Paul doesn’t remember exactly how he got back to the flat. He’s got a vague image of some social worker type, trying to get him to sit somewhere, sign something, phone someone. It was fucking doing his head in, so he barged out and grabbed a taxi, chucked a twenty at the driver. But now he’s home he wishes he was back at the hospital. At least he’d be near Ben, what’s left of him.
What do other people do? Drink fucking tea. Sit around mythering. Fuck that.
His phone beeps with another message from Nana asking why they rushed off. He chucks it on the sofa. What good would she be? Wailing and flapping about, wanting to know every detail, filling the flat with her fucking cronies.
He paces around the flat, one room after another, like he’s looking for something. The cupboard’s open in the spare room; the Aquapulse’s missing from its box. Ben’s wetsuit’s gone from its hanger in the shower. If Paul had bothered to check in here he’d have known what the lad was planning.
He wanders down the corridor to Ben’s bedroom and tries the door. Locked, of course; always fucking locked. He bangs on it with the flat of his hand, like he’s always done when he wants to go in; then bangs with the other hand; then rests his forehead on the door, eyes stinging with tears, trying to imagine that Ben’s still inside – on the computer maybe, playing that weird house-building game with that fake family. Sims, that was it; cost a fortune, all the bloody updates and expansion packs: Sims go on holiday, Sims garden makeover, Sims shopping mall.
He slaps the door again, with both hands, then he does what he’s stopped himself from doing ever since the lad started locking it: he kicks it open.
Ben’s smell wafts out to meet him; that posh shampoo he always uses. Paul hesitates; it feels wrong to step over the threshold without being invited, like he’s a vampire or something and the lad’s put a spell on the room. Especially now it’s all painted, like it’s really his space.
The window’s open still, to let the paint smell out, and the sun’s blazing in. Ben’s duvet’s crumpled, where he’s sat to put his trainers on; there’s a little bum-shaped dent there. And his old PE bag’s sticking out from under the bed, like he’s been looking for something and not shoved it back properly.
Paul tugs it out. Why’s the zip half open? He thought this old bag had gone to Oxfam years ago. Inside is something pale and flowery. What the fuck?
Pulling it out, Paul sees that it’s a nightdress: flimsy pretty little thing; size 10, 100 percent cotton. Marks and Spencer. And underneath is that fucking stupid cuddly toy – what did Ben call it? – Lily the Pink. Lad saw it in Fenwick’s one Christmas and Nessa got it for him. They had a right bust-up about it, too, with Paul trying to get her to take it back, or at least get the lad something that wasn’t fucking pink, for God’s sake.
What else has he got stashed in here? Paul empties the bag out on the floor: knickers, must be about twenty fucking pairs; polka dots, little hearts, lacy edges, all colours. When’s he been wearing them, then? Hasn’t been putting them in his washing basket, that’s for sure. Another nightie; couple of lacy vest things and matching pyjama bottoms. An unopened packet of ‘almost bare’ tights, for fuck’s sake.
He pulls open a drawer and it’s full of navy and blue Y-fronts and socks; normal boy’s stuff, thank God. The next one’s T-shirts and jeans. So he’s got one set of proper clothes in their proper places, and another secret stash of girlie gear.
Now Paul’s started, he can’t stop. It’s like when he found out about Nessa and her bloke: he had to go through everything – dirty knickers, credit card statements, the lot – to see how bad it was.
In the lad’s en-suite, behind the loo rolls in the cupboard, he finds a couple of innocent-looking toilet bags. But inside they’re crammed with make-up and that: foundation, blusher, eyeshadow in those little palette things Nessa used to go in for. And loads of other gear he doesn’t even recognize. Remover this, moisturizer that. Nail varnish, eyeliners, lipsticks.
Half an hour later the room’s a right tip, but he’s satisfied he’s searched everywhere: under the bed, under the mattress, inside the pillow cases, back of the wardrobe. He’s had all the drawers out to see if there’s anything taped to the back; been though all the lad’s pockets. There’s just one thing left, and that’s the computer.
While he’s waiting for it to boot up and sort itself out, he starts putting stuff away again. He feels disgusted with himself, like when he’s been on some naff porn site or eaten four Kit Kats in a row. It’s like he had to find out, but now he has, there’s a part of him wishes he’d left it all alone.
