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Aishe had expected a visit from Patrick early in the morning. She didn’t want him to visit, but when he hadn’t turned up by eleven, she felt annoyingly put out. Fuck him, then. See if she cared.
Gulliver was out at band practice, in preparation for the upcoming concert. The father of one the other rock school kids had picked him up – in, Aishe noted with an eye roll, a brand new Audi Q7. And what an ugly, social-climbing piece of metal it was. She was glad Gulliver had friends, but she would not be introducing herself to their parents any time soon. They’d be the kind who had dinner parties where they discussed the value of their houses and their share portfolios. Aishe would sooner stub out a cigarette on her eyeball.
Alone in the house, Aishe picked up an Ann Cleeves crime novel and tried to read, but found her mind hijacked by both Patrick and Benedict. Thoughts about Patrick were easier to deal with because the reaction they provoked was simple fury. If the family had sent Patrick here in yet another attempt to tell her how to live her life, then the family could go fuck themselves. In fact, she saw no reason why her conversation with Patrick need consist of any more words than those. She’d exchanged considerably more with Anselo, the family’s last, failed, emissary. But ninety per cent of them had been unnecessary, and had diminished much of the sense of triumph from the victory. Aishe regretted a lot of the things she’d said to him. Mostly, she regretted that it was the last time they’d talked.
Thoughts about Benedict were more problematic. Every time she’d been convinced he meant nothing to her, she’d recall how good his hands felt on her skin, how he smiled down at her with genuine pleasure and affection as she lay there in the post-orgasmic glow that he’d elicited. She’d recall how kind he was. How good to Gulliver. How he looked when there was no doubt that he was crazy about her. How she could count the other men who’d looked at her like that on one finger. . .
Aishe threw the book across the room. It hit the wall, bounced and skittled the photographs on the bookshelf. The one of Frank landed hard on the one of her brothers and sisters, and she heard the sharp snap of glass.
‘Shit.’ She hurried to scoop the frames up off the floor.
The photo of the Herne siblings was intact. But on the other, the glass was cracked, right across Frank’s face. Aishe knew that she could easily replace the frame, that the photograph could go back on the shelf, as good as new. But the tears still pricked and if the glass had not been loose, she would have cradled the broken frame to her chest.
Instead, she gently laid Frank’s photo flat on the shelf and set the photo of her family back where it had been. Anselo’s unsmiling, dark, nine-year-old eyes stared back at her and, briefly, she touched a fingertip to his face.
A glance at her watch told her it was close to midday. Time to leave for the shelter. When she shut her front door, Aishe had an unsettling impression of finality. The door had closed behind her thousands of times before, but not once had Aishe felt uncertain about what would be waiting for her when she opened it again on her return home.
‘I look like a prize prat.’
Patrick was holding the photograph of his younger self away from him by one corner, as if it was a well-used handkerchief.
‘No, you don’t.’ Gulliver took the photo from him and replaced it carefully in the box. ‘You look like Marlon Brando in The Wild One.’
‘Yeah?’ Patrick raised an eyebrow.
‘Crossed with Bob Hoskins in Super Mario Brothers.’
Patrick folded his arms across a daunting expanse of chest. ‘D’you think you know me well enough to take the piss?’
‘Child abuse is illegal here,’ Gulliver remarked. ‘You’ll have to suck it up.’
‘You remind me of another young cousin of yours,’ said Patrick. ‘Name of Tyso. Same red hair. Same big mouth.’
Gulliver took out the photo of the men taken at the wedding. He pointed to his great-uncle Jenico. ‘Mum says I look like him.’
‘That’s why you look like Tyso – he’s Jenico’s youngest,’ said Patrick. ‘He’s first cousin to me and your Mum. I’ve got no fucking idea what relation that makes him to you.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Tyse? About nineteen, I suppose.’
Gulliver kept his eyes on the photographs. ‘Any other cousins my age?’
Patrick noted that the boy’s casual tone was belied by the hunch of his shoulders.
‘Would you like to meet them?’
Gulliver gave a good impression of an offhand shrug. ‘I’m not sure they want to meet me.’
‘What gave you that idea?’ Patrick was surprised.
Gulliver shrugged again. ‘Uncle Jenico didn’t seem that interested when I emailed him.’
‘Ah.’ Patrick hesitated. ‘I imagine that’s because you’re still a kid.’
‘I’m fourteen!’
Gulliver scorched him with a glare that reminded Patrick exactly of Aishe.
Patrick held up his hands in the surrender position. ‘I meant that you’re still your mother’s responsibility. Jenico wouldn’t want to make any connection with you that hadn’t been okayed by her first.’
Gulliver stared. ‘You’re kidding me.’ Then he kicked the table leg. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
He kicked at a kitchen chair, then pulled back his foot to punt the chair across the room. Patrick grabbed his arm.
