the climate like up there?
We’re going to talk tomorrow, he promised me.
Right. When?
After dinner.
Great. Another night in your lobby? And how is he?
He’s sad.
Sad? Or batshit fuckin dangerous?
Just sad. Very, very sad.
Gotcha. Sorry, Aitch.
Go back to Lindy now, McCluskey. There’s nothing to worry about here.
Right. Sure.
You’re not going to sleep outside in your car.
Nah, I’m getting too old for the Homicide Hilton.
Just think of all those full-pension retirement cruises.
I spew chunks even looking at pictures of boats. Listen, Hannah. Tomorrow, I want you to send me a message every hour, you got that?
Yes, sir.
I want to know where you are, what you’re doing, and how Paddy McKnife-Edge is behaving himself.
Yes, sir.
Because if for any reason I don’t hear from you, I’m showing up with my gun in my hand, you understand?
Understood, sir.
OK, then. Stay safe, Hannah.
Permission to go to bed, sir.
Good night, Aitch.
Sleep tight, Mike.
* * *
HANNAH’S BODY FORMS TWO SILENT curves beneath the covers.
He gets up and dresses with barely a sound and yet as he is tiptoeing out of the room she stirs. Patch? she calls out. Patch, where are you going?
To the market, he says, something special for dinner tonight. Remember?
Right, she says, sleepily. And then we were going to talk about everything.
That’s right.
Tonight, she says, stretching and rolling over.
Yes, tonight, he says.
As he steps out of the bedroom she calls out again, Oh, and Patch? Patch, don’t forget the … make sure to buy some … And then she sighs. Never mind, she says. Never mind, I don’t remember.
* * *
THE SUBWAY CAR IS ALMOST empty, rattling through tunnel-dark, click clack click, metallic sounds filling the vacant space.
Patrick sits on the edge of the bench, wearing a backpack, wiping the sleep from his eyes. So they are in it together, he thinks, Matthew and Trevino conspiring.
And at least this makes sense. Who should I let go? You or Clark?
Don Trevino’s question had been a trap all along. And now Patrick understands why. Matthew is trying to get to Hannah through him, it’s the only thing that makes sense.
Not if I get to you first, Matthew, he thinks.
The doors open onto Canal and soon he is climbing the stairs, up into the early sunlight of an August morning, the air already filling up with heat, Patrick heading toward an address he has memorized.
When he gets there, the building looks like an old factory or warehouse. Iron-framed, six floors, the sky hazy with papery cloud. He presses the buzzer and waits for almost a minute, presses the buzzer again. And soon Patrick hears the sound of a chain spooling, a window sliding. He steps back to the curb, looks up and sees a man in his twenties with dark cropped hair squinting at him through the bars of the third-floor fire escape. The man calls down to him, If it’s a package, I’ll buzz you in and you can dump it in the elevator, right?
I’m looking for Matthew … Matthew Denby, says Patrick.
Sorry, no one by that name here, the man calls down, Patrick noticing an accent, like one of those British Shakespeareans who play all the bad guys in the movies. The dark-haired man begins to retreat back inside the window.
Wait, says Patrick, Matthew Denby does live at this address, right? From a pocket he pulls out a business card and waves it, the card Matthew handed him at Le Crainois.
Oh, Christ, says the man, glancing up and down the empty sidewalk. Listen, love, he hisses angrily, I really don’t give a shit which seedy little khazi you blew ’im in. It didn’t mean a thing, OK? He’s not fucking interested.
I’m sorry, but I don’t know what any of that means.
It means he’s already taken, lover boy. Cheerio.
I really think you must be mixing me up with someone else. My name’s Patrick McConnell, I knew Matthew twenty-odd years ago, from school, Roseborn Middle School.
Roseborn? says the man. Wait, I think he just bought a house there. Nice of him to tell me why. Bloody typical, actually.
Patrick shades his eyes. Is there any chance I could wait up there for him? he asks.
How well did you know him at school? Do you have any stories?
We were best friends.
Even from three floors below, Patrick notices a sense of curiosity slipping into the man’s eyes. Oh fine, he says. But I have literally no idea when he’ll be home.
* * *
PATRICK STANDS IN THE LOBBY, waiting for the elevator, which is slowly descending with a series of loud dings as it passes each floor.
He wishes he could have told her last night. But what if Hannah had tried to stop him coming here today to challenge Matthew? And he has to do something. For just one day in his life he has to do something.
He takes off the backpack and checks the front pocket, as if the knife might not still be there. But the knife is there and also, inside the bag, a change of clothes.
