MIKEY IS SITTING on a bench outside the pub at Bayard’s Cove when Evie sees him the next morning. He’s alone, no sign of Jason, and on an impulse she sits down at the other end of the seat. She knows she has to be careful, that he might be frightened at her approach, that he’s probably been brought up in the modern climate of ‘stranger danger’.
He glances at her and she’s struck by his resemblance to Russ: those sparkling dark blue eyes, black hair that seems to crisp and curl with an energy all of its own. She smiles at him; takes the plunge.
‘Don’t be anxious,’ she says, ‘but I think I know your grandparents, Russell and Patricia Dean. I worked with Russell at Bristol University. My name’s Evelyn Fortescue.’
He looks at her, an intent look, open and friendly, and her heart warms towards him.
‘I’m afraid they’re dead,’ he says regretfully. ‘I never knew my grandmother – she died before I was born – but Grampy was really cool.’
So Russ is dead: a cloud of sadness engulfs her but dissolves in the bright regard of this boy, his grandson.
‘Your father,’ she says cautiously, ‘was just a little boy when I last saw him. Probably seven or eight.’
The boy instinctively glances behind him, as if Jason might be standing at his back, and then looks at her.
‘He’s just dashed into the pub to the loo,’ he says. ‘He’s a bit … like, edgy, just now. My mum died six months ago and we’re …’
He swallows, his eyes suddenly flood with tears, which he blinks away, and Evie is filled with compassion. She, the least maternal of women, longs to gather him into her arms.
‘I am so sorry,’ she says quietly. ‘How very terrible.’
He nods; it is unspeakably terrible.
‘Will you tell me your name?’ she asks gently.
‘It’s Mikey,’ he says, swiping his bare brown arm across his eyes. ‘Mikey Dean.’
‘Well, Mikey,’ she says, ‘it’s very good to meet you. I live across there. See those houses down along the river? They’re converted boathouses. That’s where I am.’
She doesn’t quite know why she’s telling him; Jason would never bring him to see her.
‘That’s really cool,’ he says, shielding his eyes from the sun and staring across to where the boathouse stands. ‘Your view must be epic.’
‘It’s pretty special,’ she says, smiling. ‘Is this your first time in Dartmouth?’
‘Uh-huh. My aunt and uncle have just bought a little flat by the church for holiday lets. They’re letting me and Dad use it for a holiday.’
‘It’s a great week for your first visit to Dartmouth. Regatta week.’
Mikey lets out a great sigh. ‘I just love it. I can’t wait to see the fireworks and the Red Arrows. I want to stay. I want to live here for ever.’
‘But you have to go back to school?’
He nods, makes a face.
‘Do you still live in Bristol?’
‘We’ve got a flat in Tyndall’s Park Road,’ he tells her. ‘We lived in Grampy’s house for a while after he died but then we had to sell it and get something smaller.’
‘Where do you go to school?’
She wonders if she’s being too inquisitive but he answers readily.
‘I’m at Wells Cathedral School. I’m a chorister.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ she says warmly, and he smiles at her enthusiasm.
‘It’s OK,’ he says nonchalantly.
Silence falls between them. He glances anxiously behind him again, and she gets up reluctantly. ‘I must go. Good to meet you, Mikey. See you around.’
She walks quickly away, up the hill to Southtown and down the steps to the boathouse where Claude is reading on the balcony, waiting for Charlie and Ange to arrive.
Driving into Dartmouth past the old Pottery, through Warfleet down to the Merchant’s House, Charlie struggles with a growing sense of unease. Ange’s friends have cried off the visit to regatta – some family crisis, apparently – and Charlie is beginning to wonder if indeed there was ever any intention of their coming. After all, Ange has never been down for regatta without friends in tow – she sees no point in it – and he suspects that Ange wants to see for herself just how well Ben is dug in at the Merchant’s House without it being too obvious.
‘Evie will never get him out if she’s not careful,’ she said when she heard of Evie’s gesture. ‘I think it’s very unwise of her.’
‘You make him sound like a squatter,’ Charlie said, quite lightly. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it; he’s still coming to terms with the fact that his father didn’t leave the house to him. ‘Ben’s not some ne’er-do-well looking for an easy option. He’s always got work and he’s very well known in his field.’
