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She would know by his eyes, Michelle decided.
She was sitting in the living room, glass of wine in hand, pretending to watch television. She’d been wrong about Chad being back in time for the children’s dinner, bath and bed. Harry and Rosie had been in bed for an hour. Chad was not yet home.
She’d know by his eyes as soon as he steps through that door. If he intended to leave her, she’d see the guilt.
Michelle picked up the remote and lowered the volume so much that she may as well have hit the mute button. She strained to listen – was that a car stopping? If it had been it wasn’t Chad’s, Michelle thought after a minute. Even allowing time for him to walk up the path on his knees, he would have made the front door by now. She glanced at her watch for the fifty-millionth time.
She might not bother to look in his eyes. She might just break the wine glass and plunge the jagged edge straight into his carotid artery.
That morning, Michelle had instructed herself not to give in to the sense of dread that threatened to extinguish the spark of positive anticipation she felt about Chad’s homecoming. It wouldn’t do to get all worked up. She didn’t know what was going to happen, and she shouldn’t try to guess. Besides, if she were a good wife, she’d be more interested in what he’d discovered on his personal journey. She’d be more concerned about what it had meant for him rather than what any changes could mean for her. And she shouldn’t assume that changes meant her life was about to go to hell in a handbasket, either. Just because she wanted things to be one way didn’t mean that was the way they had to be. Let him come home to a wife whose spirit is generous and whose mind is open, not to some threatened, belligerent harpy.
Through constant repetition of the above mantra, Michelle had managed to maintain a relatively equable state of mind right through the day. Even when Chad hadn’t been home in time to see Harry and Rosie before they went to bed, she’d been able to find sufficient reserves of goodwill to give him the benefit of the doubt.
But now, those reserves were dry. Michelle was now consumed by a new mantra. It consisted of two words, which pulsated with a pure and furious resentment.
Fuck him.
Fuck him to hell and back for putting her through this.
Fuck him if he thought he was going to leave, if he didn’t think their life is good enough for him.
Fuck him if he thought she’d be the one who dealt with his mother and father. Just because she was the one taking Virginia’s daily calls, and listening patiently to her genteel wails of distress about her husband withdrawing ever further into a state of squalid reclusiveness, didn’t mean she was going to keep it up. They’d be his problem now. And good fucking luck!
Fuck him if he thought she’d even stay. She didn’t have to live in this country. She could take the children and go wherever she pleased. How would he like them apples? If he thought he could have a nice, cosy, friendly separation, then he could wake up and smell the acrimony. Joint custody, her bum. She would fight him to the death and then jump on his corpse. Like he’d once said, that’s what you get for marrying a lawyer. Suck on that cold piece of irony, buckaroo!
Fuck it. She wished she’d rung him every day at work and left guilt-laden messages about how the children were wasting away with grief like Victorian orphans. She wished she’d rung all his colleagues – and their horrible wives – and told them what he was up to. She should have got some rumours circulating that were powered by real spite.
She wished they lived in a shittier neighbourhood, was Michelle’s final mental salvo. Then the front door would have a deadbolt and she could lock him out.
Michelle drained her glass of wine. As she lowered it, she heard the door open. It was like someone throwing a switch in a darkened theatre. Within Michelle, the sparks of emotion sputtered, and then every atom of her being was ablaze.
Chad Lawrence entered the living room to find his wife curled in a tight ball on the couch, shuddering with sobs. And for a moment, he hadn’t the faintest clue what to do.
‘I wish she was dead,’ said Gulliver.
As this came during a reading of Macbeth, just after Lady Macbeth had goaded her husband to commit regicide, Benedict wasn’t immediately sure whom Gulliver meant.
‘I thought the aim was to have more family, not less,’ Benedict replied. ‘And it’s “were” not “was” — a hypothetical statement uses the subjunctive.’
‘Thanks.’ Gulliver ensured the word was crisp with sarcasm.
‘No problem.’ Benedict smiled. ‘That’s what I’m paid for.’
He closed the copy of the Scottish tragedy and placed it on Gulliver’s desk.
‘She hasn’t actually said no though, has she?’ Benedict said. ‘So willing her demise seems a bit premature.’
‘She’ll find a way to make sure it doesn’t happen,’ said Gulliver sullenly. ‘There won’t be enough money, or it’ll be the wrong time of the year, or they’ll be short staffed at the shelter, or some fucking thing.’
‘Your language is so blue these days it’s indigo,’ said Benedict. ‘If you were at my school and you spoke like that, you’d be caned.’
Gulliver looked interested. ‘Did you ever get caned?’
