57

Michael watched his son carefully unpack the two chocolate eclairs from the white cardboard box and set them on a plate. The kettle was nearly boiled, the loose-leaf Earl Grey already spooned into the warmed pot: Leo took his tea seriously.

‘No Lucy today?’

Leo shook his head. ‘She’s with her mum and sister. They’re shopping for a sixtieth birthday present for her dad.’ He poured the boiling water onto the tea leaves and knocked the metal lid of the pot back into place. ‘She sent her love.’

Michael appreciated his son’s Saturday visits, in fact looked forward to them so much he would become fidgety – like the silly old man he’d become – as the time got closer, in case Leo cancelled. Then the hour would go way too fast and the boy would be gone again, leaving him in such despair, drowning in such unbearable loneliness, he felt his heart might actually stop beating – although he would never dream of letting on to Leo how he felt.

There were people around during the week, of course – paid people – but Leo was different: Leo was family. ‘Give her mine when you see her,’ he said.

Michael watched Leo take a large bite of his pastry, the cream squidging out of the side in a fluted ribbon, which his son deftly caught and licked off his finger. He, himself, had no appetite, but knew he should make an effort – Leo bought them knowing they were his favourite.

‘Any word from Mum?’ Leo asked.

Michael thought he was fishing. Romy had made the decision – for which he was pathetically grateful – that the boys would never know from her what their father had done. But Leo was clearly baffled by his mum’s total disappearance from his father’s life.

‘I think she’s been busy, getting on with her own stuff. I’m happy for her, not having to cope with me and my annoying problems any more.’ He smiled and spoke lightly. But Michael felt a leaden sadness.

His more sensitive clients sometimes used to say, when recounting the point at which their lives had taken a turn for the legally unsound, ‘If I could just turn the clock back.’ He’d privately smiled at their triteness. But, really, he understood.

Leo’s phone rang and he watched his son glance at the screen then say, ‘Got to get this, Dad. Be back in a minute.’ He hurried out of the kitchen, leaving Michael wondering about Romy, wondering if she would ever be prepared to let him back into her life – in a limited capacity, obviously – for the boys’ sakes. He thought back to the last time he had seen her and her stark warning that at some point he should tell their sons, or risk being haunted for ever by his crime.

Leo’s intonation, filtering through from the hall, sounded as if he was winding up his call. Is this the moment, Michael wondered, his body shuddering fiercely at the thought, that I do what I promised Romy I would?

Grace Fleetwood. He turned the name over in his mind, where it lodged permanently, now. Such spirit the girl had had, with her youthful prettiness and bright summer dresses. It was just fun to be around her. And she had gravitated towards him – as if he were her special project – always the one to bring him coffee and offer help with even the smallest thing. Which he had really appreciated at the time: he was under intolerable pressure with the Brigham case.

Then that night … He had tried to make sense of it so many times, to understand how he could have done something so terrible. And finally, over the years, he’d come to the conclusion that it seemed intelligible only if he thought of it in terms of a perfect storm.

Grace had accepted the glass of wine he proffered, he remembered, drinking it way too quickly. The room was hot, so appallingly hot, it changed something for him, the stifling air, his overwhelming tiredness making rational thought impossible. She teased him about his work obsession. She gazed at him as if he were divine. He could still see her face as she beckoned him to sit next to her on the sofa. And, for that one crazy, stupid moment, he had believed she wanted him.

But as soon as he touched her skin, pressed his mouth to her young lips, his palm to her breast, he’d felt her flinch and pull away. He had known as clearly as he knew his own name that she did not want this, did not want him. And a switch went in his brain as he scrabbled to have as much of her as he could before she got away – something he remembered now with crippling shame. As he forced himself on her, her legs awkwardly splayed and pinioned beneath his body, her red dress rucked up, her breath jagged in his ear, he’d heard her whimpering, like the child she was.

It was then that the phone rang. It was a client, persistent and slightly unhinged, whom he quickly brushed off. But Grace had taken her chance and gone, thank goodness. Five minutes, maybe less, it was, since he had first laid his hand on the girl’s bare thigh. But in that brief flash of time, he had done something totally inconceivable, an act of violence that it was impossible for him even to contemplate owning. Indeed, to this day, he could barely articulate his guilt.

That night, as he’d sat sweating and shaking, gasping for breath on the sofa in his rooms, he’d already found himself beginning to refute, to bury, to rewrite and smooth the edges of what had happened between him and the girl. It wasn’t him. He couldn’t have done it. So when he arrived at James’s house, and his friend had asked him if he’d raped her, he had denied it with an almost fervent belief that it was impossible for him to have done so. But he had been that close. If the phone hadn’t rung …

James had seemed to think that as long as it wasn’t actual rape, it wasn’t too serious. Which Michael knew was utterly wrong – and if he’d been in any doubt, the shocked and frightened expression in Grace’s eyes, the way she flinched as he grabbed at her and began to kiss her made it clear enough. The revulsion in Romy’s eyes made it clear, too – if he really needed to be told.

Michael had never stopped regretting that night. When he realized, as the weeks passed, that Grace might not speak up, he had determinedly buried the whole incident as best he could. But it haunted him, nonetheless. It drove him to work even harder, and, little by little, to take small steps away from Romy and the boys. Work was the only thing that blocked Grace’s tear-stained face from his thoughts. But gradually, over the years, the images receded, the deed lodging in the dark pit of his consciousness, like a warning flag that occasionally caught his eye – until the letter.

Leo walked back into the kitchen, stashing his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Sorry, Dad, stupid work thing.’

