seventy-six

We got hammered.

Sitting absurdly close to each other on the sofa, Stannard was more tactile than usual. It made me feel awkward because the spectre of Otto Vellender sat between us like a bolster down the middle of a double bed. Loose-mouthed with alcohol, I had a crushing desire to confess all about sex in the hallway. Self-preservation kicked in. I stuck out my glass for a refill. “More wine, please.” Having already consumed enough to negate the power of my medication, one more would make little difference. Might as well go for broke.

He topped up our glasses. “Do you think the shrinks will come down on the side of your ma being mentally unfit to stand?”

“According to Gavin, it’s our last hope.”

“Slim?”

“Infinitesimal.”

“And Nicholas Vellender?”

I hesitated. “What about him?”

“You don’t think he’s guilty?” Stannard probed.

“Of what?”

“Online assault?”

“Is there such a crime?”

“Difficult to prove, granted, but his online activities indicate criminality, surely?”

“It indicates mental illness, which is hardly surprising when you consider how he was brought up.”

“Two fuck-ups for parents isn’t exactly an original state of affairs.”

“Ouch.”

He flashed an impish smile. “All that terrible upbringing stuff, well, it’s simply not my bag.”

“You sound like my boss,” I said, feeling immensely tired. “So what is your bag?” Our eyes met and I wanted to claw back the words, the intonation, the tone, everything. There was no doubt in my mind of the chemistry between us, but I didn’t want to risk our friendship by introducing a complicated emotional dimension.

He took my glass and set it down on the table next to his own. “You,” he said, his eyes melting into mine. No, I thought. Not because I didn’t want him to, not because of Otto, but because of Chris. With Otto, it had been nothing more than sex; with Stannard, I felt as if I were betraying my dead partner.

He leant in towards me. And then the doorbell blared and we sprung apart like startled teenagers caught snogging by their parents.

I jumped to my feet, fled down the hallway, and tore open the front door. My big brother stood on the doorstep.

“Luke.” I flung my arms around him. He felt solid and brotherly and in command.

“I got an earlier flight,” he said hugging me tight. “Sheesh, you smell of booze,” he said, laughing.

“Come on in.” I grinned. “I’ve got a friend I’d like you to meet.”

Luke strode in, stuck down his bag, and shook hands with Stannard. “I could use a drink myself,” he said. “So where’s Monica? Is she here?”

I looked from my brother to Stannard, euphoria at my brother’s return turning to gloom as quickly as a May blossom shrivelling in frost.

Stannard made his excuses, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and left. I don’t know what I felt about that. Probably relief had the edge on disappointment.

I handed Luke a drink and told him everything. I was certain I’d left out bits that would return to me later, probably around the middle of the night, but I gave him the broad picture. When I finished he sat grave and sombre and dark-eyed.

I hadn’t seen my brother for a few years. He’d aged in the way that affluent men do. While his clothes were expensive and spoke of wealth, there was, somehow, something less of him as a person, as if the values he’d once held dear were neither relevant nor coincided with his carefully created image and lifestyle. His girth had expanded. His face was fleshy, slightly pouched below his eyes, and the resemblance to my father was striking. Clean-shaven, Luke had the same mouth and dominant jawline, thin hair balding on top, grey at the temples. Two lines lay on either side of his eyebrows like stray accents in need of a vowel. I remembered those lines on my father’s face, how they would deepen when he was vexed or irritated. I recalled how much they disturbed me.

“Did the police lean on her to force a confession?” His Transatlantic accent was stronger now he was sitting alone with me in my home.

“Not according to her lawyer.”

“And this guy, Chadwick, he’s good?”

“He handled my case, remember?”

“Sure thing,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Jet lag screwing with my brain,” he apologised. “But if you’re right, why confess to something she hadn’t done?”

I paused. As fast as a flame setting light to petrol, Luke pounced on the gap in my response. “What haven’t you told me, Kim?”

Crumbling under his austere gaze in exactly the same way I used to capitulate to my dad, I told him about the incident that had put Monica into a secure unit for a second time.

“Jeez, she’s done it before? Why the hell didn’t you say?”

“Because it doesn’t mean she’s a murderer.”

He stared at me as if I’d offered to sleep with him. “Where I come from it’s a slam dunk. She’s dangerous and devious.”

No, no, no. “She’s lost.” I pitched forward. “Think about it, why wait twelve years to strike? Why risk the life she’s carefully created, the future she’s built for herself after all that’s happened to her? She maintained she was happy in the Hawkes household.”

Luke rolled his eyes at my obvious naivety. “She would say that. It was part of the deception. She needed you to believe her story and you fell for it, don’t you understand?”

Astringent, penetrating, his eyes bored into mine. I broke away first, scooped up Stannard’s glass along with a couple of empty wine bottles, and dumped them on the draining board. The clatter made my brain ache.

“Do you think she’ll change her mind?” he said when I sat back down.

“About what?”

“Seeing us.”

“I hope so.”

He looked mournful. Perhaps he was counting the cost of a wasted journey. He leant back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and massaged the lids with his index fingers. “What should I do?”

“I’ll give you her lawyer’s number. You could liaise with him.” We sat in silence, neither of us thinking of anything useful to say. “Monica said that you’re staying at a hotel, is that right?” I said at last.

He nodded. Weary and blind-sided, he seemed reluctant to make a move. I didn’t blame him and actually didn’t want him to go. “Want to stay here tonight?”

He opened his eyes and his mouth relaxed into a semblance of a smile. “That would be good. I’m only sorry it’s not in better circumstances.”

I remembered he’d said the same when our father died. Too often, our lives seemed punctuated by loss.

I sprang to my feet. “Won’t be a second. I’ll make up the bed. Help yourself to a drink. Do you want anything to eat? There’s plenty of food in the fridge.”

He tilted his glass. “This is fine.”

I took fresh sheets and towels from the cupboard on the landing, made up the bed in the spare room, and went downstairs. We talked some more, about Luke’s wife, Jessica, and children who I’d only seen as toddlers. He asked me about my health, to which I gave a pat response. I asked him about work, to which he gave a similarly bland reply. We were like strangers in a crowded room, our differences more apparent than they ever were during countless phone calls over the years. We were each playing parts, neither willing to give ground, to reveal what we really thought or felt for fear of dismaying or, worse, vexing the other.

Heavy-lidded, grey with fatigue and disappointment, he decided to turn in. We stood up, embraced clumsily, and went our separate ways. Our parents have done this to us, I thought as I climbed into bed dog-tired, the irony of flying in the face of what I preached to my clients not lost on me.