5

THE POLICE STATION IN PANJIM had the look of a colonial manor, garnished with drooping palms and gabled eaves and a wraparound porch. Two monkeys up on the roof chirruped as Matt and Mieke approached. Or, rather, as Matt trailed Mieke up the steps—supportively, he hoped. More supportive than Ash had been on the phone, anyway, shouting and judging and then—the little twerp—hanging up.

Mieke still hadn’t really opened up. She was just as silent now as she’d been during the ride from the beach to the resort, huddled in the far corner of the auto-rickshaw. ‘I’m fine,’ she’d kept telling Matt, whether he asked or not.

Back in her room, the minute they closed the door Mieke collapsed on the bed and cried softly for a while, and Matt sat there patting her back, crying a little too. Yet when she sat up he wondered if they’d been crying for the same reasons. After showering she offered him half the bed, then crawled to the far side, turned away, knees to her chest, and slept like that until noon. Matt lay awake the whole night, turning things over in his brain: how could a Christmas romance have gone so catastrophically wrong?

Despite its grand facade, the police station’s interior was in disrepair: dirty walls, chipped floors, and the dim lighting of a crypt. Not exactly a place to install much faith in justice. Matt joined Mieke at the unmanned front desk while khaki-clothed officers flitted past in all directions, responding to Matt’s ‘Excuse me?’ with curt nods and a perfunctory, ‘Sir.’ Finally he caught a bony guy by the elbow. Nametag: Fernandez.

‘Officer,’ said Matt. ‘We’d like to report an assault.’

The man shook free, regarded Matt with suspicion. ‘You are injured?’

‘Not me.’ Matt nodded at Mieke. ‘Her.’

‘Eh?’

‘On the beach.’

‘Which beach?’

‘I…don’t know. There’s a cove and—’

‘Up north,’ said Mieke.

‘Eh? Then not this jurisdiction.’ He headed down the hallway.

Matt followed. ‘We want to file a report.’

Fernandez glanced at Matt as he might an intrusive salesperson. ‘You are making the complaint, or your friend?’

‘Well, her.’ But Mieke hung back, gazing at her feet. ‘I’m a witness.’

Leaning into one of the offices, Fernandez hollered, ‘Fernandez!’ And took his leave of Matt with a martial bow.

A young woman in the same beige uniform appeared. (Same nametag too: another Fernandez.)

Matt took her to Mieke.

This woman—Anita, she told Mieke—sat them on the station’s front steps and produced a ledger, the carbon paper crinkling. ‘Write please your crime.’

There was no pen. Mieke was given a stick. ‘Scrape it,’ she was told, and Anita Fernandez demonstrated with her fingernail how this might produce a facsimile.

Mieke passed it to Matt. ‘You do it. Your English is better.’

So Matt scraped. He scraped about the bus, though neither of them knew the number, describing its route with as much detail as possible. He scraped about the toilets, the walk along the beach, the cove. He scraped about swimming, about the boy—that frigging rat. He scraped about returning to the beach and Mieke taking her turn in the water. But then came the thing he hadn’t seen. He looked at Mieke. She looked at him.

Anita Fernandez checked her watch. From somewhere in the police station came the rasp of phlegm horked from lungs to lips. A distant splat.

‘Why don’t I just write it,’ said Mieke. Matt handed her the stick.

‘Does this kind of thing happen a lot around here?’ he asked Anita Fernandez.

‘With tourists?’ she said. ‘Some theft, yes,’

‘No. I mean…You know.’

Anita Fernandez looked uncomfortable. ‘There is crime in Goa as there is anywhere,’ she sloganed, and looked away—as if from, or toward, a camera. What wronger wrongs had this woman witnessed? Maybe she’d been wronged herself. Maybe she’d been through something similar. Or some horror many times worse.

‘Can’t I just tell you what happened?’ said Mieke.

Matt eyed the ledger. She’d written nothing. ‘I could probably identify the guy,’ he said. ‘About yay-big. Skinny. Dark-skinned…’

A pair of yay-big, skinny, dark-skinned officers came out of the station. Matt had to swing his legs out of the way to let them pass.

‘You must write,’ Anita Fernandez told Mieke. ‘We require a full report.’

But Mieke had dropped her twig. At her feet lay dozens of the things, fallen from a nearby tree or abandoned by prospective plaintiffs. For a moment Matt worried theirs might be lost forever. But this thought was interrupted with panic: he had drugs on his person. They’d never had a chance to smoke Yaniv’s joint so he’d stashed it back in his pocket—where it remained, now, on the literal doorstep of the law.

‘You must write,’ Anita Fernandez told Mieke, and retrieved a stick from the ground. ‘Once a complaint is made, a report must be filed.’

The two women locked eyes.

Matt wavered. What was he doing here, dancing among the wolves with a steak stapled to his crotch? Suicide! He stood.

Anita Fernandez squinted up at him. ‘You are leaving?’

‘He didn’t see anything,’ Mieke said flatly.

‘Not a dang thing,’ said Matt, in retreat down the steps. Might the joint’s outline be seen incriminatingly through his shorts? He jammed his hands in his pockets. ‘So it’s cool then if I head?’

Mieke stared. Anita stared. Matt clutched the joint in his fist—if only he’d hooped it! Surely in India all he’d need was a glass of unfiltered water to crap it free.

From inside the station came a cracking sound. Not gunfire, Matt told himself, after a quick visual check for bullet holes in his chest. Simply a door slamming closed. Still it was enough to send him tumbling out the gate.

‘Text me when you’re done,’ he cried, with a final glimpse over his shoulder: Mieke and Anita were heading arm in arm inside the station.

—

MATT FOLLOWED SIGNS (many in Russian) to the ocean, as good a place as any to get rid of drugs. Crowds clotted the seaside promenade; the air had turned humid and close. Matt felt so big, plodding along heavily against the foot traffic. People dodged past, eyed him with annoyance. No matter where he moved he seemed to be in the way—an obstacle, an encumbrance. Useless, without cause or effect. Matt had never felt like such a burden, so dispatched and weak.

And what was the plan? Head to the water, wade out and fling the joint in the waves? No, it’d just wash up, stained with Matt’s fingerprints. Better: annihilation by fire. Though if he was going to burn the thing anyway, what a waste not to smoke it. Two birds, one stoned and happy Canuck: this way he’d destroy the evidence and provide himself a little kick in the metaphysical pants.

