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‘Do you mind?’
Benedict threw Gulliver a pained look.
Gulliver smirked. ‘Sorry, couldn’t hold it. Lucky it was only a small one.’
‘This is a small room! It’s bad enough! Open a window!’
‘I let one rip in the car when Mum picked me up from rock school,’ said Gulliver, as he unlatched the window. ‘I don’t know what it is about band practice – they just build up. It’s the girls, I think. If it was all guys, we’d just cut loose. Man,’ he added, sitting back down at the computer. ‘That one was a fart-pocalypse. A fart-mageddon. Mum made me get out and walk. Said it was worse than having an old dog.’
‘You’ve lived in America most of your life, haven’t you?’ said Benedict.
‘Yup,’ said Gulliver.
‘Then why do you call her Mum instead of Mom?’
Gulliver blinked. ‘I dunno. Never thought about it. It’s what she called herself when I was little.’
‘She never wanted you to call her by her first name?’
‘No, because that’d be weird,’ said Gulliver. ‘What did you call your mother?’
‘Mother,’ said Benedict.
‘Really?’ Gulliver screwed up his face. ‘That’s kind of anal, isn’t it?’
‘It is not,’ said Benedict. ‘It’s perfectly normal!’
Gulliver rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, sure. So I’m guessing you called your father Father? Or, wait, what’s that toff word? Oh yeah – Pater. Pater and Mater. Now, that’s really anal.’
‘I called him Sir,’ said Benedict quietly.
Gulliver stopped moving the mouse and stared at him.
‘What kind of arsehole wants his kid to call him Sir?’
‘You should watch your language,’ said Benedict. ‘Not everyone will be as tolerant as I am.’
‘Seriously,’ said Gulliver, ‘why did you have to call him that?’
‘I didn’t have to. I chose to.’
Benedict was sitting on the edge of Gulliver’s bed. His elbows were on his knees, and he was staring at his hands, which he was twisting together.
‘It seemed like a wise decision at the time,’ he added.
Gulliver swivelled around in the chair so he could see Benedict more easily.
‘You were afraid of him,’ he said. ‘Wow. Harsh.’
Benedict looked up. Gulliver’s face showed curiosity, but was free of condescension. Benedict wondered if years with Aishe had made Gulliver more accepting of the foibles of human nature.
‘I was.’ Benedict lowered his eyes again. ‘I am.’
Gulliver’s head jerked back. ‘Even now? Whoa! But you’re like – old!’
Benedict sat up straight. ‘I am not old! I’m not even thirty!’
‘Still twice as old as me.’
‘Old is eighty!’
‘No, that’s ancient,’ said Gulliver. ‘That’s triple old-tacular! Thirty’s more like old-trocity.’
Benedict blew out a breath and leaned back on the bed, propping himself on straight arms. ‘Is it acceptable, I ask myself, in a pedagogic relationship, that our entire conversation revolves around Doom and internet slang?’
Gulliver reached out the toe of his trainer and pushed to rotate the swivel chair idly from side to side. After a moment, he said, ‘Tell me about your dad.’
Benedict’s initial reaction was that he couldn’t. Gulliver was fourteen. But in almost ten years, Benedict had told the truth about his father to only one person – Aishe. The relief of that unburdening, despite her scepticism, had been so immense that Benedict had gone home and slept for twelve hours straight. It was only in the morning that he remembered she’d accused him of not being a man, and a different kind of weight had pressed down on him.
And he’d hardly told Aishe anything. There were so many other stories...
Gulliver might be fourteen, but he was a wise fourteen, Benedict told himself. He’d had an unconventional upbringing, with a mother who scared the daylights out of most people. Benedict wasn’t sure the stories would even mildly startle him.