Michael felt sweat trickling down his back. He almost couldn’t look at his son, fearing his excruciating memories might somehow be written on his face.

Leo refilled the pot and poured them both more tea. Then he settled at the table and gave his father a grin. ‘So, Dad, have you thought some more about what you’re going to do?’

‘Do?’ He tried to clear his thoughts, welcoming the chance to focus on something different, despite the subject being a contentious one.

‘Yeah, Dad. We talked about this the other day. Work …’

Joke. Like the world was waiting with bated breath. ‘I’m back!’ he’d shout. And all his clients, the judges, court officials, his competitive colleagues – who’d probably been cheering from the rafters at his demise – would overlook the fact that he couldn’t hold a pen and paper at the same time, could only type with one finger of one hand, couldn’t remember if it was Monday or last year, had to pee every ten minutes and couldn’t fucking stand upright without the help of a crutch. Christ, I couldn’t even put my wig on straight, these days, let alone fasten my bands or collar stud.

He levelled his gaze at his son. ‘Face it. I’m not going to be able to work, Leo, not even in a limited capacity, not for a long time … probably ever.’

He watched his son’s face fall. ‘Come on, Dad. Look at Andrew Marr. He’s presenting one of the most prestigious programmes on TV and he had the same as you. You can’t just give up like this.’

Michael growled silently. Sodding Andrew Marr. Held up as the poster-crock for every stroke patient from here to eternity. He loathed him for it. ‘Being a television host doesn’t carry quite the same level of responsibility as being a QC, all due respect to the man.’

Leo frowned. ‘So … what? You’re going to just sit here for the rest of your life and feel sorry for yourself?’

Michael nodded. ‘Probably.’ He didn’t care what Leo thought – or anyone else, for that matter. They could harangue him all they liked, feed him pills he didn’t want, make him eat vegetables and move balls from one box to another with that moron glove; it wouldn’t mend what was going on in his head. Nor did it change the fact that Romy – even if they did come together for family occasions – would never look at him again without that veiled aversion in her eyes.

Leo’s face cleared and he laughed. ‘Hey, knock yourself out, then, Dad.’

‘I might do just that,’ he said, also smiling. ‘Unintentionally, of course,’ he added quickly, when he saw his son’s alarm. That was the trouble with being in this state. There was no room for irony or jest. If he said, ‘I’m losing the will to live,’ Imogen would look worried. If he said, ‘Does it really matter if I drink too much at this stage?’ he was being reckless. If he said, ‘I can’t go back to work,’ it was defeatism. Any normal person said these things from time to time, but nobody took them seriously.

Leo got up to clear the tea plates. When he turned from the sink his expression was serious. ‘Dad, this thing with Mum. She absolutely refuses to tell me what it’s about.’ He stopped, his eyes searching his father’s face.

Michael felt himself go rigid. No, he thought instinctively. But Romy’s words rushed back to him again with force. He’d always considered himself fearless, someone prepared to stand up and be counted under any circumstance, and ready to take any calculated risk. But here he was, cowering behind his toxic secret, like a craven sissy, still protected by Romy’s stern compassion, despite his lies. It made him sick to realize what he had become.

Can I do it? he asked himself, panic building in his gut. Leo was watching him. Can I? Every cell in his body screamed, NO. But a persistent voice in his head was egging him on. Go on, Michael. Stop being such a coward and do it. Now.

For another endless moment he hesitated. Then he drew himself up and took a deep breath. ‘Sit down, Leo.’ He waited till his son was seated. ‘I’m warning you, you’re going to be horrified by what I’m about to tell you.’ He stopped, trying to sort the jumble of words in his mind into some coherent package. It felt like a long time before he was able to speak. Leo’s eyes continued to rest on him expectantly and he shuddered inwardly at the pain he was about to cause his son.

Bracing himself, he waded in. ‘The fact is, I assaulted a girl one night. It was a long time ago … but she was young, only sixteen.’ He swallowed hard, realizing he was twisting his bad hand painfully in the other. Leo was frowning. ‘I thought, entirely mistakenly, that she was attracted to me … and I went too far.’

His son blinked, ‘You mean …’ He shook his head disbelievingly. After a long pause he added, his voice quiet with shock, ‘Who was she?’

‘Her name is Grace.’

Silence.

‘You … raped her?’

Michael shook his head. ‘No. But I might have.’ He cringed as he spoke. ‘I was unintentionally rough with her.’

Silence.

‘And … Mum just found out?’

The story was long. Michael did not hold back as he had with Romy. And Leo did not try to interrupt. Sitting across the table from Michael, he seemed too stunned for speech.

When Michael finally stopped talking, there was an eerie silence in the kitchen, as if neither of them was actually breathing. He wished his son would say something. He had no hope of exoneration, of course, but he wanted to get this over with, to take the heavy blows of disgust and condemnation – the outrage – squarely on the chin. He was ready.

Leo got up in total silence, his face almost blank.

‘Leo?’

His son moved towards the door. ‘Can’t talk to you, Dad. Not now.’

And with that he was gone.

Michael followed him, saw the door slam. He leant against the hall wall and began to cry tears of hopelessness. This, he knew, was his life now. Not just in his own head, but in his son’s too – both his sons, when Rex found out – he was a pariah. He had no real friends. Romy was gone. And Leo would not be back.

But as Michael clumped his solitary way along the corridor to his bedroom, he was aware of the smallest, almost imperceptible lightening in his soul. For the first time in decades he had been completely honest. He was well aware, though, that that was not the end of it. There was something else he needed to do. And until he did that – the potential ramifications of which made him almost nauseous – he knew he would not be able to find even a modicum of peace.