But where to light up? Any of these Goans could be a shifty narc. Smoking the joint seemed yet another prologue to humiliation—flipped to the ground, the roach put out with a fleshy sizzle on his cheek. Maybe the Israeli had given it to him knowing full well what trouble it’d bring.

And what sort of friend was Mieke, anyway? Friends didn’t act like they could care less if you existed or not. Sumit had warned him about cahoots. The Dutchwoman could be an agent in some elaborate, cahooted ploy. The joint in his pocket—might it even be laced? Possibly. Mieke’s aloof seduction, the gift exchange, the remarkable coincidence that he would get drugs as a present; it was all a little too perfect. And what had actually happened the night before in the cove? She’d barely told him anything.

Matt paused at an archway that fronted one of the big hotels. Yes, it all made sense: back in Delhi Mieke had suggested the restaurant knowing her Russian associates would be there, that he’d muck it up and have to flee to Goa. But what was the scheme? Organ harvest? Identity theft? Or maybe she and her cronies were running the long-game: the whole affair would end with Mieke dirty-bombing the SkyDome with Ebola.

Ah, but Matt wasn’t the easy mark they’d thought! He’d reckoned their play. The ball was in his court. Time for some action. Time to make a memory of his frigging own.

First, though, he needed to smoke this joint. And before that, to steady the ship, a drink.

Beyond the gates a turbaned guy stood watch, rifle at his hip. Eyeing the gun warily Matt asked if there were a public bar in the hotel. Yes indeed there was, sir, he was told. Though it wasn’t open until 6 p.m.

Matt ignored this, circumnavigated the hotel, ended up in the workout room, asked directions from the towel boy, somehow found his way into the sub-basement, escaped via service elevator, located the ‘Lounge’—empty—snuck behind the bar and poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey, neat. And retreated to a booth with his drink.

Who were his allies, who could he trust? Not the police. Anita Fernandez was clearly also in the mob’s pocket. Sumit? No, the guy could barely get it together to take Matt sightseeing. There was Sumit’s boss, Ash’s cousin, but Matt couldn’t very well intro himself as the target of an international crime syndicate. Ash had other relatives, but they were up in Kashmir, or near it, and that was far. And Ash—never mind Ash. He’d sold Matt out for the last time. This was Matt’s moment, alone.

Matt took a sip of whiskey. Lowering the drink he noticed a bus-boy setting tables in the adjoining room. A kid, really, swimming in a starchy grey uniform. Matt sipped his beer and watched: the kid worked methodically, but with fluency and comfort, moving almost musically to the ruffle of linens and clink of glassware. There was a whiff of familiarity about him, too. Not his face, the light was too dim to make that out. More his movements, which had a certain whimsy.

Matt nearly choked on his beer. Was it? Yes. Holy frigging crud—definitely. That lean, angular body and jangly limbs were unmistakeable. That flop of black hair was easy to imagine soaking wet and tamped to the scalp. Or that little walnut of a rear end inverting and plummeting beneath the surface of the sea. Or those hands, reaching for his. Or reaching for Mieke.

Head down and singing softly to himself, the kid went into the kitchen. He had that loose, oblivious way of someone who believed himself alone. So. Advantage: Matt.

He put down his drink. Looked around. Slid out of the booth and crept to the kitchen. Peeked through the swinging doors. No sign of anyone. In he went, as stealthily as a man his size could.

The kitchen smelled of steel, and egg, and spice. A single bulb cast a splash of light by the prep stations, but mostly the room was in darkness. A rustling noise sent Matt ducking behind the sink. The kid appeared with garbage bags, one over each shoulder. From a crouch, breath held, Matt watched him head out the exit. When it closed, he scuttled after him.

The door opened into an alleyway beside the hotel. The kid was down one end slinging trash into a dumpster. No one else in sight.

On the wall beside the exit was a fire extinguisher. Matt took it down off the wall. Just to spray the kid, bewilder him. Moving outside, Matt tripped and sent a tower of plastic buckets scattering—and the jig was up.

‘This is the service area, Sir,’ said the kid. ‘Not for guests.’

‘Isn’t it?’ said Matt, pleased with the menacing nonchalance in his voice.

The kid didn’t move. ‘Supper will be served at 6 p.m.’

Matt approached, carrying the fire extinguisher in one hand.

‘Sir?’

‘Remember me?’

‘Sir, my apologies, there are many guests at this hotel—’

‘Come, swim with me. Hold my hand.’

The kid stared.

‘What, you forgot? I thought we had something, bro.’ He stopped a pace or two away. Cracked his neck. Moved the fire extinguisher to his shoulder—like a bazooka.

‘Sir, you shouldn’t have that. Please…’

Matt tried to think of some witty catchphrase, something poetic and appropriately vengeful, but none came to mind. So he aimed the nozzle. But when he went to spray the kid in the face, the trigger jammed. He tried again. Nothing.

Sensing an opening, the kid bolted. Matt reacted: the fire extinguisher swung. A sickly crunch, metal on skull. A sense of bone buckling. And the kid crumpled as if shot.

Matt straddled the fallen body.

‘Nothing to say for yourself? When we were such good friends? Of course, that was before I knew who you were working for.’

The kid was face down, limbs splayed.

The lights extinguished and the alley descended into shadow. Matt looked up, expecting snipers on the rooftop. But no one was there. He set down the extinguisher and waved his arms. The motion sensor ticked and the lights came back on.

‘Look at me,’ he said.

Whimpering from below. The face remained hidden.

‘Frig,’ Matt muttered. ‘Enough with the waterworks already.’

But the kid wasn’t crying. He was gasping. A wet, gurgling sound.

‘Jesus.’

A cough, a wheeze. Silence. Still, Matt was wary. He knew this ploy, the coward feigning defeat only to jump up and stab him with a syringe full of tranqs—or AIDS.

‘Okay,’ said Matt, stepping back. ‘Get up.’

No response. He nudged the kid’s leg: the body heaved. And was still.

‘Bro?’

Nothing.

Matt squatted, gave the boy a shake. And recoiled. Panic jagged through his guts. Up close, this kid was far stockier and older than the one he’d swum with.

The lights extinguished. In the sudden darkness, the world seemed to reel.

This feeling was familiar: an instantaneous mistake followed by the careening reality of time. All it took was a fraction of a second—the window smashed, the condom forgone, the pill popped, the biker mocked, the cop mooned—and whatever misstep receded unalterably into the past. With this body heaped at his feet, Matt again sensed his life diverging closer to the cliff-top—to the void, to the end.