So, Benedict began to talk. He told Gulliver about the dog and the gun. He told him about catching the train to Oxford and his flight, literally, to Europe. He told him about the first time he knew his father was chasing him – the note in the backpackers’ in Frankfurt, less than a week after he’d arrived. There were no words on it, just a cartoon drawing of a gun, with a flag coming out of the barrel, on which was written the word BANG! It was a note he was to receive many times. They’d usually arrive in the places where he was staying; he’d find them on his pillow or tucked into the book he was reading. One time, he found one stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. He’d taken it off and hung it in a locker before changing into the uniform he wore as a valet-parking attendant. When he put on his hat, he realised it was the wrong size and he went to exchange it. The note was in his pocket when he got back, less than two minutes later.
‘What did he mean by it?’ said Gulliver. ‘What was the point?’
‘I think it was the thrill of the chase,’ said Benedict, ‘I think he enjoyed seeing me run. And it must have been so easy to track me. All he had to do was see what plane I got on. Or ship. Or bus.’
‘And he always found you?’
‘Once, I got lucky,’ said Benedict. ‘There was an airline strike in Spain, and I got out on the last plane from Barcelona airport. After mine, there were no more flights for five days. I ended up in Sweden, and when I hadn’t received a note in a month, I truly thought he might have given up. I even started a horticultural course. But I never finished it.’
‘How did he do it?’ Gulliver frowned. ‘Did he, like, pay people to follow you?’
‘Yes. Paid them lots of money, I imagine. But then he had lots of money. And time.’
Gulliver chewed on his bottom lip.
‘What would have happened if you’d stopped running? Confronted him? I mean if he or his hired bad dude had got close enough to leave notes, then why didn’t they just pop a cap in your arse while they were at it?’
‘A cap in my arse?’ Benedict shook his head. ‘Thank you, Biggie Smalls.’ Then he said, ‘I have to confess that until recently, I’d never questioned that he had any other reason for chasing me, and that was to do me harm.’
He would not mention that it was Gulliver’s mother who’d prompted that re-think.
‘So, he could have just been trying to do your head in rather than kill you?’
Benedict met Gulliver’s eye. ‘Is that better?’
‘You end up less dead.’
‘True. But what kind of life would it be?’
‘And you never saw him? Not even once?’
‘Twice, actually,’ said Benedict. ‘Once was by sheer coincidence – I could tell by his shocked expression that he hadn’t planned it. It was in Tokyo, on the underground. He was at one end of a packed carriage and I was at the other. The only reason we saw each other is that we’re both a head taller than most Japanese.
‘Fortunately, we were coming up to a stop. I’d been in Tokyo for a couple of weeks and I’d mastered the art of polite shoving. He hadn’t. He was trapped by an impenetrable wall of smiling courtesy. I saw his face as the train went by. If ever a man were close to an aneurism, it was him.’
Gulliver waited a moment. ‘And the second time?’
‘Morocco.’
‘Whoa. You seriously got about!’
Benedict didn’t smile. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘So,’ Gulliver prompted. ‘Morocco?’
Benedict looked uneasy. ‘Um – not all of this may be suitable.’
‘Parental guidance recommended?’ Gulliver was amused.
‘Perhaps not in your case,’ said Benedict.
‘It’s OK. I know about the birds and the bees.’
‘Very well,’ said Benedict after a moment’s pause. ‘Cover your ears if anything makes you squeamish.’
He told about how he’d arrived in Tangier and been immediately adopted by a group of young Australian men, who were there because they wanted to see where Matt Damon had kicked arse in The Bourne Ultimatum.
‘They liked me because I could speak French,’ he said, ‘even though they had all quickly mastered the ordering of beer and really had no need to communicate anything else, except perhaps “Fuck you” to the bar owners who tried to kick them out.’
Despite realising that the men weren’t the most dependable of travelling companions, Benedict nevertheless had been so starved for company that he’d stayed with them.
‘I couldn’t even try to keep pace with their drinking,’ he said. ‘And then one night they decided they had to visit a brothel.’ He glanced at Gulliver. ‘That’s a—’
‘A house of ill repute? A bordello? A whorehouse? Yeah, thanks, I think I got it.’
‘I hope you don’t pick up this stuff on the internet,’ said Benedict. ‘Your mother will have my testicles in a bag.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Gulliver. ‘Speaking of which – what happened next?’
