‘Mummy,’ said Bea through a mouthful of sandwich.
‘Yes, darling?’ It was Wednesday afternoon and they had retreated to the car for the last twenty minutes of Gabe’s football practice. The temperature had dropped outside and Zoe was worried about Bea’s cough getting worse if they stood around for much longer in the slicing wind. Now sitting in the passenger seat as a treat, still wearing her pink fleecy hat, Bea had remembered she had some of her packed lunch left over from earlier and was tucking in.
‘I was just wondering. Do you think there are any sandwiches in heaven?’ she asked, as strands of grated cheese fell onto her school skirt.
‘Try not to drop bits, love – look, it’s going everywhere,’ Zoe said, suppressing her irritation as Bea promptly brushed them all off her knee and into the footwell.
‘Do you, though?’
‘Do I think they have sandwiches in heaven? Um . . .’ This had been happening a lot recently: Bea asking very specific questions about heaven, as if she was trying to pin down the precise details in her head. ‘I guess so.’ Zoe studied her daughter’s expression. ‘Are you thinking about Daddy?’
‘Yes, because he does like bacon sandwiches so much. I hope he has lots of them. And ketchup! Is there ketchup in heaven?’ She licked some butter off her finger, her face turned expectantly to Zoe. There was a small frown between her eyebrows, as if the ketchup issue was worrying her.
‘Oh, I should think there’ll be plenty,’ Zoe replied, in as hearty a voice as she could manage. She was always left feeling uneasy about these conversations. Having set out to be vague and reassuring in her talk of heaven, being pinned down on the specifics – like the ketchup stock issues – felt a lot like lying. But what was the alternative? If it’s comforting to Bea, then I think that’s okay, her mum had reassured her on the phone, and Zoe was inclined to agree.
‘What if there’s just brown sauce, though? He doesn’t even like that. Or if they say: sorry, no bacon, it’s only tuna today. He hates tuna!’ Bea had always been the most tender-hearted of her children, and her blue eyes were filling at the thought of her dad being deprived so cruelly. ‘He’ll be sad, won’t he? And hungry!’
Zoe put her hand on Bea’s. ‘I’m pretty sure that heaven is a really nice place where nothing bad happens,’ she said firmly. ‘So it’s always sunny, with plenty of bacon sandwiches, and Daddy will feel very well looked after, and not sad or hungry at all.’ She was making the afterlife sound like a great holiday, with an endless breakfast buffet and fantastic room service, she realized. Still, there were worse analogies.
‘But he’ll miss us, though, won’t he? Because we miss him.’
‘Yes, but some people think that when you’re in heaven, you can look down at the world and see everyone you loved there, and still be a part of their lives. Sort of.’ Okay, so now she was getting into murkier waters. Having read up on what to say to bereaved children, she knew that this notion could be soothing, but also potentially alarming to the more literal-minded.
‘So he can see me on the toilet? Or getting told off at school?’
‘Well . . .’ Trust Bea to go for the most prosaic examples. Maybe the idea wasn’t as soothing as Zoe had hoped. ‘I don’t think so,’ she hedged. ‘But I like to believe that, if I’m talking to him, he can hear me. Which makes me feel a bit better.’
Bea considered this for a moment. ‘What sort of things do you say to him?’
This definitely wasn’t the time to confess to all the angry remarks Zoe had made to Patrick during her darkest hours. ‘Well, I tell him that I miss him, and I wish he was here. Sometimes, when I go to the cemetery, I tell him things that have happened at home – what you and the boys have been up to.’
Bea chewed the last corner of her sandwich, pondering this. ‘Can we talk to him now?’
‘Yes! Absolutely.’ Zoe squeezed her hand. ‘What would you like to say?’
Bea rubbed a wet circle in the condensation on the window, so that she could see out, and peered up towards the sky. ‘Daddy!’ she said in her bossiest voice. ‘Can you hear me?’ There was a pause while they both listened.
Stupidly, Zoe found herself waiting for a sign once more: a patter of raindrops on the car roof, a feather dropping from the sky onto the windscreen. Nothing, of course. ‘I’m sure he can, darling, carry on,’ she said.
‘Daddy, it’s me, Bea. I’ve got something very important to say to you,’ she continued, still gazing through her peephole. ‘This is it: don’t look at me when I’m on the toilet, okay? Don’t! Because that would be rude. Okay, Daddy?’
Despite the situation, Zoe found herself wanting to giggle all of a sudden. Bea looked so severe and disapproving, she was even wagging a finger. ‘Anything else?’ she managed to say in a strangled voice.
‘Um . . . I miss you, Daddy! Really a lot! L-O-T,’ she spelled out for good measure. ‘I did well on my spellings this week, by the way, and . . .’ She paused, frowning as she searched for inspiration. ‘And Gabe got in trouble with the head teacher for—’
‘Okay, let’s not tell tales to Daddy,’ Zoe interrupted. They could be here all day if this turned into a supergrass session. ‘Let’s just say nice things, all right?’
Bea cupped her hands to her mouth. ‘I LOVE YOU, DADDY! You’re the best! But remember what I said about the toilet, okay?’ She cocked her head as if listening, then nodded in satisfaction. ‘He said okay.’