SHERENE GOT STUCK in highway traffic so Ash arrived alone, making his way through the downtown shopping centre that housed London’s central library. He’d forgotten that it was Boxing Day; the place was a riot of deal-seekers thronging in and out of the stores, eyes glazed and arms loaded with the spoils of their savings.

By the library’s front desk a FICTION WORKSHOP sign and arrow directed him to one of the seminar/study rooms. Through the wire-hatched window in the door, four people sat equally spaced around a conference table, as if enduring a double-date or pre-trial disclosure. Ash let himself in.

Heads turned. He nodded generally and wedged himself in the corner. To his left sat a grinning woman whose OED, thesaurus, usage dictionary and coil-bound notebook were stacked neatly on the table; to his right loomed a man in Hemingway’s beard and a cableknit sweater.

Ash took out Brij’s book—his transcription, freshly printed—and set it fatly on the table. The 40-point title seemed to echo through the room:

THE PATRIMONIES

It was a statement: a real writer was in their midst. But before the group could be sufficiently cowed, in trotted a character in a tweed blazer and goatee, waving like a game show host.

‘Well hello my literary colleagues!’ His accent was, exactly, Dracula’s.

‘Hi Milosz,’ chorused the class—save Ash.

Milosz placed his valise on the table, remained standing. ‘I trust you’re all well?’

‘Fine as wine,’ growled Hemingway. ‘How were your holidays?’

‘Hardly ever a holiday for me, Grant!’ Here Milosz mimed either stenography or Rachmaninoff, fingers dancing in the air. ‘Always working,’ he whispered.

‘Done your play?’

Milosz’s gaze swept over his acolytes, gauging their worthiness. With a shrug, he unclasped his valise and removed a ream of papers elastic-banded together. ‘The manuscript!’ he cried.

Amid the subsequent applause, Ash flipped his dad’s novel facedown.

Milosz chuckled. ‘Only the first draft. About which we know what?’

‘The first draft is a skeleton,’ sing-songed his disciples.

‘If you’re feeling left out,’ said Milosz, eyeing Ash. ‘I’m sure by the end of the workshop you’ll be sick to death of me and all my slogans.’

Ash glanced at the door. Still no sign of Sherene.

‘Well! Enough about me.’ Milosz entombed the skeleton and peered around the room. ‘So who’s here…Grant? How’s the collection coming?’

‘Edits.’

‘Which…’

‘Are the life’s blood of a book,’ recited Grant.

‘Lifeblood.’ Milosz beamed at the woman with the reference books. ‘Donna?’

‘Oh you know. Some pieces here and there.’

‘So modest! I happen to know that a poem of Donna’s, which those of you who took Poetry with Panache might remember—the one about, what was it? Butter?’

‘Ice cream. “On First Tasting of Chapman’s Vanilla.” ’

‘Yes, your Keats parody. A delight.’

‘Yeah, it got an honourable mention…’

But he had already moved on: ‘Bertrand? Priscilla? How is your screenplay?’

A fortyish couple with the same paper plate of a face exchanged nervous looks.

‘We’ve had some creative differences,’ said the husband.

‘Thought this’d be a good place to work them out,’ said the wife.

‘Ah,’ said Milosz, with a trace of fear. ‘And last, you cowering in the back. You are?’

‘My name?’ said Ash.

‘Yes!’

‘My name is…Brijnath.’

‘Brijnath.’ Milosz sounded skeptical. ‘And you’re here because?’

‘Because my mom’s boyfriend signed me up for this class.’

He felt everyone’s eyes on him—the interloper, the impostor. Also he probably sounded like some unruly teen, dumped here for remedial discipline.

‘Have you done much writing previously?’

Ash stared. Then: ‘Not for a while, no.’

‘And? Your area of interest is what? The novel?’

‘I like novels, sure.’

‘Is that it? On the table?’

Ash pulled his father’s book closer. ‘The start of one, yeah.’

‘We’ll look forward to it this afternoon. Until then…’ Handouts appeared from the valise and were passed briskly around the room. ‘Those who’ve taken my courses know the drill. In the morning we free-write. After lunch, we share WIPS.’

There was a murmur of acquiescence. Ash raised his hand.

‘Works in progress,’ whispered Donna.

The hand retracted.

‘Indeed, Brijnath,’ said Milosz. ‘You shan’t miss your chance to regale us with your novel. But first, we create.’

Ash, irate, slid The Patrimonies into his bag. He was one of the nation’s literary gatekeepers! And a published author with a major press, not whatever print-on-demand swindle produced Milosz’s silly scripts. One email could ruin this Balkan bloodsucker’s career. Or could have until lately, he supposed. Where the hell was Sherene?

‘We shall begin with a warm-up exercise.’ Milosz cracked his knuckles, cracked his neck. ‘Everyone? Please…Close your eyes…And relax…’

Obediently the class descended into a vegetative trance while Milosz murmured about clouds and light and Ash entertained murder fantasies and their related headlines: Transylvanian playwright beaten to death with valise! Drama community rejoices…

The door opened and Ash nearly jumped to his feet.

Sherene met his eyes, nodded in a covert way. ‘Hi,’ she said, waving to the room.

‘Everyone, ignore the disruption,’ cried Milosz, marshalling her in with a frantic wave of his hand—so fragile, the spell of his teaching! ‘Quickly, before you lose the moment, move straight from your subconscious to the page. Listen well and follow my prompts. Writing is a journey and we embark upon it, now, together!’

—

AT NOON EXACTLY Milosz called for lunch. There was a sense of rebirth, maybe, as the class paraded out into the blazing lights of the library and beyond. Sherene and Ash met up in the stacks. After a quick glance around, they hugged.

‘I’m so happy to see you,’ she said.

‘Before I forget: my name is Brijnath,’ said Ash.

‘Interesting.’

‘Oh, be quiet. Let’s go eat.’

In the food court they ordered combos and sat. All around them shoppers were refuelling between bouts of bargaineering. Their distant conversations reminded Ash of guttering candles.

‘You ever heard of this teacher?’ Sherene asked. ‘Or his work?’

‘Never,’ said Ash. ‘He’s really got a system, though. You’d think we were in there with Stanislavski or something.’

‘Oh, hush. The students seem to like him.’

‘God, and now we’re going to have to sit through their awful stories.’

‘You’re such a grump! It could be fun. Or funny.’

‘Are you kidding? You know what these people write about? Themselves. Plotless stories transcribed from plotless lives. It will be terrible. Mark me, woman!’

She stole one of his onion rings.