‘No, I did not,’ said Benedict. ‘I was a model student.’
‘Makes you sound like a cardboard cut-out,’ said Gulliver.
Echoing upwards came the sound of a firm knock on the front door.
‘Expecting someone?’ said Benedict.
‘Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ said Gulliver.
He slid off his chair and headed down the stairs. Benedict could tell by the number of footfalls that Gulliver was swinging down with one hand on the banister and one hand on the wall, a practice his mother had expressly banned.
‘A cardboard cut-out,’ said Benedict to the empty room. ‘An uncannily accurate description of how I feel right now.’
A man’s voice mingling with Gulliver’s in the entrance way told Benedict the caller was someone the boy knew. The London cousin, Benedict guessed. Gulliver had mentioned that he’d already paid them a visit, and in a tone that suggested to Benedict that Gulliver’s feelings towards his male relative were mixed. Benedict had decided not to probe. If Gulliver wanted to get something off his chest, he’d come round to it in his own time.
That said, he should get down there, thought Benedict. If Gulliver was abducted, then he suspected Aishe might outclass his father for homicidal persistence.
Benedict knew that Gulliver’s cousin was called Patrick. What he was mildly alarmed to find out upon entering the kitchen was that the man was also a giant. Ye gods, thought Benedict. Patrick could grind his bones without breaking a sweat. Probably wouldn’t get more than a dinner roll out of them, but still.
The giant stuck out a hand. ‘You must be Gulliver’s tutor. I’m his cousin, Patrick King.’
Benedict returned the handshake and tried to keep his wrist firm. ‘Benedict Hardy.’
‘Hardy?’ Patrick frowned. But if the name was of interest, he didn’t pursue it.
‘How’s your mother?’ he said to Gulliver.
Gulliver scowled. ‘Fine.’
Patrick mouth twitched. ‘And how are you?’
Instead of replying, Gulliver opened the refrigerator. ‘Want a soda?’
‘He means a soft drink,’ said Benedict, upon observing Patrick’s blank look.
‘Right,’ said Patrick. ‘Yeah, why not?’
Gulliver handed his cousin a can, then offered one to Benedict, who took it gratefully. Benedict was hungover. Izzy had gone to help Eddie with yesterday’s rock school concert rehearsal. The relief of her absence, compounded with the resentment and unhappiness that seethed through Benedict every time Eddie came to mind had driven him to empty the six cans of Budweiser that Izzy had left in the fridge, then finish off a bottle of cheap zinfandel (another Izzy purchase) that tasted not unlike the liquid in a jar of sauerkraut. The only upside was that he’d crashed into bed early and had slept right through Izzy’s return and her rising out of bed in the morning to go to work. He knew this because she’d left a note on the pillow that said ‘See ya later, sleepy’ and was signed with XXs and a love heart in which she’d written ‘Ben and Iz 4 eva’, which made him feel even more nauseated than the alcohol that was still coursing through his system.
He drained the soda can in a rapid sequence of swallows, and lowered it to find Patrick the giant smiling at him in a manner that his alcohol-furred brain found highly menacing.
But, ‘Us Limeys, huh?’ was all Patrick said. ‘Don’t understand simple English.’
‘I’m half Limey!’ said Gulliver. He added in a mutter, ‘And half who-the-fuck-knows-what.’
‘Your language.’ Benedict cringed at how feeble he sounded.
To his surprise, Patrick backed him up. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Mind your fucking mouth.’
Then added, ‘Why’s your mother taken on a waitressing job? Surely she could do better than that?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Gulliver scowled again. ‘Probably because it gives her a chance to be a bitch to new people every day.’
‘Oi,’ said Patrick. ‘I mean this. You talk about your mother like that again and I won’t be arguing your case for a family visit. You’ll be on your own.’
‘Fine.’ Gulliver yanked open a cupboard and pulled out a bag of corn chips. He ripped it open with unnecessary force and stood there, shoving chips into his mouth and glowering.
‘Anyway.’ Patrick placed his still half-full soda can on the bench. ‘I’d better not interrupt your study time. What’s today’s subject?’
‘Macbeth,’ said Benedict.
‘“Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”’ said Patrick.
‘I thought you flunked out of school.’ Gulliver emitted resentment and corn chip crumbs in equal measure.
‘Yeah, and look where that got me,’ said Patrick. ‘But then I stopped dwelling on my past and all the things I felt I’d been deprived of, and amazingly, my life started to pick up.’ He gave Gulliver a last look.’ Or maybe it just felt like it did, because I stopped being such a fuckwit.’