‘Good.’
‘And that he loves me better than the boys.’
‘Hmm.’
‘He did! He said that to me.’
‘Well, maybe keep that bit as a secret, okay? Look, here comes Gabe now. Hop into the back again and put your seatbelt on, darling, that’s it.’ She smiled at Bea. ‘Well done. Let’s do that another time. I bet Daddy really loved hearing your message. Hi, Gabe! In you get. Let’s go home.’
That evening, Dan sat in front of his laptop and set about updating his Patrick-plan spreadsheet. Filed accounts with accountant, he typed in the ‘Business’ column. Sorted paperwork. Paid bills, he added, dating each entry. It was remarkably satisfying to see the new entries accumulating, each one small but valuable. Was it really only a week since he’d decided to embark on this plan? In that time he’d so far chalked up ten good deeds, which averaged out as 1.428 per day. Call it 1.43. Whichever, it felt like excellent progress, as if he was genuinely making a difference. In fact, if he carried on at this rate, over the next two months he’d have completed at least eighty Patrick-related tasks and, with each one, he hoped to lessen the pain and stress felt by Zoe and the kids.
Wait – there was more. Lift to/from sculpture club, he typed in the ‘Ethan’ column, which made eleven Patrick deeds. Or should he count it as two separate jobs? he wondered, before deciding that was probably pushing it. His nephew had been more communicative this week, chatting about the work they were doing at the club and recounting a couple of anecdotes from his day at school over the crashing chords of another concerto. ‘Did you and your dad listen to this sort of music together?’ Dan had asked during a break in the conversation, feeling curious. He couldn’t picture it somehow.
Turned out, his instinct was correct. Ethan had snorted. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Dad always said it was gay.’
‘Seriously?’ Dan asked, flummoxed. ‘Meaning that classical music is gay, or that people who listen to it must be?’
‘Both. You know what he was like.’ Ethan lifted a shoulder as if he didn’t care.
Dan hadn’t been entirely sure how to reply. ‘Seems a bit small-minded,’ he commented eventually. He didn’t want to bad-mouth his brother in front of his own kid, but calling a whole genre of music ‘gay’ seemed like something from the Dark Ages. Also kind of pathetic.
‘Yep. Well, that was Dad,’ said Ethan. ‘He thought Art was pretty gay too. Me wanting to go to SculptShed . . . What’s wrong with you, lad? When I was your age I was playing for the rugby team, not bending bits of wire together.’
His impression of Patrick was uncanny and Dan cringed. ‘God,’ he said, staring through the windscreen. ‘Well, I don’t think like that. And most people don’t think like that. At all,’ he felt compelled to say. There was silence for a moment. ‘You know, maybe he was just trying to push your buttons, wind you up a bit,’ he went on, wanting to give his brother the benefit of the doubt. Patrick wasn’t a bigot, after all. He really wasn’t.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Ethan said, sounding unconvinced, and before Dan could think of anything else to say, they had arrived in Wandsworth and Ethan was getting out of the car. On the way home, things were more convivial at least, with the two of them laughing companionably together about this and that. Patrick wasn’t mentioned again.
Arriving back in Kew, Dan pulled on the handbrake. ‘Same time, same place next week, I take it?’ he asked.
‘Oh – no, it’s the Easter holidays next week. The club’s closed for a fortnight.’
Damn it, thought Dan, picturing his schedule up on the fridge. He would fall behind with his numbers now. Unless . . . ‘Maybe we could do something else together,’ he suggested. ‘Go to Tate Modern – or if you want some sculpture inspiration, we could find some of the Henry Moores around London?’
It was gratifying to see his nephew’s eyes light up in response. ‘Yes please,’ Ethan said at once. ‘That would be cool.’
‘Great. I’ll talk to your mum. Get something arranged,’ Dan told him, before waving goodbye and driving off again. He felt warm inside all the way back to Hammersmith. Who knew that a child reacting to you with such obvious pleasure could feel so good? See, Patrick? I’m there for him, he thought. And guess what – I’m going to do loads of so-called gay Art stuff with him, because he loves it, and so do I. So chew on that one for a bit, pal.
Moving on, anyway: tomorrow he planned to spend the day clearing out the recently vacated flat on Whitecliffe Road before painting it throughout. Friday, he would add a second coat of paint, finishing the job over the weekend if need be. Then he’d get back to the letting agent about renting it out to new tenants and – boom. More money arriving in the business account for Zoe, thanks to him, as well as more good deeds totting up.
The big question, though, and one he was struggling to get to grips with, was whether or not to include Lydia on the spreadsheet. He couldn’t decide. Did meeting her count as something to be ticked off on Patrick’s behalf? Theoretically, yes, but did it benefit Zoe in any way? No, absolutely not – in fact quite the reverse, seeing as Dan had flip-flopped so abruptly on his initial plans. The sticking point was that he liked Lydia, he’d realized. His instinct was that she was a decent person, not someone grabby and out for what they could get. Listening to her account of things, it seemed she was more victim than villain in the situation; a woman who had been shoddily treated and deserved better. But hers was only one side of the story, he reminded himself, still unable to quite believe it. Maybe the truth hadn’t actually been as black and white as she’d made out. Maybe, in fact – here came his imagination again, cranking into action – maybe she’d tried to entrap Patrick, tricking him, lying to him. Deliberately getting pregnant to try and force him apart from Zoe, or something. Or maybe – yes, this could be it! – maybe it had been a one-night stand, a foolish mistake that Patrick had been feeling terrible about ever since, and Lydia had embellished the whole thing, fantasized that they’d had some kind of relationship.