‘And you know the lyrical hogwash these types think makes for good writing. Description to the point of assault. As if meaning might be bullied loose with words.’

‘So I’m assuming, Brijnath, that you did end up bringing your dad’s book?’

‘As if literature were just an accumulation of similes,’ he continued. ‘That’s an indirect comparison using like or as, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘Answer me.’

Ash sighed. ‘Maybe.’

‘Wow,’ she said, stealing another onion ring. ‘Bold.’

‘As if I had time to write something of my own!’

‘Why not? I did.’

‘What?’ Ash’s burger was oozing; he leaned in and slurped. ‘Just like that?’

‘Well, don’t get too excited. It’s not like it’s any good.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘You inspired me, old friend.’

‘What do you mean? It’s not about me, is it?’ Ash’s thoughts fled to himself staggering around the streets of Montreal—Matt’s supposed video, if it existed.

‘No, no. I was just reading about where you’re from and came across something cool.’

‘Where I’m from? London?’

‘No, sweetie. Kashmir.’

Ash mopped his face with a napkin. ‘Sorry?’

‘I got a book…I don’t know, it was meant to be some way to…It sounds so stupid when I say it. How long have we known each other? Eight years? And I don’t know, I’ve just felt so far away from you these past couple months, since…Your dad…And I never met him and wanted to be a good friend, but I didn’t—’

‘Spit it out, for god’s sakes. What are you on about?’

‘—know what you needed. I thought this might be one way to understand you. Your culture. Who you are.’

‘Sherene, seriously. You want to understand who I am you’d do better to spend the day walking around this mall. Story of my early years. Shoplifting and’—he held up his ruined burger—‘eating literal garbage.’

‘Anyway, you want to hear this story?’

‘You memorized it?’

‘I can give you the gist.’

‘Sure. As long as you don’t think you’ve unlocked some key to my soul or anything.’

‘Just listen. The original is from the eighth century, but the version I found was written by this poet, Kalhana, in the eleven hundreds. A Kashmiri. Heard of him?’

Ash tipped the last few onion rings onto his tray and shrugged: of course; never.

‘Except I read a modern translation, which makes mine an adaptation of an adaptation of a nine-hundred-year-old document of something that happened four hundred years before that.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s this poet, Matrigupta, whose king offers the best poets residencies in his palace. As such, most poetry is written to please the king. “The king is good, the king is great,” that sort of thing. So this is what Matrigupta writes too, because he and his wife are poor, and palace artists get nice salaries and apartments.’

‘Give me some of your fries.’

‘Matrigupta’s wife is a weaver. Kalhana doesn’t give her a name, but in my version I call her—guess?’ She placed a single french fry on his tray. ‘No guesses? Fine: Sherene.’

‘I should have known.’

‘Sherene the Weaver sells rugs and shawls at the local market. She’s happy in her work, while Matrigupta isn’t exactly overjoyed to be reciting poems about how benevolent and glorious the king is. Privately, of course, he writes different poems. Odes to Sherene, mainly, because she’s so beautiful and brilliant and great.’

Ash laughed. Not just at the joke. The story was exactly the sort of thing Sherene loved, with its looming moral of artistic integrity. It was a laugh of comfort, familiarity.

‘So eventually Matrigupta reads a poem about how terrific the king is and it goes over really well and he’s invited to the palace for a residency.’ She rationed out another lone fry, but moved her ketchup away when Ash went to dip. ‘Note that there are no residencies for weavers. Though, you know, there ought to be.’

‘Should there be?’

‘Hush. A few days later Matrigupta starts reciting poetry for the king. Pretty soon that’s all he’s doing so he doesn’t have time to write poems for Sherene, and it deflates him a bit. But a month or two later she gets pregnant and he’s energized again, enough to write a poem about their child and what their life will be like as parents. It’s a great poem, maybe his best work, and he decides to read it to the king instead of his regular stuff. Except the king hates it. He’s told to write an ode like he’s supposed to, “or else.” Matrigupta worries that he’s cost his family everything. Even so, all he can think about is the baby and Sherene, so when he doesn’t have a new poem ready, the palace guards escort his family out the gates. Within days Sherene gives birth, way too early. There are complications and she dies in labour and so does the baby. Matrigupta falls apart. He swears off poetry forever and takes a job as the palace lamplighter: every day at dusk he circles the palace, lighting each lamp, save the one by the king’s bedroom window. One night the king has had enough. He’s waiting on the balcony and catches Matrigupta going past. “Hey!” he calls. “You there! Light my lamp.” Matrigupta ignores him. The king is so enraged that he doesn’t even summon one of his guards. He just rushes out of his room, down the stairs, through the courtyard and out the gates, where he finds Matrigupta hiding in the shadows. Oh, I like this part—he has chapped lips.’

‘Chapped lips?’

‘Matrigupta, yeah. For real. That detail has survived through all the translations. I didn’t even add it: for nine-hundred years Matrigupta has had chapped lips.’

‘Wow. Why do you think—’

‘Hold on, let me finish. ‘ “I know you,” says the king. “You were one of my best poets. What happened?” Matrigupta struggles to his feet, and from somewhere finds the words to speak. He tells his entire story, from his beginnings as a poet, writing poems for his wife, to his move inside the palace, to his expulsion, to the deaths of his wife and child. He tells it all, right up to that very moment, telling the king his story.’

‘So what happens?’

‘Well that’s as far as my version goes,’ said Sherene. ‘In the real story, the king gives Matrigupta a kingdom of his own, Kashmir, where Matrigupta rules for years, before turning ascetic and forgoing all worldly possessions and all that Hindu claptrap.’

‘But you don’t include that in your version?’

‘Well here’s the thing. Think about this story: the “woman behind the man” is sacrificed, sending him into an emotional spiral, from which he emerges triumphant, wife replaced with land. Those themes—inspiration, dominion, property—are such typical manifestations of male power. And yet I wrote it, Ash. I mean, I didn’t make it up, but I felt inspired enough to type it out. Which is maybe worse? Anyway, when I got to the ending I sat back and was just like, “What am I doing?” Me—even me, with all my feminist thinking, fell into the trap of this lame narrative. I think it’s partly because I’ve never written fiction before, so I defaulted to a certain type of story. So I got to thinking: how do you subvert that? Maybe there can’t be an ending. Because these sorts of stories are these weirdly deterministic things. There’s this teleology that justifies its parts with the sum, which is usually a man achieving success—getting the girl, or the glory, or regaining his sense of self, whatever. Even if he rejects it, like Matrigupta—which, really, only elevates that success to some transcendentally higher plane. So either there can’t be an ending, or I’d like to go back and redo the whole thing, retell it in some new way. Bring Sherene back from the dead to kill everyone, maybe.’