Benedict’s mouth turned down. ‘I’m still not sure. I really didn’t want to go to a brothel, which is almost certainly why I ended up in one, completely legless. All I remember was being lowered onto a mound of very bright, very squashy cushions, like something out of Dr Seuss. And then I must have passed out.’
‘Do you ever get any?’ Gulliver said. ‘Sheesh.’
The pink spots flamed on Benedict’s cheeks. ‘Yes, I do, thank you!’
Gulliver raised his eyebrows. ‘Izzy take pity on you, did she?’
‘You, young man,’ said Benedict, ‘are sailing very close to the wind. If you want to find out what happened, then choose your next words carefully.’
Gulliver drew his fingers like a zipper across his mouth.
‘Very well,’ said Benedict. ‘What happened was that I woke up, convinced I was being suffocated by a giant balloon animal. I realised that I was face down in the cushions, and when I rolled over, I found myself staring up into the face of my father.’
‘Was he mad?’
‘Angry? No.’ Benedict shook his head. ‘He was laughing at me. He reached down to offer me a hand and, as I hadn’t much choice, I took it and let him pull me into a sitting position. As it turned out, that was a bad move on his part. As soon as I sat up, I threw up. All over his expensive trousers and his polished shoes. He cursed and leapt backwards. Then some instinct in me took over, and I managed to clamber to my feet and run like hell.’
‘Did he chase you?’
‘If he did, he soon lost me. I’d learned to take notice of my surroundings, observe the short cuts. I didn’t bother to go back to the youth hostel. I always kept my passport hidden on me.’
Something was bothering Gulliver. ‘What did you do for money?’
‘Worked casual jobs,’ said Benedict. ‘Lived off the money my father had given me as a reward for being accepted into Oxford. I had taken it out of my account the day after he’d deposited it and put it into an account in Switzerland.’
‘You had a Swiss bank account?’ Gulliver looked sceptical.
‘Worked for the Nazis,’ said Benedict. ‘Why not me?’
‘Got any of it left?’
‘Not a bean. It always made me feel cheapened, sullied, when I spent it. So I spent it as fast as possible.’
‘So,’ said Gulliver, ‘that was the last time you saw him? How long ago was that?’
‘Over a year.’
‘Heard from him since?’
Benedict hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ve not heard from him for quite a while.’
‘Cool,’ said Gulliver. ‘Maybe he’s given up? Or maybe he got mugged in some back alley and was stabbed to death and shit?’
‘You ghoul!’
‘That’s what you want though, isn’t it?’ said Gulliver.
But Benedict didn’t reply, and the two sat in silence.
‘I wish I had a father,’ said Gulliver. ‘Not a psycho like yours, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘But – well, it’d be good to know who he was, at least.’
‘Don’t you know?’ Benedict was surprised.
‘Nope. Mum only knew his first name. She was super young,’ he added.
Benedict was puzzled. Aishe Herne had never struck him as a woman who would fail to discover the name of her child’s father. Just in case it might be of use to her, one way or another. But perhaps when you’re young, you don’t ask the right questions...
‘Speaking of your mother,’ said Benedict, ‘we should get back to your studies. That’s what she pays me for, after all.’
‘I’ve been learning,’ said Gulliver, as he swivelled his chair back to face the computer. ‘Geography, psychology, a bit of language – and how not to have sex. Really educational.’
Then he yelled, ‘Ow, ow, ow!’ and yanked his head away from Benedict. He gazed up at his tutor in offended disbelief. ‘What was that?’
‘That,’ said Benedict, ‘was the most exquisitely painful ear tweak known to man. The technique is passed down from schoolmaster to schoolmaster. I can tell you that it’s all in the wrist.’
‘That’s child abuse,’ said Gulliver.
‘Yes, well,’ said Benedict. ‘I’ve had more experience than most.’