‘Uh-uh,’ he said. ‘This is your mother’s stuff. Show some respect.’
Gulliver tried to shake free his arm, but Patrick’s hand was large and his grip strong. Gulliver glared again at his cousin, his face flushed with frustration and the humiliation of being the weaker.
‘When has she showed any respect for me?’ Gulliver said. ‘When has she ever cared about what I wanted?’
Gulliver shook his arm again, and this time Patrick released him.
‘What do you want?’ said Patrick, as his young cousin rubbed his arm and glared up at him resentfully. ‘What is it she not giving you?’
Out of embarrassment, or shame, Patrick couldn’t tell which, Gulliver dropped his gaze.
‘I want a family,’ he said quietly, after a long pause. ‘I want more people in my life.’
‘And have you told her that?’ Patrick said.
‘No point,’ said Gulliver sullenly. ‘She won’t listen.’
Patrick was about to argue, until he realised that he, personally, could not recall a single time where a willingness to listen could be listed among Aishe’s qualities.
The moment for further conversation passed. They heard the key click in the lock and the front door rattle open.
‘She won’t like it that you’re here,’ said Gulliver.
‘Yeah, well, she’s entitled to her opinion,’ said Patrick. ‘Something else you’d do well to respect.’
Aishe appeared in the kitchen doorway and stopped short. Patrick saw surprise in her face, swiftly followed by resentment and something else he couldn’t quite place which looked oddly like satisfaction. She’d been gearing up for a fight since last night, he reasoned to himself. Now it was time. Gloves up. Ding!
‘I brought dinner,’ he said, before she could launch into him. ‘Went to the Mexican place in town. No fucking idea what I actually ordered. Us Brits may be able to tell a vindaloo from a jalfrezi, but this stuff is foreign.’
‘You got tortillas,’ said Gulliver, who’d begun rummaging in the box. ‘And churros! Fuck yeah!’
‘Gulliver,’ Aishe warned.
Her son jabbed a finger at Patrick. ‘He swears all the time!’
‘Habit,’ said Patrick. ‘Don’t start and you won’t have to break it.’
He saw Aishe give him a quick look that seemed mildly disappointed. She stepped through into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘Want a beer?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ Patrick said.
Aishe handed a bottle to him and moved to take a chair at the kitchen table. She saw the box of photographs and her mouth thinned.
‘Having fun?’ she said.
‘Realising it’s almost thirty years since you were eighteen isn’t a barrel of laughs,’ said Patrick. ‘Nor is seeing reminders that you were once a complete tosser.’
Aishe appraised him. ‘That’s not what the boys in my family thought,’ she said. ‘To them, you were the epitome of cool. But then, two out of three of them were morons.’
Patrick nodded. ‘And if it hadn’t been for your dad and Jenico, I’d still be complete waste of space.’
Gulliver was picking lettuce out of his tortilla and discarding it on the side of his plate. ‘What did they do?’
‘Kicked my arse,’ said Patrick. ‘After I got out of jail, I had no idea what to do with my life, so I did nothing except mooch around and moan about my lot. Your Mum’s dad – your granddad – and Jenico gave me a bollocking. Told me if I didn’t get off my snivelling rear end and find a job, I could no longer rely on family support.’
‘I believe it,’ said Aishe. ‘Dad had no patience with parasites.’
Patrick stared down at her. ‘Top bloke, your dad,’ he said. ‘Hard as fucking nails, but fair with it, you know? He was a hell of a loss to all you kids, not to mention your poor bloody mother. I don’t think she’s over it even now.’
Gulliver broke the silence. ‘What were you in jail for?’
Patrick turned, surprised. ‘Hasn’t your mother told you? Thought I’d be the perfect object lesson for every Herne family parent.’
Gulliver muttered, while avoided looking at his mother, ‘She never tells me anything.’
‘You’ve never asked!’ said Aishe.
‘I was a vandal,’ said Patrick, to forestall the brewing argument. ‘A petty thief, a brawler. Got hauled up in juvenile court countless times, but usually got off with a slap on the wrist or a token bit of community service. Thought I was invincible until I was nineteen, when I came up before a magistrate who saw me for exactly what I was – an arrogant, unrepentant shit. So he banged me up for six months in adult prison. I only served three but they were most fucking terrifying of my life. Every single day I was convinced I’d meet an agonising death at the hands of some inventively vicious psycho.’
‘Are you the only jailbird in the family?’ Gulliver saw his mother’s expression and shrugged. ‘Just asking.’
Patrick screwed up his mouth. ‘As it happens, the King family has never been the most law-abiding. I come from a long line of chories.’
‘What’s are chories?’ said Gulliver.