Ange shrugged this aside. Until the Merchant’s House had been left to Evie she’d been quite fond of Ben; leaving the magazines that published his work on show around the house, boasting about his latest shoot if it were at a grand enough house. Now she’s nervous: Evie is very fond of Ben, his marriage is breaking up, and he has his foot in the door. Ange has a strong sense of ownership and, in her view, the Merchant’s House belongs to Charlie and his family, not to Evie – and certainly not to Ben.
All the way from London, Ange has been making little comments that reflect her anxiety and irritation.
‘I don’t know what your father was thinking about. He could have simply put the house into some kind of trust for Evie to use in her lifetime if she needed it, though I can’t see why she should. She’s got her own house. She must have influenced him in some way.’
‘Rubbish,’ he says irritably. He doesn’t believe that Evie influenced his father but this constant need to defend TDF’s rather hurtful decision and pretend that he doesn’t mind is beginning to wear him down. ‘That’s not at all Evie’s style. Why shouldn’t he leave her the house? She was his wife.’
‘His second wife,’ she corrects him quickly. ‘Not the same at all. We have the girls to think about. It’s breaking with family tradition. I’m just saying that it’s unwise of Evie to give Ben any ideas about it.’
‘Well, at least he loves the place,’ Charlie says. ‘Which is more than you do. Even the girls prefer to stay with your mother down at Polzeath than come to Dartmouth.’
‘That’s because their school-friends are there in the summer,’ she answers. ‘It will be different when they’re older. Anyway, that’s not the point.’
He doesn’t ask what the point is: he’s weary of skating around the problem. Personally, he’s delighted that old Benj is staying at the Merchant’s House; better than tenants wrecking the place or a succession of holidaymakers coming and going. And it’s nice for Evie to have him just across the road.
‘I suppose Claude will be here,’ Angie says, resigned, as they drive down into Southtown. ‘An extraordinary relationship, I always think. He and Evie behave like a couple of undergraduates, dashing about on that silly scooter. Your father was just as bad once Marianne died.’
Charlie resists the urge to defend Evie and Claude; he simply hasn’t got the energy. Lately, however, he’s become more and more sympathetic to his father’s marital disloyalty. Having someone like Evie to spend time with, to relax with, must have been utter heaven. He loves Ange – and he totally respects her drive and ambition and devotion to the family business – but, oh goodness, what he wouldn’t give for a few weeks of behaving like an undergraduate again.
He peers ahead. ‘Great,’ he says. ‘Benj has opened the garage door. I can reverse in.’
‘No,’ Ange says at once. ‘No you can’t. It makes it much more difficult to unload the car. Drive straight in.’
‘But reversing out on to this road is very tricky,’ he argues. ‘Much better to back in.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. ‘There’s hardly any traffic down this road during regatta. Just do it, Charlie.’
And so he does, but he experiences an almost overwhelming desire to perform some violent action: crash his hand down on the horn, drive the car into the back wall of the garage, something to stop the frustration of being obedient to Ange’s relentless will.
Instead he switches off the engine, gets out and tries the interconnecting door to the house. It opens and he goes into the hall and shouts, ‘We’re here,’ and Benj comes out of the kitchen and they stand and grin at each other as if they are children again. Charlie remembers that his cousin’s marriage has come apart, that he’s homeless, and he holds out his arms to him.
‘Good to see you, Benj,’ he says, and they hug, while Ange’s voice, raised in irritation, can be heard from the garage.
‘Hi. Where are you? Is anyone going to come and help me with this luggage?’
Ben is surprised and touched at the warmth of Charlie’s greeting. He senses some stress here, and he can make a pretty good guess at what’s causing it. Ange appears at the door; her quite pretty face is marred by an almost habitual harassed frown. It is the expression of someone who needs to be in control; to be watchful lest her instructions are misunderstood or, worse, disobeyed.
How awful it must be, thinks Ben, to be Ange. Pretty awful for poor old Charlie, too.
‘Can nobody hear me?’ she cries. ‘Oh, there you are.’
He raises his hand in greeting. ‘Hi, Ange,’ he says, but she’s already turned away with a quick wave of her hand, instructions still trailing behind her.
Charlie shrugs, follows her out to help, and Ben waits at the door wondering how to play this rather odd scene. It seems strange to be welcoming Charlie and Ange to the Merchant’s House.
‘Shall I take that up for you?’ he asks, as Ange reappears with a large holdall. ‘You’re in the room on the left at the top of the stairs.’