‘But why is that the alternative? Why does the feminist version have to end with the woman laying slaughter to all the men? Can’t there be some middle ground?’

‘Oh, sweetie, I wasn’t being serious.’ Sherene checked her phone. ‘We should probably get going.’

‘Wait, though, I don’t understand. What drew you to this story in the first place? I mean, other than an essential glimpse into my Kashmiri soul.’

Sherene seemed to be searching Ash’s face for the answer. Her eyes settled on his mouth. ‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘I think it was the chapped lips. Nine hundred years of Matrigupta’s chapped lips. I liked that, that human touch. That fallibility. Seems to me the only true thing in the whole story.’

—

MILOSZ STOOD AT THE FRONT of the classroom with his arms raised like a preacher. ‘I trust we are all ready to workshop our WIPS?’

Nods and smiles and murmurs of artistic camaraderie rippled around the table. Ash nodded too: of course! Fiction—what a lark!

‘Good,’ continued Milosz. ‘Such confidence and courage. For? What?’

‘The enemy of creation,’ intoned his minions, ‘is fear and self-doubt.’

Milosz clucked his approval. ‘Who will share first?’

Grant’s hand shot up and, as if he were a brave soldier selflessly flinging himself upon the grenade of Milosz’s intellect, he offered, ‘I suppose I can go.’

‘Grant! Fine.’

‘It’s called “Looking Back,” ’ said Grant. ‘It’s about…the past.’

‘One of the richest sources of creative material,’ Milosz explained, ‘is memory.’

Ash watched Sherene watch four adults write this down.

Grant gathered the pages in his hands. ‘Here goes nothing,’ he said, cleared his throat, and proceeded with the monotone of a train conductor announcing station stops.

Ash retrieved The Patrimonies from his bag. What harm would it be to share a few pages? A chance to honour Brij’s memory, maybe, even with this cult of shopping-mall literati and their madman of a master. Ash scanned the manuscript while Grant droned on and on about ‘Greg,’ his fictional proxy, thinking about things and putting on pants.

At last it was over. An ovation followed. Fourteen minutes had passed.

‘Wonderful,’ said Milosz. ‘You know the character so well.’

‘Well, it’s just me,’ said Grant.

Milosz held up a closed fist: a directive for Grant’s mouth. ‘This is a fiction class, remember. This story is not about you. It’s about Greg.’

‘Yeah, but Greg is me, Milosz. I mean, everything that happens to Greg is stuff that happened to me. I worked as a notary public for twenty-two years, I sail, I have a boxer-rotty cross named Stu. I just changed my name, because…I figured that’s what writers are supposed to do. It’s not like I made anything up.’

‘And yet!’ said Milosz.

Everyone leaned in—even Ash.

Milosz’s eyes flashed wildly around the room, his thumbs drummed the table, his forehead crinkled. He looked like a robot pushed to the brink, about to short-circuit.

‘Who’s next?’ he said, finally.

‘Wait,’ said Donna, ‘don’t we get to comment on Grant’s story?’

‘Of course,’ said Milosz. ‘Who has a critique for Grant?’

‘I thought it was also wonderful,’ said Priscilla.

‘Very honest,’ agreed her husband, whose name Ash had forgotten.

Donna reached at Grant across the table. ‘I really liked the part where you—’

‘Where Greg,’ warned Milosz.

‘Where Greg, sorry,’ said Donna. ‘Where Greg looked in the mirror and finally saw himself for what he was. That felt really true to me.’

At last Sherene spoke: ‘I wonder if, maybe, you could dig a little deeper into that?’

‘Oh?’ said Grant. Heads turned.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You’re obviously a talented writer’—Ash struggled not to laugh—‘and I love what you’ve done so far, I just think you might be able to really get at what this character sees. Like, who is he? What’s really going on for him?’

‘Good point,’ said Milosz, claiming it as his own. ‘Brijnath? You’ve been quiet.’

Ash looked up.

‘Brijnath is held captive by his own genius. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance!’

The class roared. He felt Sherene’s eyes on him: Brijnath!

‘Brijnath, please. In a workshop it’s imperative that everyone contribute. You wouldn’t want to read your work—this mysterious novel of yours we’ve heard so much about—and not have anyone respond. Could you imagine such a thing?’

‘I could not,’ said Ash.

‘And so? What are your thoughts on—what was it? “Looking in the Mirror,” Grant?’

‘ “Looking Back.” ’

‘Ah, yes.’ Milosz titled his head. His goatee and air of inquisition leant him the look of a conquistador. One chair over, Grant mimicked him exactly.

‘I agree with Sherene,’ said Ash.

‘That’s it?’ said Milosz.

‘Pretty much,’ said Ash. They stared at each other. The air in the room tightened.

‘Fine,’ said Milosz. ‘Who will provide our second reading of the day?’

Next up was a story co-written by Priscilla and Bertrand set, shockingly, amid the Cambodian death camps, followed by Donna’s piece about a paralegal a little too attached to her cats. (‘The bestial,’ lectured Milosz, ‘has fascinated artists since the cave-painters of Lascaux.’) Then they were down to Sherene and Ash.

Sherene read first. Her Matrigupta story went over well, and of course tantalized their classmates with its lack of ending. Suggestions followed: slay the king then and there and dress in his robes and rule the land; or what if Matrigupta took his show on the road and became a memoirist, telling tales of his pain? Sherene listened with a patient smile and thanked everyone for their thoughts.

Every face in the room turned upon Ash.

‘And now, at long last,’ said Milosz, rubbing his hands like a henchman, ‘our friend Brijnath will regale us with his masterpiece.’ He glanced at the clock: ten to four. ‘Perhaps just a quick excerpt, enough to sample its genius.’

The pages in Ash’s hands felt loose and inadequate. He read the first line over to himself. Looked around the room. He was reminded of the funeral, all those people he’d never seen before, invading his family’s space with their agendas and alien ideas of his dad. He couldn’t share the novel, no.

‘Pass,’ he said.

‘Pass?’ said Milosz. He threw his head back, roared. ‘Brijnath, please. There is no pass. Everyone else has shared their stories. For the workshop to function—’

‘Pass,’ he said again.

‘Pass,’ said Milosz. ‘But—’

‘Thanks,’ said Ash, and slipped the pages into his bag, and sat there with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the clock.