He nodded at Benedict. ‘Good to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ said Benedict, as Patrick strode past him.
‘My, my,’ Benedict said to Gulliver, when the front door was safely closed. ‘What an interesting relation he is. I can’t wait to hear about all the others.’
Gulliver chose not to reply but to peer at the clock on the oven. ‘We’ve got half an hour before Mum gets home. Not enough time to finish Macbeth.’
‘Ah well,’ said Benedict. ‘I’m sure you won’t be astonished to learn that he dies in the end. But then again,’ he added, ‘don’t we all?’
Michelle looked terrible, Benedict thought. What was that word his mother was so fond of? Oh yes. Peaky. Having a wan and sickly appearance. Michelle looked very peaky.
From Harry, Benedict had gleaned the fact that Daddy had come home, and he had brought presents. Harry had a new wooden train for his track and Rosie had a plush cow that went moo when you squeezed it. There had been a lot of mooing that morning, as Rosie crushed the cow relentlessly against the living room carpet.
Benedict assumed that Daddy’s return had not been as joyful for Michelle as it had been for her children, hence the peakiness. But he didn’t dare ask, and Michelle didn’t say anything, so Benedict decided it was best to leave it be.
But when she was still sitting at the kitchen table over an hour after he’d arrived, he felt obliged to speak. Not trusting Rosie to stay safely occupied with cow bashing, he hoisted her onto his hip and started to carry her to the kitchen.
He made it into the hall when the doorbell rang. Benedict dithered for a second, but decided to answer it. It probably was Jehovah’s Witnesses this time. But at least it could hardly be—
Patrick, on the doorstep, blinked in surprise.
‘Has there been some sort of cloning experiment around here?’ he said. ‘Or have I fallen unknowingly down a rabbit hole?’
‘No, it’s me again,’ said Benedict. ‘I’m also Michelle’s, er, child-minder.’ He opened up the door. ‘Come on in. I’m afraid she’s not in the best – well, you’ll see.’
Even though it was two in the afternoon, Michelle had not yet had a shower, nor changed out of the t-shirt and loose cotton pants that she wore as pyjamas. The cup of coffee in front of her was cold and filmy. Her head was bowed and her stare was inward. Even when the two men, one carrying her baby daughter, walked right up to her, she did not register their presence until Patrick stooped and kissed her briefly on the cheek.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Bad day?’
Michelle gazed up at him, bewildered. Then her whole face crumpled and she burst into tears.
‘Dear, oh, dear.’ Patrick sat in the chair next to her, reached around and coaxed her head down gently onto his chest. He stroked her back. ‘Dear, oh, dear.’
Benedict hovered, uncertain what to do. Rosie narrowed his options by making a lunge for the side of his face.
‘Ouch!’ Benedict prised her small fingers from his jaw. ‘All right, all right!’
He moved so that he could catch Patrick’s eye, and hooked his thumb in the direction of the living room. ‘I’ll, er, be—’
Patrick nodded, and Benedict found himself carrying Rosie out of the kitchen at a speed he couldn’t quite justify as a tactful retreat.
He was wimp,. Slightest hint of conflict and he ran for it.
His mind elsewhere, he sat Rosie back down on her playmat with quite a thump. Her mouth became an O of surprise, and for a second Benedict was concerned that she might cry. Instead she gave a gleeful bellow and clapped her hands together. Rosie had only recently decided that crawling was better than being carried around, and could now move with startling swiftness across the floor. She zipped up to Benedict’s feet and pulled herself upright by gripping his legs. One hand holding herself steady, she reached up the other hand in a gesture that unmistakably meant, ‘More!’
‘You’ll never run away, will you?’ Benedict detached her from his legs and plonked her down on the carpet, more gently this time, but enough to elicit another gleeful cackle. ‘You’ll be right amongst it, weapon in each hand and one more between your teeth, like a Berserker.’
He glanced across the room to where Harry was on his knees, trying to work out how to fit the bridge piece into his train track. Benedict suspected that Harry wouldn’t run away, either, but only because he’d be oblivious to any fracas going on around him. Harry moved to the beat of Harry’s drum only, which Benedict always imagined sounded like that in Elton John’s Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me as opposed to, say, The White Stripes’ Hardest Button to Button.
Whereas he, himself, had always moved to beat set by someone else. This filled him with such despondency that he sat down on the floor next to Rosie’s playmat until Harry, who’d finally mastered his track, asked if they could go to the playground.
