ON THE EAST WING of the family home is Amy’s childhood bedroom. Her posters are gone and the desk is new—the bed used to be over there, but now it’s here—and yet, it’s the same four walls and windows. It feels the same: a mix of safety and dread.
Amy walks downstairs barefoot. The staff are around—waiting out of sight, as always. The place feels deserted. All the canal-side curtains are open. Bright light and a cool breeze through the high doors. She wanders and inspects and remembers. Eventually she finds her father out on the ground-floor patio, his wheelchair beside a small table and a pot of tea. Amy plants herself in a chair a few feet away, cups her hand around a cigarette to guard it from the wind. ‘Morning.’
There’s a loud toad-like croak as Victor clears his throat. The voice that follows is quieter, rendered raspy from all the medication he’s on. ‘What do you want, Amy?’
‘I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s very … end of life.’
‘Your ranting and raving upset Elda last night. She had to put you to bed.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The nurse.’
Amy stands up and takes in the sun, feet on the lawn. She looks out into the yard and at the water and the yacht moored on the landing. ‘New boat looks good. What are you going to do with this place when it’s all over, Victor?’
‘What sort of question is that? Come here.’
Amy approaches. It’s been years, many, many unkind years, and Victor doesn’t look good at all. He’s in his late eighties by her count, and his hair is almost gone. Skin as thin as cellophane. This is the skeleton of the man, drawn down to his essence.
‘Give me one of those,’ he says, pointing at her cigarette pack. ‘Quick, before she comes to check on me.’
Amy sorts him out.
The old man wheezes and coughs on it. ‘Have you seen your sister?’ he says.
‘Angela’s around.’
That seems to be enough of an answer for him. ‘I hear you’re working for Colleen Vinton these days.’
‘So, you’ve still got some pull, huh?’
‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’
‘No, I came to make sure you’re still alive. I don’t know why.’
‘You never were much of a liar. The other two were more practised with it. What do you want, Amy?’
‘What can you tell me about Allan Watts?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, but even just hearing the question seems to satisfy him. ‘You go and tell Colleen that if she goes anywhere near Allan, I’ll cut her fucking legs off.’
‘I don’t think so, Victor.’
He looks up at her. ‘Whatever you think I did to you, I should have done so much more. Working for that cunt … it’s a disgrace. No daughter of mine should be so stupid.’
‘I don’t know, I feel like Angela’s giving me a run for my money.’ Amy can feel the hangover surging, loosening that grip on herself. ‘You still feel like the big man, don’t you? You don’t seem so big anymore, you busted-up old fuck.’
He waves it off, disgusted. ‘You’re a mess.’
Amy laughs. ‘Okay. Is this just dawning on you?’
‘You can go.’
‘You know, Victor, you did kill my brother, and one day, you’re going to burn in hell for it.’
‘Is that right?’
Amy loses all control. She grabs him by the face, his slack, loose skin is cold. ‘You, you—’
It’s a mistake. Her rage turned against her. Victor’s hand comes up steady, the sun glinting off the blade. He has the knifepoint pressed into her throat before she fully realises what’s happening. ‘Don’t you ever presume to know what will happen to me,’ he says in a horrible rasp. ‘You don’t know. No one knows. I am the one who decides what happens to me.’
Amy lets go, backs away unsteadily.
Victor resettles himself, hides the knife away then brushes the pant legs of his pyjamas. ‘And to answer your earlier question, when I die all this will go to your brother. That’s right, your brother.’
Against her every desire, Amy is crying. ‘Wh-what are you saying?’
Victor backs up his wheelchair.
‘Why?’ she screams. ‘Why are you like this?’
But he doesn’t answer.
The help come running like bats fleeing a cave.
Amy goes straight to her local and orders a drink.
Taps the bar in anticipation. Fantasising about it seconds ahead of tasting it.
Fuck the cases.
The barman puts a pot of beer down and says, ‘The boss is looking for you.’
‘Here?’
‘Everywhere.’
Shit.
She puts her hand around the beer and almost flinches. It’s her bad hand. The one that serves as a cold reminder: you’re owned, do as you’re told.
‘Fucking pour it out,’ she says.
The barman grabs the drink back, and he’s already got the phone for her.
Amy calls Colleen and cops it.
‘Where have you been?’
She feels small, lost, afraid.
It’s too much.
Father and mother in one day.