—

‘DHAR?’

Ash froze. He’d been outed; someone in the group had recognized him after all.

But, streaming out of the library, his classmates were busy singing the praises of their master (‘Milosz is such an inspiration,’ swooned Donna; ‘A genius,’ said Bertrand. ‘An absolute genius!’) and the voice came from the stacks. An Asian man emerged, tired and hunched and elusively familiar. Someone’s brother or husband, a former colleague? And then Ash noticed the wheelchair, and the boy upon it.

‘Chip. Shit.’

‘Hey!’ Ash’s old friend leapt at him, arms spread. As the two men embraced Sherene hovered nearby. Ash introduced her: ‘My producer. She’s off to England tomorrow.’

Chip shook her hand distractedly, eyes everywhere but her face. He seemed different from how he’d been at the funeral, more ragged at the edges. Even his habitual enthusiasm felt forced and fatigued. ‘So, wow, buddy! You’re home?’

‘At my ma’s place, yeah.’

‘Family Christmas, nice.’ Chip turned distant. Then that manic grin came splashing down again. ‘Come say hi to Ty, Dhar!’

‘Say goodbye to me first,’ commanded Sherene. ‘Dhar.’

They hugged.

‘Promise you’ll write?’ Ash joked.

‘Promise,’ she said—with such wide-eyed sincerity that Ash had to choke down the lump that rose in his throat.

He found Chip and the wheelchair docked amid the multimedia shelves.

Chip rolled his son forward. ‘You remember Ash, Ty?’

This inspired wailing, which inspired in Ash first fear, then guilt. He compensated with proportionate volume. ‘How you doing, Tyler?’ he boomed.

‘He likes to shake hands,’ instructed Chip. ‘A real man now.’

Ash’s hand was seized in a claw-like, clammy grip. The boy’s eyes were fierce. They made Ash feel a bit too acutely seen. He wrenched his hand loose, leaving Ty pinching air. And sensed Chip watching him with disappointment.

‘You guys checking out books?’ Ash said.

‘Videos,’ said Chip. He held up a copy of The Lost Weekend. ‘This one any good?’

‘Of course. A classic,’ said Ash, though he’d never seen it.

‘Cool. Now I need to find one for Ty. Any suggestions?’

‘How old is he?’

‘Ten! Can you believe it?’

A decade spent rolling that wordless life around. No. Ash could not.

‘Listen, if you’re in town,’ said Chip, ‘how about getting the gang together for beers?’

‘I haven’t seen any of those guys in—wow. I don’t know how long.’

‘Perfect, just like old times. It’ll have to be at my place, is all.’ Chip indicated his son. ‘So how about Matt, over there in your homeland? Sounds like he’s having a blast.’

‘Right.’

‘Sightseeing, partying.’ Chip leaned in, whispered: ‘Banging Russian supermodels.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, just the one…Did he tell you he might have a role in a Bollywood movie? I guess they’re always looking for white folks. And he’s an actual actor, even.’

‘I’d not heard this, no.’

‘Too bad that guy’s not around, especially if we’re getting everyone together.’ Again Chip’s vigour seemed to falter, and again he raged ahead: ‘Maybe short notice, but do you have plans tonight?’

Ash looked around, as if searching for an excuse on the bookshelves. Of course nothing presented itself, but it was Chip’s expression—a grin so eager it was almost pleading—that forced him to concede. The guy was an old friend, after all. “Sure, why not?’ Ash said, finally, with a shrug and a dry little laugh. ‘I’m free.’

—

CHIP’S PLACE WAS IN THE COUNTRY, past the last few townhouses at the city limits, onto rural roads, past cornfields and grain silos, and down into a valley where a new subdivision glittered like a space station amid the darkened farms all around.

There were gates, and then a half-dozen show homes enticing prospective homeowners. But beyond them wasn’t much. A trailer with a backhoe parked out front. A lot of empty lots, a few with frames looming skeletally over frosty dirt patches with lawn aspirations. The streetlights cast everything with a roseate glow. In his mother’s car Ash passed Poplar Grove, White Pine Crescent, Elm Drive, each lined with saplings turtlenecked in burlap. Even the few finished houses seemed not to be hosting or even anticipating life so much as forsaken by it: lightless, still.

At last he came to Maple Court, a cul-de-sac anchored by a single, squat bungalow with a string of lights tacked over the garage. The other lots were occupied only with sprigs of wire and a scattering of little orange flags. Ash parked behind a minivan (vanity plate: TY’S RIDE), climbed the ramp and rang the bell. The door flung open while the chimes were still sounding. Had Chip been waiting in ambush?

‘Dhar! You’re the first one here! Just heating up some appies! Come on in! Make yourself at home!’

Ash was swept inside. A boozy smell wafted off Chip, and a silvery splatter of what Ash hoped was Ty’s drool trailed down the sleeve of his hoodie. He wore plaid pyjama pants and moose slippers with velveteen antlers. Ash felt absurdly formal, and urban, in his slim jeans and cardigan.

He was led through the house into the kitchen. The walls were bare; the smells were antiseptic. The place had the generic, unpeopled feeling of a hotel, as though the living that happened within its walls was tentative, temporary. It reminded Ash, with a pang, of the house Brij had moved into after the divorce.

Chip deposited him at the kitchen island before a huge spread: olives and pickles, a cheese plate and pre-sliced baguette, chips and salsa, pepperettes, a shrimp ring. Plus whatever frozen snacks Chip was arranging on cookie sheets for the oven.

‘Just some appies,’ he said. ‘Beer?’

‘I’m driving,’ said Ash. ‘So maybe just one.’

Chip handed him a king can and a frosty mug. ‘Might as well make it a big one.’

Ash poured it out badly and had to dive down to slurp the foaming head as it surged over the glass. ‘When’d you move in?’

‘Six months ago! Probably feels a bit like we’re in the sticks but it’s going to be great out here once the area’s built up. There’s plans for a community centre, a mall, a library. London’s growing, man. And it’s an easy enough trip into town in the morning, just drop Ty off at seven thirty and then head back out on the 402 to work.’

‘Jesus. What time do you get up?’

‘Five fifteen. Ty’s not much of a morning person, takes a while to get going, needs his meds and breakfast and all that.’ Chip spoke rapidly and his eyes flicked in Ash’s direction, yet never settled on his face. ‘But we have fun, we do our thing. It’s all good.’

‘At five in the morning?’

‘You get used to it.’ Chip tipped whiskey into a plastic cup, splashed in a little soda. ‘To new beginnings,’ he proposed.