The computer gives a little chirp to say it’s ready and he sits down at Ben’s chair and clicks on ‘bookmarks’ and ‘history’. And there it is, the lad’s secret life, all mapped out. Support for transsexual kids, hormones to delay puberty, causes of gender dysphoria, legal aid for underage children, plastic surgery. The list goes on and on. Sites about decommissioning fishing boats and emigration to New Zealand, sites about sustainable fishing, about diving off Norway and Iceland.
Why didn’t the lad say anything? But Paul knows why; it’s bleeding obvious why. Because his father wouldn’t listen, that’s why. The lock on that door – it’s not Ben who’s locked him out, it’s him who’s refused to come in.
Turning the computer off, Paul surveys the room. Everything’s back where it was; the drawers and cupboards are closed; the old PE bag’s back under the bed; the duvet’s fluffed up and straightened.
He stares at the bed and his breath catches in his throat: because the dent’s gone now, of course, hasn’t it? He’s gone and fluffed it up out of existence. That little hollow where Ben sat this morning putting his shoes on, the last sign he had left of the lad – and he’s gone and destroyed it.
Desperate for something else, Paul grabs the lad’s pillow and buries his face in it, breathing in over and over, trying to catch the smell of Ben’s neck, his scalp, his hair. Then he drags the PE bag back out and hugs Lily the Pink to his chest, and thinks of Ben secretly cuddling her at night, and lies down on the bed and sobs and sobs until he can’t breathe; then gets up and stumbles to the en-suite for loo roll, and blows his nose and swipes at his face; then simply staggers around the room, half blinded by tears. He doesn’t know what to do, where to put himself; like when you’re stotting drunk and throwing up, flailing out of control. Or like the boat in a squall, flung around by the waves.
At one point, in a fit of fury, he flings the damn cuddly toy across the room as hard as he can, then stares shocked at the pathetic way it looks splayed face-down on the carpet. And picks her up, and lays her on Ben’s pillow, and lies down beside her.
Hours later he gets up and goes into the sitting room. He’s got to tell Nana; he can’t put it off for ever. And the lads, to cancel the next trip. And Dougie, to get started on the funeral arrangements. Reaching for the phone, he realizes he’s carrying Lily the Pink, so he sets her down carefully in Ben’s place on the sofa.
Sitting down beside her, he tries to remember the last time he sat here with the lad. Last night, wasn’t it? Lad was trying to get him to come on that diving trip with him. He can almost hear him: ‘Please, Dad, just you and me. It would be really cool.’ And he’d turned the lad down.
And sent him off to dive by himself, with an old alky for a buddy – a mad old alky who can’t even swim.
What’s the bairn doing hanging out with old Skip in the first place? What kind of mate’s that for a lad of twelve? A mad old alky, a trannie and a shrink. What a way to spend your summer hols. Except he claimed he was happy, didn’t he? That evening with that weird crowd at the Low Lights, or charging up the stairs just full of that research they were doing at the library – lad was practically glowing. And what did his loving bloody father do? Tried to put a stop to it. Tried to get him to forget all about it, made him shove it back under the bed.
Paul picks up Lily. He’d tried to make Ben get shot of her too, hadn’t he? Now he’d do anything to have the lad back as he was, frilly nighties and all.
The phone goes and it’s Nana again. He clicks it off without answering and wanders back into Ben’s room. He tucks Lily under the duvet, then changes his mind and brings her back into the sitting room. He goes to the fridge and pops a can of Stella, then upends it in the sink after two gulps.
Wandering back out into the hall, he finds himself by the little table and pulls the drawer open. There’s the letter with Ben’s DNA results, under the Yellow Pages. He takes it out, like he’s done a dozen times before. He could open it now, couldn’t he? Find out if the lad’s his own flesh and blood. Put an end to it once and for all.
He takes the letter into the sitting room and places it in the middle of the coffee table. Then he sits down and looks at it. All he has to do is rip it open and he’ll know for sure. Without thinking, he reaches for Lily and holds her in his lap, then presses his nose between her ears, breathing in her Ben-smell. And it occurs to him that it doesn’t matter what the fucking letter says. Ben was his son; Ben will always be his son. It’s just taken him till now to find out.
