Patrick opened his eyes and regretted it. His attempt to close the bedroom curtains last night had been cack-handed at best, and the morning sun seared straight into his retinas, as if someone behind it were about to subject him to interrogation.
I should interrogate myself, he thought, holding up a hand to ward off the glare. Why did you drink twelve beers last night, Mr King? Why did you not stop after eight, by which stage you knew you were already shit-faced? Why did you try to make your wife feel guilty about leaving your son, when you left him alone all afternoon because you had to sleep off the beer you’d drunk at lunchtime? Exactly how much beer did you drink yesterday? I see. Are you an alcoholic, Mr King? Or just a fucking moron?
At least I didn’t do anything under the influence that would make me feel worse than this hangover, thought Patrick. I was loud and embarrassing last night, but then, when am I not? Chad and Marcus didn’t seem to care. Darrell gave me an anxious look when I knocked over that chair, but on the whole she laughed right along with the other two.
Neither she nor Chad seemed at all worried about their spouses living it large in Milan. I guess they trust them, Patrick decided. And to be fair, I trust Clare, too. Before we got married, she made a point of telling me that she believed in fidelity. She knew I’d shagged more women than I could remember, so this was her way of being clear that if I strayed with even so much as a look, she would thread my cock onto a kebab skewer and serve it up to me.
I didn’t have to ask if the same rules applied to her, he thought. When Clare makes up her mind about how something will be, that’s how it is. She wanted to go to Milan, so she did. There was nothing I could have said to change her mind. I’m not sure how I feel about that, the fact that my wishes were heard but, in the end, ignored. At least I can be certain she won’t play away. I trust her, even when I’m starting to doubt every last thing about myself.
Clare hadn’t slept with many men before him, Patrick recalled. But that was because she’d made rules about that, too. Her ambition for her career was as honed as a Global kitchen knife, and to make it in PR, she’d told him, it paid to play the Virgin Queen game: keep them hanging on with a promise but, ultimately, never commit. Old Liz the First made each suitor think they might be the one to get access to her royal navy via the royal fanny, but she died with the reins of power still clutched firmly in her bony white fist. Clare had told him there was no shortage of men who wanted to sleep with her, and Patrick hadn’t doubted it for a second. But he knew she was careful about whom she favoured.
I always figured that’s why she chose me to marry. I was an outsider. I wasn’t a player in her world but — and this was important — I played a successful game of my own. Our ambition connected us, Patrick thought. Back then, we moved at the same speed.
Thing is, I’m slowing down. Getting sloppy. Yeats again: lose momentum, you lose control. Happens. Even Roger Federer makes unforced errors these days. Pretty soon, he’ll be a name in the sporting histories and another guest in the crowded commentary box. And there’ll be a new boy on the court, acing his opponent so fast, the other guy won’t even bother to lift his racquet.
Patrick turned his head to see the alarm clock. It was after nine. I’d planned to be up to give Tom breakfast at seven-thirty, he thought. Now, I’ll be lucky if I can get to the bathroom without Wallacing. Some fucking father I am.
He made it to the bathroom, and bent carefully to drink out of the tap. The water swilled around inside him and, as if in a blocked sink, started to rise again, but by breathing deeply and staying perfectly still, Patrick managed to keep it down. He knew Clare kept a packet of super-strength aspirin in her travel bag for period pain, and he rummaged around on the bathroom shelf, praying she had not taken it with her. The aspirin were there and Patrick, not willing to risk more water, let four dissolve directly in his mouth. Tastes like the inside of an exhaust pipe, he thought. Serves me right.
He stood over the toilet and sent a stream of lurid yellow, pungent urine into the bowl. If that’s what my liver’s trying to process, he thought, I’d better put myself on the donor waiting list soon as I get home. That’d serve me right, too.
Patrick contemplated the shower, but a tiny techno DJ was throwing down a drum track in the space behind his eyes, while the lighting engineer made lurid strobes duck and dive in front. Patrick made it back to the bed, sat down gingerly on the edge and waited for the aspirin to work.
Five hours later — that’s what it felt like, thought Patrick, but apparently it was only twenty minutes — the rave crew had packed up their equipment and left the warehouse. Briefly, he wondered what state Clare was in after her night on the majolica tiles. She’d party hard, he thought, but she’d never get out of control. Clare always knows how to keep the lid on. Unlike her alcoholic, sick-horse-pissing, aspirin-chewing, child-neglecting, loud, embarrassing moron of a husband.