Izzy was spraying cheese from a can onto a dish she’d previously filled with corn chips and refried beans. The cheese was emerging jaundice yellow from the nozzle and landing in a moist, swirling trail that made Benedict think of an unwell dog.
Cheese in a can was one of the many things Izzy loved about America, along with frozen cookie dough, Old Navy and Sharon Osbourne.
‘Man,’ she said. ‘That chick’s had so many facelifts, she’s got a beard!’
Benedict had heard that joke before, but he laughed anyway.
‘What is in that stuff?’ he asked.
Izzy paused to read the back of the can. ‘It’s got milk in it.’
‘And?’
‘Who cares? It tastes OK.’
If you were drunk at two in the morning, then possibly, thought Benedict. But he didn’t say it.
‘I’ll switch on the grill,’ said Izzy. ‘Oh, I forgot. I mean the broiler. The bitch boss acted like I was a retard when I called it a grill. A grill’s a barbecue, apparently. I mean who the fuck wants to broil anything? “I’ll have my nachos broiled.”’ She gave a shudder. ‘Sounds stupid!’
‘We English used to use it not that long ago,’ said Benedict. ‘It simply means heating something intensely. It’s quoted in The Jabberwocky, as part of the definition of brillig – the time when you begin broiling things for dinner.’
Izzy stared at him. ‘The Jabber-what?’
‘Never mind,’ said Benedict.
Izzy put the dish of nachos in the oven, then stopped at his chair to lean against his back and drape her arms around his neck. She kissed him on the side of his jaw.
‘You really do have a lot of shit in that head of yours, don’t you?’ she said.
‘So it would seem.’
Benedict tried not to wince as Izzy curled her leg around and sat facing him on his lap. It wasn’t that she was heavy, but manoeuvres like this were invariably a precursor to sex. Gulliver’s jibe came back to him with a certain force of irony. Oh, he got a lot,. Whether he wanted it or not.
Izzy wanted it. She lifted his hand and placed it under her t-shirt. Izzy never wore a bra; she didn’t need to. Her breasts were full but as yet unaffected by age and gravity. They were fantastic breasts, Benedict had to admit. But right now, he’d rather be holding a book.
When Izzy began to unbutton his jeans, Benedict tried frantically to think of an excuse. The options he came up with were angina, brittle bone syndrome and cystitis, and he was on the verge of being desperate enough to pick one when the room was filled with the smell of burning cheese.
‘Fuck!’
Izzy leapt off him, grabbed a dishcloth and yanked open the oven door. When she plonked the smouldering dish down on the table, Benedict saw that the cheese was still bright yellow, but also now hard and shiny, like a piece of bad pottery glazed in a kiln. The corn chips and beans that were visible were blackened.
‘It’s not so bad,’ Izzy said. ‘You can just pick off the burned bits.’
And that’s exactly what Benedict did. He even ate some of the burned bits so that Izzy wouldn’t have to.
He couldn’t tell, as he tried not to gag, whether he was a gentleman or a moron. The history of the British aristocracy would suggest that it was entirely possible to be both. Take Sir Walter Raleigh, he of the cape and the puddle. He was a perfect gentleman yet the queen still imprisoned him for acting without her permission. What was it he did again? Oh ,yes. He got married.
For a moment Benedict was gripped by a dread so intense, he felt the strongest urge to glance over his shoulder. It was like the room had been entered by some malevolent presence, one whose attention was focused like a poisoned dart pipe on the back of his neck.
Then he felt a second urge, this time to look at Izzy, which he did, very carefully, as if she might suddenly have transformed into something with scales and very long fangs. She hadn’t. She was smiling at him. Her skin was glowing with that most potent mix of youth, health and beauty. Her hair was a cloud of spun gold, there was no other way of putting it. She was gorgeous, ravishing, and all his. And she was right here in his kitchen, where she’d be again tomorrow morning after she’d shared his bed. And the following evening, she would put the shopping on the bench, rub his shoulders and cook him dinner, and so on...
Oh, God, thought Benedict. Goddamn it all to the darkest depths of hell.
He was done for.