It’s dark by the time he gets to the doctor’s house, and the lights seem to be off, but he bangs on the door anyway, then finds a bell and rings it. He doesn’t care if she’s in bed. He’s got to speak to her.
Pressing his face against a glass panel, he sees a shaft of light down the end of the hall, a door opening. He rings the bell again, for good measure, then stands back as more lights come on and first the inner door, then the porch door opens.
She’s fully dressed still, with a dressing-gown over her clothes, and sheepskin slippers. And she’s been crying. In fact she looks a complete mess: puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks, smudgy mouth; and that chapped red nose you get when you’ve been blowing it a lot. What’s she so upset about? Then it comes to him: of course, Ben. He’s spent half the summer at her place. She’s crying about Ben.
‘Mr Dixon,’ she says, like she’s been expecting him. Or maybe she’s just too upset to care. ‘Come in, please.’ She seems dazed, really out if it. ‘Can I offer you a whisky?’ she asks, gesturing vaguely, obviously just going through the motions. ‘Ian kindly furnished me with a bottle before he left. His idea was that I should make a hot toddy. He provided a lemon, too. But I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about it.’
She leads the way into her so-called consulting room and switches on the light, then winces and switches it off again. ‘This small light’s a bit kinder, I think,’ she says. ‘And the fire. Please—’ pointing towards the sofa. ‘Sit down while I fetch us some glasses.’
Paul parks himself on the edge of the sofa, then gets up again and roams around the little room. He picks up a wooden elephant, then puts it back in its place.
She returns with a bottle of Glenmorangie and two unmatched crystal glasses on a tray. ‘Do you want water? I’m told a little splash brings out the flavour. I prefer the raw hit myself.’ She pours out two triples and hands him one.
Paul takes a big gulp; it burns the back of his throat. ‘Tell me about Ben,’ he says.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Anything. Everything.’
‘I can let you have the tapes from his sessions if you like. They’ll fill you in about Annie and perhaps help you understand something of his desire for a sex change.’
‘But it wasn’t just the sessions, was it? He’s been practically living here all summer. Either here or at that caff place.’
‘He was – he became – almost a part of the family.’ Her eyes fill with tears and she pulls a soggy hanky from her dressing-gown pocket. Taking a mouthful of her drink, she tries to pull herself together. ‘I think it was important to Ben to be amongst people who knew his secret and accepted him regardless,’ she says in a steadier voice.
Paul stares into the fake flames on the fire. ‘I thought if we never talked about it, it would go away.’
‘He loved you very much, Mr Dixon, I do know that. And he admired you tremendously. For years he tried to be the son you wanted him to be.’
‘I let him down.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’
‘No, I should have been with him. It’s the first thing they teach you when you learn to dive: never go down without your buddy. First fucking rule.’ He starts crying again, knocking the tears away with the back of his arm.
She takes out a fresh white hanky from somewhere and shakes it open, then lays it on his knee like a waiter in a posh restaurant. Picking it up, Paul suddenly feels like laughing. Talk about the Dark Ages. Hasn’t the woman heard of Kleenex?
‘I found all this stuff he was hiding in his room,’ he says. ‘And I realized there’s this whole side of him I never knew.’
She opens her hands in her lap. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more than to talk about Ben, Paul. He became very important to me—’
The phone rings suddenly in the hall, one of those old-fashioning dring-drings that go right through you.
‘Sorry about this,’ she says. ‘It’ll stop soon, I expect.’ But it doesn’t, and there’s no sign of an answerphone kicking in either. So after about twenty rings, she goes out into the hall to answer it. ‘Hello? Dr Charlton speaking,’ she says. Then, ‘Hello? Hello? Is there anyone there?’
‘How very strange,’ she says, hanging up. ‘It sounded like there was someone crying, but they wouldn’t speak to me.’
‘Try dialling 1471,’ Paul suggests.
‘What?’
Is she joking? ‘Last number recall. Haven’t you read Bridget Jones? It’s a number you can dial to find out who’s just phoned you.’
‘How amazing. Will it work on my phone? What was it again?’
‘One-four-seven-one,’ he repeats slowly, while she presses the buttons. ‘Right, now just listen.’
‘It’s Laura’s mobile number,’ she says, looking worried. ‘I hope she’s all right. Excuse me, Mr Dixon. Please bear with me. I think I ought to call her back.’