On leaving the kitchen, Benedict had half closed the door behind him. He supposed that he should go in and tell Michelle he was taking her children for a walk, but through the gap in the door he could hear her talking, her voice still rattly with tears, and Patrick’s gentle murmurs in reply.
They were busy, Benedict decided, and left them to it. And felt like an even bigger wimp.
When he, Rosie and Harry returned an hour later, the kitchen door was wide open. Patrick was sitting back, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. Michelle was nowhere to be seen.
‘She’s in the shower,’ Patrick said.
‘Hey, buster.’ Patrick set down his coffee cup and held out an arm to Harry, who was cautiously advancing on him. Delighted, Harry scrambled up and sat heavily on Patrick’s lap.
‘Oof,’ said Patrick. ‘If I had to carry you round all day, I’d never need the gym.’
Benedict settled Rosie in her highchair and busied himself with the preparation of snacks and drinks for the children. He was trying to ignore a niggling sense of resentment at the effortless way Patrick had made himself at home, both here and at Aishe’s house. Despite Gulliver’s sullen responses today, it was clear Patrick was someone the boy admired and respected. Benedict was someone Gulliver liked, he thought. But he wasn’t sure he was someone he respected. Likewise Michelle. If she respected him, he’d be the one she spilled her guts to, not Patrick. To her, he was a nice boy, but not – as Aishe had made crystal clear – a man. Patrick was a man, Benedict thought with a sinking heart, and it wasn’t just his physique that made him one.
‘There’s coffee left in the pot,’ Patrick said.
‘Right.’ Benedict thought his answer sounded a bit short and amended it. ‘Thanks.’
He poured himself a cup and, after a brief hesitation, sat down at the table opposite Patrick. Benedict lifted his cup to drink from it and, with a strong sensation of déjà vu, lowered it to find Patrick staring intently at him.
‘Hardy,’ said Patrick. ‘No relation to Reg Hardy?’
Benedict was not about to admit that straight up. ‘Reg Hardy?’
‘Big London criminal. Few years back, offered me first dibs on one of his London warehouses,’ said Patrick. ‘I declined. Not sure that was entirely wise, but seems I still have all my body parts.’
He appraised Benedict. ‘You look a bit like him. So, are you a relation?’
There was a short pause. ‘He’s my father.’
Patrick’s eyebrows rose. Then his expression changed from surprise to something Benedict couldn’t quite identify. It looked almost like pity, but with a hint of embarrassment. He also seemed to be searching for words.
‘You said is,’ said Patrick, finally.
Benedict frowned, puzzlement making him irritated. ‘Yes. Reg Hardy’s my father.’
‘Shit . . .’
Patrick exhaled the word rather than spoke it. He glanced at Harry on his lap, who was eating his way, one by one, through a pile of goldfish crackers. There wasn’t a simple way to shift him, so Patrick didn’t try.
He looked across at Benedict, and this time his expression was unmistakable.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. Reg Hardy died of cancer. His funeral was last month.’
Benedict’s only coherent thought was that it was extraordinary how one can have such a physical reaction to a piece of information. It was like he’d been plugged into a source of extreme cold, which raced through his veins and chilled him so thoroughly that he could no longer feel his arms, his hands or anything below his waist. His chest felt constricted, crushed inwards, so that breathing was a struggle. His face felt pinched and numb and out of his control, and for one horrific moment, Benedict sensed his mouth opening out into a square, like Harry’s did just before he was about to cry. With a herculean effort of will, he sucked in enough air to forestall the humiliating possibility of tears. But he held them off only just, as years of pent-up anger and fear and resentment roared upwards to his heart, where they collided in jangled discord with a higher, keening note of pure grief.
Patrick said gently, ‘Son, how did you not know? It was in all the papers. All over the internet.’
‘I don’t buy the papers,’ Benedict managed to reply. ‘And I’ve never had a computer, not even a laptop.’ He uttered a short laugh. ‘Too much of a liability at airports.’
‘You must have had access at Gulliver’s?’
Benedict shook his head. ‘Only looked up study material. And music. And nonsense . . .’
‘No one got in touch? None of your family?’
Abruptly, Benedict shoved back his chair and stood. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I must—’
‘Yeah, go on,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll take care of this lot.’
His frown was concerned, kind. It was more than Benedict could bear. He left the kitchen and the house without another word.
Michelle walked in five minutes later, towelling her hair. She saw Rosie in the highchair and Harry on Patrick’s lap.
‘Benedict in the boy’s room?’ she said.
Then she saw Patrick’s face.
‘Tell me,’ she said, sinking down onto a chair. ‘Because I really need to know that my problems are nowhere near as bad as they might be.’