I still feel like shit, thought Patrick, but at least now I can probably dress myself without aid. Though I suspect I’ll be doing that like everything else today — slowly and very carefully.
Not trusting his balance, he sat down on the bed to pull on his pants. Shirt and jeans on, Patrick checked that everything that really needed to be buttoned and zipped was, and wandered over to the front window.
The bedroom was on one corner of the villa. Its front window gave a view right across the lake, to the eastern shore, and the side window overlooked the lawn and the gardens. The sun bouncing off the lake was doing Patrick no favours, so he moved to the side window. What he saw there undid all the soothing work of the aspirin in an instant. What he saw was Tom in the arms of Ned Marsh.
Patrick’s first instinct was to run, and he made it out of the bedroom and halfway down the stairs before his body staged a mutiny.
‘Fuck …’
Patrick hung on to the banister with a sweating hand, as a black, buzzing swarm rose behind his eyes, and bile scorched the back of his throat. He sank down onto the stair, and breathed deep, willing himself not to throw up. His instincts were still screaming at him to move, but more running was out of the question. By focusing on his breathing and on taking steps that did not unduly jar him, Patrick made his way down the stairs, through the kitchen and out onto the lawn.
If I die today, he thought, it won’t be from alcohol poisoning. It’ll be from fucking heart failure and frustration. He’s probably gone by now, snatched Tom and taken him fuck knows where. And there’ll be fuck-all that I can do about it.
But Ned was still there, and so was Tom.
His small son, Patrick saw, was now sitting on the lawn next to Charlotte, who had laid out biscuits and cordial on a rug. Rosie was there, too, sitting next to Tom, reaching out, as he was, to receive the plastic cups Charlotte was handing them. Ned was on the grass, sitting with one knee down, one up, with his hand resting on it.
In his brown overalls, he looks a bit like a bronze garden statue, Patrick thought. Only nowhere near as benign.
Charlotte had her back to him, so it was Ned who spotted Patrick first. He said to Charlotte, ‘Tha’s got company.’
‘Hello!’
Charlotte turned and smiled up at Patrick. She was wearing the yellow sundress he could have sworn she’d started the day in yesterday. She looked as fresh and neat as a daffodil.
Patrick recalled what he’d said to her yesterday afternoon, and the state he’d been in when he’d said it, and inwardly cringed. Oh well, he reasoned. At least she missed my encore performance last night. Where had she been? he wondered. Out with some bloke? His eye shifted immediately to Ned, but all he saw there was the usual hostility. And Charlotte was showing no signs of embarrassment at being caught with him. Ned’s too old for her anyway, Patrick thought. Too old, too working class, too uncultured. Not Charlotte’s type at all.
‘Come and join us.’ Charlotte patted the grass next to her.
Patrick decided it was best at this point, for multiple reasons, to stay standing. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Chad has taken Harry fishing,’ she said. ‘He found lifejackets and rods in the boathouse, and they’ve gone out on the lake. I shouldn’t expect we’ll be feasting on sun perch tonight, but no matter.’
‘And Darrell?’
‘Darrell is out.’ Charlotte reached for the plate of biscuits and lifted it up to him. ‘Coconut macaroon?’
‘No, thanks.’ Patrick felt his gorge rising. He was feeling the sun, too, even though this day was cooler than others before had been. The heat, on top of his recent exertion, was making his shirt stick to his back and he could feel rivulets of sweat trickling uncomfortably down from his armpits. He ran his hand over his forehead. It came away damp.
‘Hard night?’
Ned’s tone and half-smile filled Patrick with resentment. I bet that bastard knows exactly why I’m sweating, and that it’s not all the fault of the alcohol. I bet he was carrying Tom on purpose, just to wind me up.
‘Don’t you have a job to do?’ Patrick said.
‘Aye,’ said Ned. ‘But your nanny invited us t’ have morning tea with t’ children.’
Rosie chose that moment to get up and toddle over to Ned, and crawl onto his lap. She sat facing him, so she could thrust the chewed, spit-slick remains of her macaroon at his mouth.
‘Rosie bikkit Ned!’ she insisted.
‘Ta, flower,’ said Ned, deftly ducking his head to avoid it. ‘But ’tis all yours.’
He turned her in his lap, so she was facing forwards. Rosie settled happily against his chest, and began to masticate the remains of her sticky macaroon.