‘I know where our bedroom is, thank you, Ben,’ she says brightly. ‘I can manage.’
He watches her small figure stomping up the stairs; her bottom is rather too big in her unflatteringly loose linen trousers and her back view is not particularly attractive. He feels another wash of sympathy for Charlie, who has now appeared with two suitcases. Ben raises his eyebrows at the amount of luggage and Charlie shakes his head defensively.
‘I know. I know. Don’t worry. We’ve only come for the weekend, honestly. God, what a journey.’
‘Want a drink?’ he asks.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ says Charlie. ‘It’s too early.’
‘Is it? The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere. It wouldn’t have worried you once.’
‘Shut up and put the kettle on. Ange will appreciate a cup of tea.’
He turns away, begins to climb the stairs, and Ben goes into the kitchen. The kitchen and the breakfast room, divided only by a graceful arch, occupy most of the ground floor since the sitting-room was converted into a garage. Ben likes this mix of space and cosiness. The kitchen’s sash window looks into the garden; the breakfast room’s windows look out on the street. In common with most of these houses, the drawing-room is on the first floor so as to take advantage of the views of the river but Ben likes this long, light room with its high ceilings, deep skirting boards and beautiful timber floor. This is where he spends most of his time when he isn’t working. In recent years the house has been used only for holidays and the original Regency furniture has been replaced with more durable pieces. The long, rather battered, refectory table is very useful to work at, to read at – as well as to eat at – and Ben has been busy tidying up. There is a sofa along one wall and built-in bookshelves on either side of the window, and now he glances through the arch into the breakfast room to satisfy himself that it is as tidy as Ange will expect it to be.
When she does appear, however, she says, ‘Oh, I thought we’d have tea in the drawing-room,’ and, ‘Have you got any Earl Grey?’ which makes him feel like a rather inadequate footman. But Charlie says, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, we don’t want to cart it upstairs. In fact I might go out into the garden. I need some fresh air.’
With relief Ben follows him outside, leaving Ange to agonize over Earl Grey or a fruit tea, and Charlie says: ‘This probably sounds really crass, Benj, given what you’ve been through, but just at the moment I rather envy you.’
As soon as they’ve gone Ange slips back upstairs. A quick glance around the drawing-room shows that there is very little change: some books and magazines on the floor by an armchair but not much else. The spare bedrooms are clearly unused, the beds stripped, cupboards bare, and the little dressing-room that leads off one of the rooms is empty, but in the two rooms up on the second floor the reality of Ben’s occupation is very clear. The bedroom is untidy, the bed unmade: quilt rumpled, pillows piled up, clothes tossed over chairs. The study is now a workroom filled with photographic equipment, painting equipment, piles of paper, card; there is barely room to walk.
Her worst fears are realized as she stares in through the doorway: Ben is clearly very much at home. Her mind darts to and fro: a sharp needle flying in and out of the tough fabric of her anxiety. She wonders what the tax implications are regarding Ben working here and whether Evie has thought about it.
Through a window she can see Ben and Charlie sitting at the table at the top of the garden with their mugs of tea. Ben is talking, gesticulating, and suddenly Charlie throws back his head and roars with laughter. She watches them for a moment, resenting their camaraderie, fearing it – Charlie can be so foolishly soft-hearted, it still irritates her to hear him using that childish name for Ben – and then she slips back downstairs. She reboils the kettle, puts a teabag into a mug and all the while there is something nagging at the back of her mind; something different, something she’s missed. Her instinct tells her that it’s important but, before she can go back for another check around, Ben appears.
‘We wondered if you were OK?’ he asks. ‘And I remembered that Evie brought some stuff over. Cakes and things.’
The kettle boils and Ange makes her tea. ‘Not for me, thanks,’ she says. ‘This will do me fine.’
He smiles at her, steps aside so that she is obliged to precede him outside, and she has no alternative but to climb up through the garden to join Charlie. And all the time that they are talking, drinking tea, her thoughts are doubling to and fro, trying to remember what it is that she has missed.
Now that the moment is upon her, Evie is rather regretting inviting Charlie, Ange and Ben to supper. She is still fearful about how Ange will be reacting to Ben’s presence in the Merchant’s House. She says so to Claude.
‘I knew you’d feel like that,’ says Claude rather gloomily. He’s wondering how he’s going to cope with seeing Charlie now he has inside information. He feels uneasy, hoping he can carry it off, and he wonders how Evie has coped with it for the last two years.