She dials the number. ‘Laura, is that you? It’s Mary here. Are you all right?’ She listens intently, then: ‘OK, well you’d better go and be sick then – yes, yes. I’ll wait here – yes, off you go then.’
With the phone still clamped to her ear, she turns to Paul. ‘She’s rather the worse for wear, I’m afraid,’ she says. ‘In fact I’ve never known her like this before – she’s normally rather an abstemious drinker. I wonder how much she’s had.’
She listens intently for a few minutes, then: ‘This is ridiculous. I can’t hear a thing. She might have passed out for all I know.’ She hangs up the phone, looking distracted for a moment. Then: ‘I’m so sorry about this, Mr Dixon, but I think I’ll have to go to her. If she’s passed out in that state she could inhale vomit and suffocate.’ Shrugging off her dressing gown, she goes charging up the stairs and clomps down again a minute later all togged up in boots and a duffle coat.
‘Oh dear, this is terrible,’ she says, dithering in the hall. ‘I can’t leave you like this. Can I call someone? What about your mother?’
‘She doesn’t know yet. I couldn’t face telling her – she’d just go on and on.’
‘You’re more than welcome to stay—’
‘No, I’ll give you a lift. Come on, the car’s just outside.’
He doesn’t know why he’s offered to drive her. He doesn’t even know why he’s come to see her, not really. He just wants to understand as much as he can of Ben’s life – he owes him that much at least. To make up for – well, anyway it’s what the lad would have wanted, what he deserves.
‘I’m so grateful for this,’ says the doc, fumbling with her seat belt as they set off. ‘She’s probably fine, but there’s a real danger of alcohol poisoning too, if someone’s not used to drinking.’
‘What’s set her off then?’ Paul asks. He’s trying to sound sympathetic, but it’s sticking in his craw a bit.
‘I expect she’s blaming herself for what happened to Ben.’
‘How’s the fuck’s Laura to blame for Ben?’
‘Oh, a host of reasons. For telling us where the body was for a start. If it hadn’t been for her, he’d never have gone diving on that reef. And it was Laura who set the ball rolling in the first place, by introducing Ben to me, then taking him on at the salon.’
Paul hardly dares ask. ‘What salon’s that then?’
‘Salon Laura – above the café. I’m sorry, Paul. I assumed you knew. It’s a beauty salon for transvestites. Ben used to go there to help with the clothes. I don’t know the details – that was between the two of them – but I think Laura was teaching him deportment, how to put on make-up, that sort of thing. She’s something of a specialist.’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Go on.’
‘There’s nothing more to say, really. Laura was Ben’s friend, that’s all – probably one of the few really close friends he had.’
When he pulls up in front of the house, the curtains are drawn but there’s a light on upstairs. The doctor rings the doorbell, then pushes opens the letterbox to listen. Paul edges between a collection of overflowing plant pots to see if he can find a crack between the curtains – but all he can see is folds of red velvet.
‘I’ll nip round the back,’ he says. ‘See if the kitchen door’s unlocked.’
He takes a note of the number and trots along to the end of the terrace, then counts the houses back, like he used to when he was breaking and entering with the lads. Then he hoists himself up on a wheelie bin, and vaults over the wall down into the yard on the other side. Thirty seconds later he’s in. He turns the light on in the hall, then checks the lounge – red velvet all over the show, flowery this, lacy that, like a posh brothel – before letting the doc in through the front door.
‘There’s no one downstairs,’ he says. ‘Shall I look upstairs, or do you want to go first?’
‘Let’s go together, shall we?’
The whole of the upstairs stinks of alcohol and puke. Paul pushes open the door to the front bedroom. ‘She’s in here,’ he says.
The bedside lamp’s been knocked over and there’s spilt wine on the carpet. Laura’s on the floor, spread-eagled in a pink negligee. There’s a puddle of vom by her head.
‘Looks like she’s had a right skinful,’ he says, wrinkling his nose.
The doc kneels down and feels for a pulse. ‘She’s still alive, thank God. Laura? Laura, please try to wake up.’ She looks at him. ‘I think she’s unconscious.’
‘Do you want me to call an ambulance?
‘No, wait. I think she’s coming round. Laura? It’s me, Mary.’
‘Is that Dr Mary?’