‘Rosie bikkit,’ she said smugly.
‘Charlotte?’ Patrick gave himself a pat on the back for how calm he sounded. He beckoned with his finger. ‘A word?’
Charlotte added a notch to Patrick’s blood pressure by turning first to Ned, who, after a sly glance at Patrick, nodded. She hopped up and Patrick took her by the arm and led her as fast as he dared out of earshot of the group on the lawn.
‘Charlotte, what the holy flying fuck?’ he said. ‘Why are you letting Ned Marsh within twenty fucking miles of our children?’
‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t,’ said Charlotte crisply. ‘He’s not a paedophile. Or a serial killer or a child slaver.’
‘That’s not the fucking point!’ Patrick could feel the return of the black swarm. He paused to regulate his breathing. ‘Ned Marsh fucking hates me! I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could fucking throw him!’
‘It’s only you he’s keen for revenge on,’ said Charlotte. ‘Tom’s perfectly safe.’
Patrick blinked at her, and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes.
‘My brain is not firing on all cylinders this morning,’ he said, ‘but I’m getting the distinct impression you know all about me and Ned. Who told you? Clare?’
Charlotte hesitated. Long enough for Patrick to consider the only other option.
‘Ned told you?’ He noted her brisk nod in disbelief. ‘Charlotte! What the fuck?’
‘Well, I didn’t know who he was before he told me, did I?’ Her voice rose, too. ‘And honestly — it’s ridiculous! It happened almost thirty years ago! How can anyone possibly carry a grudge for that long?’
‘Because it still hurts.’
Ned was right behind them, carrying Rosie and holding Tom’s hand.
‘Give him to me.’
Patrick lunged forward and snatched Tom up into his arms. The speed, the rough handling, startled the boy, and he began to cry.
‘Shit.’ Patrick cradled his son’s head into his shoulder, rocked him. ‘Sorry, tiger. Didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Didn’t mean, didn’t mean.’ Ned spat out the words in a contemptuous singsong. ‘You nivver do mean it, d’ you? But ye do it, all t’ same.’
‘Stop it!’ said Charlotte firmly. ‘There are children present. Ones who generally behave a sight more maturely than you two are right now.’
‘Top it!’ yelled Rosie cheerfully. ‘Top it! Top it!’
Tom had quietened down, but Patrick continued to rock him. ‘She sounds like she’s in the Coliseum,’ he said. ‘Baying for blood.’
He looked at Ned. ‘Is that what you want? Blood? A pound of flesh?’
‘There’s nowt you could gi’ me,’ said Ned. ‘Not a thing.’
‘Ned, honestly,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m so sorry you lost your sister, but really, does it do any good to still be this angry, after so many years?’
‘Shit,’ said Patrick. ‘Is she dead? Is Julie dead?’
‘Did ye not think t’ find out?’ said Ned. ‘She’s been dead twenty-five year. Most people might have asked by now.’
‘Yeah, they would have,’ said Patrick. ‘I don’t have any excuses.’ He paused. ‘Was it drugs?’
‘’Twas,’ said Ned.
‘Like I said: I don’t have any excuses,’ said Patrick. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry. She deserved a better life than that. So did you.’
‘You got a better life, didn’t you?’ said Ned.
A sudden, intense rage galvanised Patrick from head to toe.
What do you know about my life, Ned fucking Marsh? he thought. What do you know? My life is escaping me, galloping madly off in all directions like a bad novel. My grip is being prised off it, finger by finger, and, when it goes, where and how far will I fall?
‘Charlotte.’ Patrick drew himself up, and spoke quietly but with steely resolve. ‘If you want to see Ned, see him on your own time. I won’t stop you. But during the day, when the children are here, I don’t want you anywhere near him. Ned will keep to the garden and you’ll keep out of his way. No more tea on the grass, do you hear me?’
I’ve not spoken to anyone like this in months, he thought. It’s my deal-making, don’t-fuck-with-me tone. And you know what? I’ve missed it.
‘Do you hear me, Charlotte?’
She nodded. Her face was pale, and, for a second, Patrick felt a stab of guilt.
But no, he thought. Fuck it. This is how it has to be.
‘Pack up and bring Rosie,’ he said. ‘I want you inside in no more than five minutes.’
He did not wait for a response. He did not need to. He held Tom securely in his arms and walked back to the house.