Finally the elevator arrives and opens. He gets inside and it starts to rise, stopping at the third floor, bouncing and settling like old-fashioned kitchen scales. The doors open up straight onto the apartment. But when Patrick steps out there is no sign of the man who spoke to him from the window.
It is a huge, high-ceilinged loft, one whole floor of the building, seven cast-iron pillars running down the center of the space.
And then Patrick hears a voice coming from the far corner, from behind the only walls in the place—Out in a second, just putting on some clothes, make yourself comfortable.
He sits down on a long, cream sofa and looks around, the space scattered with furniture, colorful Persian rugs, African masks, abstract artwork on the walls and rocks everywhere, on almost every surface—crystalline, smooth, sparkling, colorful.
Then something peculiar catches his eye, nearby on a bookshelf, a framed photograph of a man, gray-haired and gray-bearded, and something clicks in Patrick’s memory, the photo reminding him of the old guy in the Conservancy, no fishing in the lake, boys, having to carry around a sketch of Jakobskill Falls.
He is about to go and take a closer look at the photograph when the man from the window emerges, pulling down on the hem of his sweater as he begins the long trek up the apartment toward Patrick. Do you drink tea? he calls out.
You have coffee? Patrick calls back, almost having to shout.
Oh, bollocks to coffee, I don’t know how to work his stupid machine, the man says.
Patrick looks across at the kitchen area and sees the bright hulk of metal being indicated.
The man turns into the open kitchen and pours water from the faucet into a kettle. The only people who know how to use that monstrosity are Matthew and the ten most pretentious baristas in the world. Mind you, I’m not really sure you could narrow it down to ten, could you?
Tea’s fine, says Patrick.
Good, says the man, leaning against a kitchen counter. I’m Andrew by the way.
Patrick, says Patrick.
OK, Patrick. Well, let me get these teas going and then I want to hear all about his majesty’s schoolboy years. Andrew gives him a wink.
* * *
THE BACKPACK IS NEXT TO his feet. Patrick could reach down to its pocket in less than a second. But what will he do if Matthew walks in through the elevator doors right now?
The way he had pictured it, Matthew would have been alone when he pulled the knife on him, Stay away from my wife or I’ll kill you. Although now something seems wrong with that picture—something much more than the presence of a witness.
How do you scare Matthew? He could never have scared him in the past. Has Matthew changed? How do you threaten him? It is possible that it cannot be done.
And what if he says no, he won’t stay away?
Andrew moves around the kitchen humming something poppy. Patrick wonders how old he is. Early twenties? Twenty-five at most, dark eyes with long lashes and a face that tapers sharply down from its cheekbones.
On the coffee table in front of Patrick there sits another rock, faintly red, glossy and smooth. He reaches out to pick it up but Andrew sees him and calls out, Wait, don’t touch his precious gastrolift or whatever it’s called.
What is it? says Patrick.
God knows, I can’t remember exactly, something disgusting I seem to recall. He calls it his dinosaur rock. The way he treats it you’d think it was the skull of his dead father.
Patrick notices a small gesture, a motion of Andrew’s head toward the photo on the bookshelf. I doubt that, says Patrick. Matthew hated his father.
Great, that’s all I need, says Andrew. Another one with daddy issues. You can see where Matthew gets his looks from though, can’t you.
Patrick looks across at the photo again, the old guy from the Conservancy does possess a certain rugged presence, he supposes.
Andrew brings the drinks from the kitchen, handing Patrick a mug painted with the Union Jack. Sorry, he says, last of the clean ones. That’s the sort of crap people send you when you move abroad, like you want constant reminders of the place. And then he pulls a chair from beneath a long farmhouse table, dragging it over and sitting down a few feet from Patrick. Right then, he says, now comes the price of admission. I get to ask you all sorts of questions about Matthew back in … Wait, how long ago did you say it was?
The last time I saw him was 1982?
1982? Oh Christ! And you were how old?
Twelve. Nearly thirteen.
Bloody hell, says Andrew, then that makes him … He starts to move his fingers.
Actually Matthew was a year older than me.
So he’s …
I suppose he turned forty this year, says Patrick.
Forty? squeals Andrew. Well, that explains everything. That’s why the bastard hasn’t once celebrated his birthday with me. He takes a sip from his mug and then makes a face as if the tea tastes bitter. God, now I feel like a victim of child abuse.
So what did you want to ask me about him? says Patrick.
There’s not much point now, says Andrew. I can’t get over the fact that he’s forty.