‘Thieves,’ said Aishe. ‘But then, what would you expect from a bunch of pikey Travellers?’
Patrick took the plate Gulliver was offering him and dumped a tortilla on it. Then he pulled up a chair opposite Aishe, sat down and smiled at her. ‘Snob.’
Aishe eyed him balefully. ‘Why are you here?’
‘My excuse for being here is to look at a property investment,’ said Patrick. ‘A winery. Up in Napa. My real reason is that if I didn’t get some time out of the house, I was going to go spare.’
‘Unrest on the domestic front?’ Aishe looked a little smug.
‘Yeah, you could say.’ Patrick swigged his beer. ‘But I think I can deal with it. Got some sane advice from your friend, Michelle.’
This didn’t seem to improve Aishe’s mood.
‘If you think you’re going to give me more “family advice”, then you can piss off again.’
Patrick gave her an even stare. ‘By my estimate,’ he said, ‘it must be seven years since any of us has come near you. So I’d say – message received. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Gulliver, halfway through his churro. ‘You’re such a bitch.’
‘Oi!’ Patrick protested.
‘Shut up!’ Gulliver yelled at him. ‘You don’t know what it’s like for me! You have no say!’
He dumped the churro in the pottle and smacked the container down on the bench, where it immediately toppled over.
‘You act like everyone out there is the enemy!’ Gulliver said to his mother. ‘Like everyone -schools, family, whoever – is part of some evil fucking cult that wants to suck us in! What are you trying to do? Keep me safe? If you are, you’ve failed big time!’
He yanked his phone out of his jeans pocket and brandished it at her.
‘What do you think I’ve got on here? I can download any music I want! I can go visit sites that have shit on them like you wouldn’t believe! I can talk to whoever I want – all manner of creeps and pervs! Did you miss that trick?’
Gulliver slammed his phone down on the bench, narrowly missing the puddle of chocolate ooze. ‘And if you’re thinking that’s easy, just cut off the internet – think again! There are girls at rock school, Mum. Real, live ones! And guess what? You know a bunch of those times I said we were rehearsing? I lied! So suck on that!’
‘Stop it.’
Patrick didn’t raise his voice, but the authority he invested in the two words got the desired result.
‘Don’t give us all this hard-done-by bullshit,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a good life. And what’s done is done. Your mother made her decisions because they were hers to make. If you think you’re grown-up enough to have a say now, then stop ranting and just say it. That’s what grown-ups do.’
Red merged with red as Gulliver flushed right to the roots of his hair. For a moment, he seemed to be considering the ‘screw you’ retort that a humiliating rebuke inevitably provokes.
But then he looked straight at his mother and said, ‘I want to visit my family.’
Aishe responded with one short nod. Words were obviously beyond her.
Gulliver threw Patrick a look that could be seen as defiant, but within which Patrick detected an apology. But before he could acknowledge it, Gulliver had sloped out of the room. The stairs creaked as he took them two at a time, then his bedroom door was slammed and he could be heard no more.
Patrick was tall enough to reach out across the table. But as soon as his hand touched her shoulder, Aishe shrugged it off.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Patrick, ‘fourteen is the worst age. Men in full mid-life crisis suffer less emotional turbulence.’ He scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you alone.’
Aishe frowned up at him, as if he’d roused her from a dream. ‘You’re not still staying at Michelle’s, are you?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Nah. I found a Holiday Inn in the next town.’
‘Aren’t Holiday Inns a bit beneath you?’
‘If there’s cable and a large bed, I don’t give a flying fuck how many stars it has.’
Aishe hesitated. ‘How long are you staying here?’
‘A week?’ Patrick made his way to the kitchen door. ‘I won’t bother you. Unless you want me to.’ He fished out his wallet and handed her a business card. ‘There’s my mobile. Call if you need anything.’
When Patrick glanced back before shutting the front door, Aishe was still staring at the card.
Much later that night, Aishe took her own phone up to her bedroom. She found the piece of paper on which Michelle had written down the phone number for her friend Darrell’s house – Anselo’s house now, too. Aishe’s request for it had been casual enough, but she knew Michelle had seen through her. Fair enough, thought Aishe. Not many people needed a current phone number for their own brother.
Aishe had no idea what time it was in London. She’d stopped keeping track of the differences years ago. She dialled the number anyway.
And got an answerphone. A woman’s voice, accent like Michelle’s. Asked her to leave a message. Aishe very nearly didn’t, but a sense that it was now or never spurred her to speak.
‘Hi, it’s—’ She’d been about to say ‘me’, but realised that Anselo, after all these years, might not recognise her voice. ‘It’s Aishe. Just...checking in. Here’s my number.’
She rattled it off and hung up. And wondered why she couldn’t end the call with ‘Talk soon.’