“Never knew you liked the drink so much,” said Thomas, handing his son a bottle of Glenfiddich.
“I can drink, or I can weep, Dad. I prefer to drink.”
Layton nodded his thanks to his father and broke the seal on the bottle. He took a long, hard swallow of the malt whiskey. With each glass, he forgot the world and passed into a blissful state. It reminded him of the time when, as a child, he’d paid a shilling for a hot-air balloon ride at the fair in Dorchester. The great wicker gondola had lifted him higher and higher over the lush green countryside. Everything on the ground had shrunk away to nothing. He was hundreds of feet above the world and all its unhappiness. It was exhilarating, and he hadn’t wanted to come down. The feeling had lingered even after his father had raged at him for wasting a bob on such a foolish extravagance. Like that balloon, the alcohol lifted him up. With each glass, he went higher and higher into the sky, forgetting everything. Layton loved the sensation.
“And drinking is the only way I know to remain unconscious sitting up during the day.”
“At this pace, you’ll be lying on the floor unconscious—or dead,” replied Thomas. “The Irish curse,” he muttered with distaste. “Me great-uncle had it, he was a twelve-pint-a-day man, he was.”
“I can beat that in a heartbeat.”
He had been at home for almost three weeks. Not once had he ventured outside the house. A city dweller might look at the countryside, see the homes and farms so far from each other, and imagine total privacy. But there were prying eyes everywhere. The gossips in the Dorset countryside were faster than a telegraph; they’d alert everyone along the south coast of England that the Butcher of the West End had come home. Reporters would hover around the house like flies on manure.
Not wanting to shame his father, Layton stayed inside.
It was a strange time. Layton was adrift; he had no idea what to do with his life, nor did he care. Becoming a bitter, drunken recluse seemed as good an option as any. Unspoken between Layton and his father was the knowledge that he could stay in the homestead as long as he wanted and be provided with liquor and food. Though he was bored to death, he accepted this as the price for staying safe and out of sight. The little cottage of his childhood had become a fortress, protecting him from the outside world. Since his release from prison, Layton had this constant fear that his freedom was just an illusion that could be snatched away from him in an instant, and he’d be back in a prison cell.
The thick oak door swung open, interrupting Layton’s thoughts. In strode Roger, carrying his leather bag of woodworking tools. He had been away in Cornwall, on the far western end of England, working on a job for an estate.
“I see nothing has changed in a fortnight,” said Roger, dropping his bag by the fireplace. “Didn’t think it bloody would.”
Layton lifted his tumbler of scotch in a salute. His brother sat down across from him. Their father took no notice but continued to stir the pot of stew on the stove.
“I’m tired of seeing you get sozzled every night, Little Brother,” said Roger. Again, that icy flash of a smile. “So I did me some thinkin’.”
“That’s a dangerous pastime,” Layton murmured. Roger did not seem to hear.
“I recalled our Dougie here being one of them sensitive, artistic types—he could draw real well as a lad.” Roger spoke this last over his shoulder to their father.
“So?” Thomas growled.
“Well, I ’appened to run into an old mate in Cornwall. Name of Charlie MacHeath. He’d just finished repairing some doors in a music hall in Nottingham. Charlie told me his nephew got a job in their scene shop—you know, the ones that paint the backdrops—or whatever the ’ell ya call ’em; the things that ya see behind the acts. A London street, a garden in Devon, that kind of thing. Said they was hiring.”
The words music hall made Layton flinch. But when he met his father’s eyes, he could see that Thomas Layton had taken Roger’s suggestion to heart.
It was time to go.