‘Cheers,’ said Ash, unclear what this was supposed to mean.

They drank.

‘Ty’s in the den watching the game if you want to join him. Still a hoops fan?’

‘Not really. Not like I used to be.’

‘Me neither! Who has the time? Between Ty and work? But it’s all good.’ Chip grinned, shook his head, drank.

‘Sorry I’m a little late,’ said Ash.

‘Not sure where everyone else is…I said seven on the Evite, right?’ Chip checked his phone. ‘I mean, it’s tough, obviously, at this age, at this time of year—and super last minute. People have families and that.’

‘You still hang out with those guys?’

‘Not really, you and Matt were the first folks from high school I’ve seen in ages. At your dad’s…thing.’ Chip took another big slug of his drink.

‘Thanks again for coming to that.’

‘No sweat, it was fun.’ Chip shook his head. ‘Sorry, dumb thing to say. I just mean it was good to see you—and Matt. I wish I could have stayed out and really tied one on like we used to. Ty’s mom was supposed to take him that weekend, but…’

The night out, the video: Ash pushed it away. ‘You guys don’t share custody?’

‘Nah. Ty and I are good. We’ve got our routine. We do our thing.’

‘Right.’

‘God, where is everyone?’ Chip opened the oven, poked the hors d’oeuvres around. ‘Got to eat these while they’re hot. Nothing worse than a cold cheese stick, right?’

‘Few things.’

‘Hey, did you see I got olives? Just for you, Mister Fancy-pants. The girl at Loblaw’s said that kind is good.’ Chip refilled his cup, drank, refilled. ‘Careful though, they’ve still got the stones in them. I got wine too, if you want some?’

‘Beer’s good.’ Ash ate an olive. He did not like olives.

‘And?’

He spat the pit into his hand. ‘Great.’

—

BY NINE O’CLOCK no one else had shown nor replied to Chip’s messages. So they withdrew from the food, most of it untouched, to the den. Ty sat in his wheelchair a foot from the TV, blocking the screen. Ash took the couch, dodging the bows of a massive Christmas tree that towered in the corner of the room, shaggy and unlit.

‘My kid loves hoops,’ said Chip, standing beside Ty with the bottle of whiskey in one hand, cup in the other. After every sip, he refilled. ‘Just like his dad.’

‘Superfan Junior,’ said Ash.

‘God, we had a fun team in high school, huh?’

‘Didn’t we even make you a top with your name on it?’

Chip laughed. ‘Hold on.’

He raced down the hall and reappeared wearing the jersey: bulging in rolls at the hips and tits with SUPERFAN 00 printed on the back—this had been the centrepiece of Chip’s get-up at Ash’s high school games, along with face paint and pom-poms. There’d been something worrisome about his enthusiasm, even then.

‘Score it!’ Chip hollered. ‘See my kid there, Ash? Loving that and-one?’

He high-fived one of Ty’s hands.

‘Bedtime soon though,’ said Chip. ‘The grownups’ve got some drinking to do.’

But then he seemed almost remorseful. He set his cup aside, knelt and stroked his son’s cheek with a knuckle. Ty kicked his feet. When Chip started kissing Ty, Ash looked away—out of respect, out of embarrassment.

‘Yeah, Ty-Ty,’ Chip murmured. ‘We’re buds, huh? Me and you? Best buds.’

Chip turned and stared hard at Ash. ‘I love this kid,’ he said. ‘Greatest kid ever.’

‘Totally,’ said Ash.

Chip nodded. He seemed satisfied. He joined Ash on the couch and set to his drink with renewed tenacity.

Ash was coerced into a second beer, the game ended, and as the postgame banalities wrapped and the credits rolled Chip swayed to his feet. ‘Say good night to our buddy, Ty.’ But Ty wouldn’t look at Ash, despite his father’s coaxing. ‘Can’t win ’em all,’ said Chip with a shrug, and rolled off down the hall, propping himself on the wheelchair.

The news came on. Ash got up to search for the remote. Piled by the TV were ’80s NBA bloopers on VHS, that library copy of The Lost Weekend, an anime box set, an unopened workout DVD, Home Alone. At the bottom of the stack was a disc with MATT’S SHOW-REEL written in black marker on the case. Ash slid it into the player and sat on the floor with his beer.

The disc opened with Matt’s first commercial: a background role in a thirty-second spot that featured an elderly white woman praising a fast food chain in an ad-man’s approximation of rap slang. At the end, as she zoomed off on a skateboard with a mouthful of fries, Matt dropped his jaw in wonder. God, thought Ash, he looked so young, slim and trim and luxuriantly coiffed, eyes nearly delirious with ambition and hope.

The next clip was from a pilot for a sci-fi show that had never been picked up. As the bespectacled spaceship doctor, Matt delivered his two lines with gravitas: ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got some bad news.’ Stare awkwardly as purple-skinned patient responds. Then: ‘You’ve contracted a virus from time travel that is reversing the growth of your cells. I’m afraid it’s terminal.’ And: pause for effect. And: scene. (‘I was going to become a major character,’ Matt had claimed.)

Up next was an ad campaign that featured Matt and a half-dozen other men playing loving dads. Dads cuddling babies, dads pushing swings, dads fake-shaving their toddler sons. The pitch, with an eye to selling soap, linked emotional sensitivity and skincare. Matt’s child was about kindergarten age. In the first clip they were watering sunflowers; in the next, baking muffins. In the final spot, Matt kissed his son’s tiny feet.

Chip swayed into the doorway. ‘I love those bits.’

‘Why do you have this?’

‘Same reason I’ve got ten copies of your book.’ His voice was slush.

‘Ten?’

‘I’m proud of my boys, what can I say.’

The reel ended; the screen went blue.

‘Here’s the thing,’ Ash said, ‘and I don’t mean this in any disrespectful way, because I know how dedicated you are to Ty—’

‘He’s everything to me. Everything.’

‘Totally. But that campaign? How come it’s just dads? There have to be other ways for men to be decent people than fatherhood. Shouldn’t that be a given, anyway? And why does being a dad have to be the only way to be a caring man? What about being good to your mom? Your sisters? Your friends?’

Chip shrugged and drank.

‘And Matt never really had a dad, so don’t you think it must have felt weird pretending to be one? That it might have even fucked him up a bit?’

‘No idea, man,’ said Chip, shaking his head. ‘But speaking of soap and kids, can I ask you a favour? I’ve maybe had a few too many. Can you help me get Ty in the tub?’