‘I suppose it was silly of me,’ she says. ‘But what could I do? Dartmouth will be packed and they’ll be tired after the journey. I had to offer. I was half hoping Ben might phone and say they weren’t coming. I half expected Ange to cry off. She’ll have brought provisions. She always does.’
‘It’s odd,’ he says. ‘The prospect of seeing them. Now that I know about Charlie, I mean.’
‘I can imagine how you’re feeling. I was the same. I’ve got slightly used to it now but it’s unsettling knowing things about people that they don’t know themselves. You keep wondering how they’d react if you told them. I’m sorry, Claude, it’s unfair to involve you, but I just needed someone else to know.’
‘I still think it was wrong of TDF to leave you with it. It was his decision to make, not yours.’
Before she can answer there’s a knock on the door, which opens, and Charlie shouts, ‘Hi. Are you there, Evie?’ and comes into the big room where she and Claude are sitting at the table.
‘Charlie.’ She gets up and goes to hug him, moved as always by his resemblance to her darling Tommy. She hates it that Claude is judging his old friend so harshly, though it’s difficult to defend Tommy: it was his property, his son, his decision. However, she can remember his distress, his desire to make amends without causing too much destruction, her own readiness to relieve him of some of the stress without quite knowing how. Nevertheless, Claude’s ready sympathy and understanding have eased her anxiety a little and she is grateful to him.
As she hugs Charlie she tries to imagine telling him the truth – that all he has should by rights belong to Ben – and she simply can’t envisage having the courage. Instead she smiles up at him with genuine pleasure at seeing him and stands back to watch him embrace Claude.
‘It’s great to be here,’ he’s saying. ‘And thanks, Evie, for letting us use the garage. I see you’ve managed to get a space outside, but it’s a real problem during regatta, isn’t it?’
‘Ben and I are coxing and boxing with the space,’ she answers. ‘My old friend lets me use her driveway for one of the cars so if I have to go out Ben moves his car down here to keep the space. It’s not ideal but it’s only for a few days while you’re here.’
Charlie strolls to the balcony and wanders out, staring down-river, hands in his jeans pockets. Claude watches him. It might be TDF standing there: long, lean legs, broad shoulders, dark head slightly bent. How wonderful it must be to be tall and elegant; to be able to attract women without even trying. He remembers how he used to envy TDF his grace, and Charlie and Ben have inherited those same qualities. They have no idea what it’s like to be short and stocky and unremarkable, with gingery hair that curls like a tonsure around a prematurely bald head.
Charlie is turning back now, his face peaceful, and Claude wonders how he would react if he were to tell him the truth; imagines that calm expression changing to disbelief and shock.
‘I should get down more often,’ Charlie says. ‘I forget how good it is here. It’s a different world after London.’
‘Not at regatta,’ says Evie. ‘The town is heaving and the noise is unbelievable. The funfair, pop music belting out from each stall …’
‘Not to mention the smell of beefburgers,’ says Claude.
‘Even so,’ says Charlie. ‘We’re going down to Polzeath on Monday to meet up with the girls for a week but perhaps I’ll come down on my own after the holidays and spend some time with old Benj. He’s looking good.’
‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ says Evie. ‘He’s managing very well but I’m sure it would do him good. Are they coming over for supper?’
‘Yes. He and Ange will be over soon. I just wanted to have a few minutes on my own with you.’
‘Checking us out,’ asks Evie, amused, ‘before we put on our party faces?’
‘Something like that,’ he answers. He sits down again at the table. ‘I’m still hoping that you’re going to tell me that you’re writing again, Evie. It’s been much too long.’
She shakes her head. ‘I’ve told you. I’ve finished with all that.’
‘The Civil War, yes,’ he says. ‘I can see that. But there are other things to write about.’
Claude listens to the familiar argument, agreeing with Charlie but saying nothing.
It isn’t long before Evie says, ‘Enough, Charlie. I’m not writing another book. It’s finished. Done with. Now, tell me about the girls. It’s ages since I saw them.’
As she and Claude prepare the supper – Claude is very handy in the kitchen – Evie concentrates on the coming evening, on Ange’s attitude to Ben and how it will affect them all.