‘Yes, Laura. Let’s get you sitting up, shall we? Mr Dixon, can you pass me that dressing-gown?’
‘Dr Mary, you’ve got to help me.’
‘That’s what I’m here for, darling.’
‘You’ve got to phone a ghost man for me.’
‘What ghost man?’
‘I need a ghost man to get him out of me.’
‘Get who out of you, Laura? What are you talking about?’
‘Evil spirit. In here.’ Laura thumps her own chest with her fist. ‘Tom’s evil spirit.’ She claws at herself, as if trying to rip her skin apart.
The doc turns to Paul. ‘I think she’s asking for an exorcist,’ she explains. ‘She seems to believe she’s possessed.’ Then, ‘Oh dear,’ she comments in dismay as Laura voms up another load on the carpet.
Rinsing out the cloth again and tipping the contents of another bucket down the bog, Paul wonders how he’s ended up in a trannie’s house in the middle of the night mopping up puke and talking about exorcists. They’ve got Laura washed and huddled on a chair in the red velvet sitting room, with a bowl handy in case she feels like hurling again. The doc’s got the coffee-maker going and he’s sorting out the upstairs. The doc tried to stop him, but he said he was used to it, with the ’prentice lads on the boat – there’s forever one of them seasick or pissed or something. And it’s something to do, isn’t it? Scrubbing at that pink carpet. Something to fill his head, fill his hands, stop him thinking for a few minutes. Stop it hurting so much; stop him blubbing; stop him fucking smashing something.
‘Mr Dixon!’ calls the doc from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Coffee’s ready if you want it.’
He looks at his watch: three o-fucking-clock in the morning. Twelve hours since he put in that mayday call. He swills out the bucket and comes downstairs. It looks like Laura’s perking up a bit; she’s got her hands round a flowery mug, sipping away – is everything pink in this bloody place? But the doc looks completely washed out.
He slumps on the other armchair and leans back, closing his eyes.
‘Do you believe in evil spirits?’ Laura’s asking the doc.
‘You know I don’t,’ says the doc. ‘I think that cases of so-called “spirit possession” are better understood as the intrusions of past-life personalities into a current incarnation.’
‘It’s just that I keep thinking that Tom’s in here somewhere.’ Laura thumps her chest again.
‘He is in there, Laura. But not like that, not as an alien entity that has to be punished or exorcized. You can’t exorcize him – he’s a part of you.’
Now Laura starts crying, he can hear her with his eyes closed, weird little gasping sobs, then the sound of her blowing into another of the doc’s hankies. ‘Would it help to know that it now seems likely that Tom wasn’t the one who killed Annie after all?’ asks the doc. ‘According to Mr Skipper, it was Flo who stabbed her.’
Paul opens his eyes a slit. Now what’s she on about? He’d almost forgotten about all that past-life crap.
‘Tom still shoved that poor lad overboard though, didn’t he?’ says Laura. ‘And raped Annie and got rid of the body. It’s still my fault that Ben’s dead.’
Suddenly Paul’s had enough. ‘Look, shut up about it being your fault, OK? How can it possibly be your fault? Ben’s known you for what? Four, five weeks? That’s fucking nothing. Nothing. I’ve known him his whole life!’ And now the tears are coming again, hot on his cheeks. ‘If anyone’s to blame for his death, it’s me. He asked me to go diving with him and I turned him down. It’s my fault he was down there on his own, not yours. It’s my fault he drowned.’
The doc’s pulled back the curtains and it’s fucking light outside. And when she nips out for a tab this great wave of birdsong comes crashing in through the front door to rub his nose in it. Paul feels like he’s been trapped in this frilly little overstuffed room for days; but every time he thinks about leaving, he pictures Ben helping out at the caff, Ben hiding his flowery knickers, Ben trying out all those different eyeshadows and wiping them off again before anyone can see. And he makes himself sit there with it – with him – for a bit longer.
‘So what kind of stroke was it?’ he asks when the doc comes back in. She’s been filling him in about old Skip.
‘He’s paralysed down his left side, but I think it’s probably temporary. He wanted me to let you know how sorry he is for taking Ben to the reef.’
‘Seems like everyone thinks it’s their fault,’ Paul comments. Then he gets up and puts on his jacket. ‘I’d better go and see him then, hadn’t I? Set the poor old sod straight about a few things.’