Then can I ask you something? says Patrick.
Go on then, says Andrew, feigning a bored look.
So is Matthew … (Patrick can’t think how to phrase it) … Is he…?
Go ahead, says Andrew, spit it out. You got yourself into this pickle, I’m not bailing you out.
Is Matthew … Patrick half whispers the word … gay?
Andrew laughs so hard he has to put his mug down on the floor. No, Patrick, he says, Matthew is not gay. And even if he was gay, gay is a label and Matthew doesn’t do labels. Labels are for soup cans, apparently. Why don’t you ask him all about it next time you see him. That’ll be two hours of your life you’ll never get back.
But, sorry, I got the impression that you’re…?
That I’m what? His boyfriend? His loverrr?
Right.
Well of course I am. Bit slow on the uptake, are we? Look, it’s simple enough, our mutual friend Matthew is … OK, I’m trying to think of a way to say it that he’d find almost palatable. Let’s just say that Matthew … Yes, he’s kind of a surf-and-turf guy, if you catch my drift.
Bisexual?
God, no! Severe label alert! Don’t say that to him either. You’ll get the bonus feature, another ninety-minute monologue. Here’s a word to the wise—don’t try to define Matthew. Matthew does whatever the bloody hell Matthew likes and whoever the hell he likes. Although I told him right from the start, you can have all the boys you want, as long as it’s nothing serious. But you go anywhere near a bloody woman while you’re with me, I’m straight out that fucking door.
And he hasn’t…?
No! He was with some female before I showed up. Actress. Pretty, I suppose. Bit haggy, mind you. But wait, it’s my turn now. So you said you were best friends, right?
We were.
Oh God and I bet you were impossibly drawn to him.
Not in the sense of …
Don’t worry, I can tell men aren’t your flavor, Patrick. But how did you and Matthew become friends?
I suppose it happened after … I was twelve, I was being bullied by an older boy called Ryan.
Oh shit, says Andrew, I know where this story is headed. He bloody well jumped in and saved you, didn’t he. God, that’s classic Matthew. OK, so you were twelve, something juicy must’ve happened between then and the time you left school. Come on, spill.
Matthew didn’t make it to the end of school, he didn’t tell you?
As I explained, he tells me nuh-thing. It might be a problem if he weren’t so … you know … Anyway, what happened, was he expelled for nefarious activity with a schoolmaster?
Andrew seems to be finding everything funny, his leg starting to jiggle, the sight of it making Patrick feel sick.
You don’t know? he says, the sick feeling rising from stomach to head, the loft floating around him as if being swirled with the past. He shot someone, says Patrick. Matthew shot a thirteen-year-old girl.
What? No.
When he was fourteen, August 1982, Matthew tied a girl to a tree and shot her thirty-seven times with a BB gun. The girl’s name was Hannah. The final shot hit her in the eye, an innocent teenage girl. She lost the eye.
Bloody hell, says Andrew quietly, his voice stripped of humor. Wait, you’re kidding me, right? he says, half whispering now.
Her left eye, says Patrick, spearing his forefinger toward his face.
No, you’re making this up, says Andrew, shaking his head uncertainly. Why on earth would he do something like that?
He told the police he felt like it. Pleaded guilty. And that was it.
Andrew looks away, all of the excitement having drained from his leg. No! he says. No, he’s not like that, you’re a nasty fucking liar.
I’m sure you can find old newspapers online or in the library. Try the Roseborn Gazette, anything printed after August 18, 1982. The coverage went on for some time, you can’t miss it.
She must have done something horrible to him, says Andrew.
She didn’t do anything, says Patrick. And then, seeing Andrew pressed back in his seat, he can feel in the back of his throat that he has been shouting, perhaps for some time. Andrew covers his face and now Patrick realizes he is on his feet, standing over him.
I want you to leave now, says Andrew, sliding to the edge of his chair. Please, just go, right away. If you don’t, I’m going to call the police. He scoots up from the seat and moves quickly to the kitchen where he stands by the knife block.
Patrick wipes his face, can hear the air-conditioning whirring, buzzing against the window frame, and yet still it feels as if he has been struck by a wave of heat. Ask him about it when you see him, he says, picking up his backpack, undoing a shirt button as he heads to the elevator, the doors opening up right away when he presses CALL.
Hannah Jensen, he calls over his shoulder, that’s her name. Write it down so you won’t forget. And then Patrick steps inside, hitting the L hard with his fist, the elevator bouncing and beginning its descent.