And here they are: Ben and Ange coming in together. Ange greets them, an air-kiss near both cheeks, and Claude offers them a drink, talks about regatta, how they might wander round the town tomorrow and enjoy the fun.
‘I always forget,’ Ange says, walking to the big windows, ‘how early you lose the sun here. It’s quite gloomy, isn’t it, even on such a bright evening?’
There is a tiny silence and Evie can’t help but chuckle to herself: it’s so Ange, this kind of remark. A little put-down, an implied criticism, that slightly wrong-foots people and fractures the jolly atmosphere.
Ben and Charlie are silent; they look embarrassed, Claude looks cross. Evie steps in. She smiles at Ben, gives him a tiny wink.
‘It is, Ange,’ she says, ‘and, you know, it’s something you really notice as you grow older. The sun and light become so important. I’ve been seriously considering letting out the boathouse or even selling it and moving across the road. It’s so much higher, gets more sunshine, and I wouldn’t have to climb up all those steps to the road each time I go out. Of course, that’s if Ben thinks he could cope with me.’
Ben has turned aside to hide his grin but Ange is completely taken aback.
‘Well,’ she says, after a moment, ‘if you want my opinion I’ve never heard anything so foolish.’
‘But why?’ asks Evie, taking her glass from Claude. ‘I thought about it quite a lot last winter. Then, when spring arrived, I began to have second thoughts and then Ben needed a place to catch his breath so I rather put it on hold, but you’re quite right. It can be rather gloomy here and, now I’m on my own again and getting old, I’m beginning to think about it seriously.’
This is indeed carrying the war into the enemy’s camp and for once Ange is silenced. Evie feels she might explode with suppressed mirth and she can see that Claude feels the same.
‘But you love it here,’ says Ange rather feebly. She glances at Charlie who looks away, still feeling uncomfortable by her earlier remark.
‘I do,’ agrees Evie. ‘But maybe it’s time for a change. Come and help me with the supper, Claude.’
And she turns away, still fizzing with a sense of triumph and amusement.
Mikey piles up the cartons from the Chinese takeaway and puts them in the bin. Dad’s slumped in front of the telly, channel-hopping. He’s in one of his moods this evening and Mikey’s being careful, just like Mum taught him to be.
‘Daddy can’t help his moods,’ she used to tell him. ‘It’s just the way he is. He loves you, don’t ever forget that, but we just have to stay very calm and not let it upset us.’
It’s hard, though, tiptoeing around him, especially now Mum’s not here. Mikey puts the plates in the little dishwasher. He gets a bit frightened, sometimes, and a bit tired making sure that Dad doesn’t lose it or have one of his real downers.
‘Life’s shit,’ he says when he’s having a downer. His face goes all grim, like a light’s gone out behind his eyes, and Mikey’s heart always races with anxiety. ‘Really shit. I never had a proper chance. It was terrible, Mikey, having a mother in a wheelchair, in pain all the time. God, Mikey, you can’t imagine how she suffered and she was so brave.’
He never knows what to say, so he just nods and tries to look sympathetic. Now he switches on the dishwasher, trying to concentrate on good things: being here in Dartmouth and meeting that woman, Evelyn Fortescue. He liked her; she was really cool. He hasn’t told Dad about her. He doesn’t quite know why but something tells him to keep quiet. Probably because she was Grampy’s friend. Dad can be a bit funny about Grampy, like he’s jealous of him; angry with him. It’s Grandma he adored – and Mum.
Mikey struggles against a black wave of misery: he feels terribly alone. He wishes he could be back at school with some of his mates, or with his aunt Liz in Taunton, or perhaps see Evelyn Fortescue again. She was nice and normal.
‘Want some coffee?’ he calls through the doorway.
Dad’s still slumped there, spaced out, like he’s not seeing what’s on the screen. He looks round, seems to come to, nods.
‘Yeah. Thanks, Mikey.’
Mikey sighs, fills the kettle and switches it on. He must be strong for Mum. That terrible cancer had eaten her up and done for her so quickly.
‘Aunt Liz will look out for you,’ she told him, gripping his hand, her face all ravaged. She looked a hundred. ‘Take care of Dad. Liz will be there.’
But Aunt Liz lives in Taunton and isn’t there most of the time, and he must do the best he can. The trouble is, Dad is his own worst enemy. He can be such fun, but then somebody says something that he takes against and that’s the end of it. He’s seized by a terrible rage, he shouts and shakes, but when it’s over he weeps with remorse and swears it won’t happen again.