Ash froze. ‘Sorry—in the bathtub?’

‘There’s a harness I use but it’s broken. So you just gotta put him in. Come on.’

Ty was sprawled naked on his bed, gurgling happily. When he saw Chip and Ash he lifted his legs and kicked. Just above his belly button was the valve, capped with plastic, through which he took his meals. Ash took a step back.

‘Okay, hero,’ said Chip. ‘Pick him up.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Unless you know another way.’

Tentatively Ash stepped to the side of the bed. Ty froze—with dread, Ash felt certain. He knew whom not to trust.

‘Go on,’ said Chip. ‘Get in there. He won’t bite.’

One arm went under Ty’s neck, another under his knees. Ash anticipated a struggle, or seizure, but the boy eased into his arms, even clung to him a little. He was heavier than he looked and Ash staggered a little lifting him off the bed. Steadied himself. Awaited instructions.

‘There you go,’ said Chip. ‘Now down the hall. The bath’s already run.’

Ty began to slide, so Ash hitched him closer and firmed up his grip. The kid giggled and pressed his lips to Ash’s cheek.

‘That’s it,’ said Chip. ‘You got him.’

The bathroom was steamy. Ash stopped. ‘How do I get him in the tub?’

‘Kneel down. Slowly. No rush.’

Ash did as he was told, terrified he might stumble and smash Ty’s face through the shower door. But the boy had gone still.

‘Easy,’ said Chip. ‘You’re doing great.’

Ash was on one knee with Ty resting atop his other thigh.

‘Now put him in.’

As if offering the boy in sacrifice, Ash moved Ty over the water and let go: he landed with a splash and cried out. Water slopped up over the edge of the tub.

‘Shit! Sorry!’

Chip laughed. ‘No way, man. Look how happy he is.’

Ty was grinning. Waves rocked him this way and that. He hummed and burbled and his body made a rubbery squelch as it skidded around the tub.

Chip patted Ash on the shoulder. ‘Nicely done,’ he said. ‘You did great.’

And then Ty rolled onto his belly and Ash saw the cuts, healing but recent: one long one along his spine, and another shorter gash between his shoulder blades. Around them was a massive, yellowing bruise.

Ash froze. Caught himself staring. Stood hurriedly.

‘Okay, that’s good,’ Chip said quietly, guiding Ash by the elbow out of the bathroom. And the door closed, stranding Ash in the hallway, where he listened for a moment to the soft splash of water from within before fleeing to the living room.

—

‘I NEVER BOOZE LIKE THIS,’ Chip said for the third time since putting Ty to bed. ‘But it’s the holidays, right? And how often do we get to hang out?’

The late game was on TV, the sound down. Ash watched it in silence, thinking about Ty. That body, so dependent and defenceless—and wounded. Chip still hadn’t said anything about it, which felt to Ash like an admission of guilt. And Ash, as witness, was complicit. But guilt over what, and complicit in what? Negligence? Abuse? The only option was escape, best introduced casually: ‘Actually, I should probably get going.’

‘What are you talking about? It’s not even eleven!’ Now Chip drank straight from the bottle. ‘And there’s still all that food. You barely ate any.’

‘Sorry, man. I just shouldn’t be home too late, staying at my mom’s…’

‘Fine, go if you want.’ A pause, a switch: ‘Just sleep here. The couch folds out.’

After one quarter, the game was already a blow out; the teams retreated to their benches looking equally unenthused at the chore of the remaining thirty-six minutes.

It went to commercial and Chip killed the TV. He turned to face Ash, sudden sobriety shadowing his face. Here it was, the confession; Ash braced himself. Instead Chip gestured outside, down the path of some other story. ‘Around the corner, on Poplar, like three weeks ago this guy moved in. No kids, no wife. Solo.’

Ash’s phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Every few days he’s throwing out these industrial-looking chemical containers. Ten-gallon tubs, right there on the curb. And stuff’s getting delivered at weird hours and people are coming and going all the time. People in lab coats.’

The phone quieted.

‘So I start watching them, right? Because what’s the most obvious thing going on?’

‘I don’t know.’ But the story wouldn’t proceed until Ash participated. ‘Meth lab?’

‘Exactly.’ Chip tapped his temple. ‘Last thing I need is a fire or explosion or something and my kid inhaling toxic fumes. Or addicts breaking in here to steal my TV.’

‘You really think they’re cooking meth?’

‘Check it out.’ Chip held up his phone, swiping through photos of vans in the driveway, a woman in a white smock, a pair of plastic drums on the lawn. ‘I had all the evidence, ready to call Crime Stoppers, and then one day that lady comes knocking. I hide Ty in the bedroom before I open the door, because what if she’s here to’—he made a gun, pointed it at Ash, pulled the trigger—‘take me out? But nope! Guess who she is?’

Ash shook his head: no idea.

‘A—get this—nurse. Guy who lives in there is on dialysis. Guy my age. Our age.’

Ash’s phone began ringing again.

‘Anyway, she wants a neighbour to keep an eye out—like, if I don’t see him for a while or if something just seems wrong.’ Chip shook his head, made a clucking sound. ‘Imagine? Being sick and not having anybody? No parents or kids or wife? You could collapse one day and no one would have any idea. Die there on the floor, totally alone.’

Ash checked the number: foreign. India, probably.

‘What, you’re taking calls now?’

‘I think it’s Matt.’

‘Go ahead.’ Chip shook his head. ‘Not like I was telling you something important.’

‘No, it’s okay—look, he hung up.’ But the caller was persistent: the phone started up again, humming insistently. ‘Maybe I should see what he wants. What if he’s in trouble?’

‘Trouble?’ Chip snorted. He drank. Shook his head. Drank some more.

Ash fingered his phone. Its ringing seemed urgent.

But Chip was standing now, reeling and shouting. ‘Suddenly you’re Mister Big Heart who cares about everyone? You act like my kid’s got a fucking contagious disease—don’t shake your head, you always have—and then you go judging me for how I’m raising him?’

‘Whoa, Chip. That’s not what’s going on,’ said Ash, hands up. ‘Hey.’

‘The moral of my story, if you’d listened? Don’t think you understand anyone. What they’re going through, what they’re about.’ Chip fell onto the couch, tilted his head back, closed his eyes. The bottle slipped from his hand; the last bit of whiskey dribbled onto the carpet. ‘I’m a good dad,’ Chip said quietly, nodding to himself. ‘I’m a good dad.’

And Ash’s phone buzzed faintly through the room.