Mikey peeps in at him. Dad’s having a little swig at the water bottle. He does it quite often and Mikey’s frightened that there’s something really wrong with Dad; that he might have throat cancer or something. Dad says it’s to do with the medication he takes for his depression, his happy pills, which makes his throat dry. He wishes Dad would have another check-up with the doctor but he gets surly when it’s mentioned.
Mikey cranes sideways so he can see the little slice of the church tower out of the window. He’ll go on Sunday to see if they have a choir. Singing lifts him, carries him away from all his troubles. He loves school and the choir and his mates. He’s really, really grateful that he’s got a scholarship so that they won’t have to worry about fees, even when his voice breaks and he gets older. Anyway, Mum took out some kind of insurance for school fees when he was just a baby. She said she did it because of Dad not being able to go to Winchester, though he passed the entrance exam, because Grampy couldn’t afford the fees and that Dad never got over it; that it was the root of all his problems and that it was Grampy’s fault, though Mikey can’t quite see why. Not everyone can afford expensive school fees.
The kettle boils and he makes coffee in a mug, carries it through and puts it on the little table. Dad’s asleep, head tipped sideways, snoring. He’s still there when Mikey goes to bed.
Jason wakes suddenly, heart pounding, staring round him. His throat is rough and sore from snoring and his head aches. The television is switched off and there’s no sign of Mikey. Jason groans, hauls himself upright, peers at his watch. Christ! It’s a quarter to bloody three. Mikey must have gone to bed long since. Well, no harm done.
He gets up, goes into the kitchen and fills a glass with tap water, gulping it back. His throat is on fire and he fills the glass again and drinks the water down. He leans against the sink, his eyes closed, trying to stop the panic that churns his gut. He can hear Helena telling him to breathe and he tries to do it, hauling air in through his nose, willing down the fear.
‘Try to rationalize it,’ she says to him. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
He thinks about it, what it is that’s nagging at the back of his mind, and then remembers: Evelyn bloody Drake sitting on a bench outside the pub with Mikey. He’d really had to control himself; restrain his wild desire to run forward and simply grab her and drag her away from his son.
He remembers now that he went into the pub to have a leak, and then a very quick shot of whisky at the bar on the way back – well, you can’t just use the loo without buying a drink – and then he’d come out and there she was, cool as you like, sitting there talking to Mikey. He nearly lost it but something held him back. For one thing, the place was heaving with people and even he could see that it would be asking for trouble to slap her about a bit in front of a crowd. For another, there was Mikey. He needs to keep Mikey on side; needs to show him that it’s she who is the root of all their troubles. Her affair with his father that caused darling Mama so much pain, her refusal to help in the slightest way with the school fees, even though by then she was rolling in it, all thanks to his father’s own research and all the help he’d given her.
‘She owes you,’ Mama said, way back then, staring at his father. Her face was so brittle, so white, it looked like it might shatter into pieces. ‘She owes us all. She nearly destroyed our marriage and without you she’d be nothing. You must write to her again but for God’s sake make your point. Don’t pussyfoot about this time. Jay’s whole future is at stake here.’
He’d been just outside the door, watching and listening; he was good at that, making himself small, invisible, listening to the rows, the arguments.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ his father replied wearily. ‘You know it wasn’t. My affair with Evie never threatened our marriage and she didn’t steal my research. You’re being utterly irrational.’
But she’d given him no peace. Jason smiles to himself. You had to admit that darling Mama never gave up: she was implacable. His father had written to Evelyn Drake again but the answer was still ‘no’. Even now he can remember the wrenching shock when Mama told him that he couldn’t go to Winchester; that he must go to the local grammar school.
He got over it, of course – or he thought he had until he saw Evelyn Drake in the Royal Castle. He can see now that all the little failures and disappointments lead directly back to her refusal to help: the bullying at school, his low self-esteem, which affects his interpersonal skills, the terrible depression. Watching her in the bar at the Royal Castle, and then earlier outside the pub, his hatred for her crystallized into a desire to do something violent: to make her pay for ruining his life. She has success, money, an international reputation, whilst he has so little in comparison: no wife, no job, a little flat that he might lose at any time. He’d like to break her neck – but not tonight.
Jason runs the cold tap, laves his face with cold water, dries it on some kitchen towel and creeps quietly up the stairs to bed.