But then he remembered how anxious her eyes had been, how sincere her shock and grief. Dan had only spent thirty minutes with her, yet he was pretty sure she wasn’t a bunny boiler with a game plan. She looked as if she’d genuinely fallen in love with Patrick, and had her heart broken. Which meant that . . . Oh bloody hell. He did believe her, that was the problem. His instinct was that she had been telling the truth.
‘What were you thinking, Patrick?’ he groaned aloud. You weren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, but sometimes that was impossible when you discovered their darkest secrets. Perhaps this happened about everyone when they died and the skeletons came tumbling forth from previously locked closets: you were left feeling shaken, as if maybe you hadn’t known them as well as you thought. It was even more disconcerting when you’d spent your life looking up to that person, seeing them as someone to emulate. But for Patrick to behave as he had towards Lydia – it was really bad. Sleazy and just wrong. No wonder he had decided to keep the whole saga to himself. And no wonder, also, that Lydia had been so wary when Dan phoned her up and mentioned Patrick’s name. Jesus.
His fingers still hovered over the empty spreadsheet boxes while he tussled with the dilemma. Meeting Lydia, he typed, but then changed his mind almost immediately and backspaced through the letters again. He’d gone to meet her with the intention of resolving matters but the situation didn’t feel quite finished. To him, anyway, but she had been pretty fierce as she left, telling him in no uncertain terms that she didn’t need any charity from him, then marching off. Would that really be the end of it? Although of course if it was, it would make life a damn sight easier for him, he figured. Problem solved. Direct debit stopped. Zoe never had to know.
But then he remembered the business card on Zoe’s fridge. He’d have to pocket it, the next chance he got, to prevent any contact between them. Whatever happened, he must not let Zoe call Lydia. Imagine the fallout if Lydia blurted out the truth to her, told her everything. She’d seemed so wound up when she left the café, Dan had felt rattled ever since. Who knew what she was capable of? ‘You see?’ he complained aloud to his brother. ‘You see what a mess you’ve made of everything? You twat.’
His phone beeped just then, a text from his friend Steve: Blue Anchor tonight or we’re staging an intervention. Come over – it’s been too long. Will be there from 8.
Dan checked his watch to see that it was seven forty-five already. Sod it, he was thirsty and Steve was right, he hadn’t seen any of his mates for weeks. Plus, if he went on agonizing about Lydia and Zoe all evening, he would lose the will to live. Meeting Lydia, he typed, then set the spreadsheet printing before he could change his mind again. Done. If she wanted to draw a line under things, then that suited him just fine.
On my way he texted back.
The Blue Anchor was an eighteenth-century pub on the riverside with good beers and even better chips, and as soon as Dan walked through the door twenty minutes or so later, he felt a wave of relief sweep over him. Pub. Mates. Beer. Conversation about sport, work, funny stories. Nothing bad could happen here. No difficult dilemmas to resolve, other than what to drink. And Christ, did that first pint taste good.
‘Someone’s got a thirst on,’ commented Neil as Dan drained his glass.
‘Making up for lost time, aren’t I?’ Dan replied, getting up from the table. ‘Who wants what?’
He was going to get wasted, he decided as he ordered a round of whisky chasers for everyone as well as their pints. He was going to drink and drink and drink, until he stopped thinking about Patrick and Zoe and Lydia. Alcohol would blur them all away tonight: bring it on.
This plan worked for a time too; really well, in fact. The four men had known each other since their schooldays and were able to veer into long, enjoyable reminiscences about events from twenty years ago, such as the night when, having taken a load of magic mushrooms, they re-enacted the Abbey Road photoshoot, stark naked at two in the morning. Or even further back, when they were in a chemistry lesson together and one of them – Neil thought it was Steve; Steve blamed Mark – had set fire to Victoria Postlethwaite’s blazer with a Bunsen burner. And then they were into a round of ‘What Happened To . . . ?’, starting with Victoria Postlethwaite herself (last seen working in a Harvester, still as hot as – well, as hot as a Bunsen burner, Mark reckoned), before the conversation took a detour to football, then on to a heated discussion about chocolate bars of the Eighties.
It was exactly the kind of easy-going bollocks he needed, Dan thought, as he bought another round. His fifth – or was it sixth? – pint, and the rest of the world was starting to soften around the edges, as if viewed through an old movie camera, slicked with Vaseline. ‘Cheers, boys,’ he said, feeling a sudden rush of love for them – huge boundless love for these men who had released all the stress and strain inside him with their banter and teasing: Neil with his daft buzz cut, which wasn’t doing much to disguise his slowly vanishing hairline. Marky Mark with the same Pixies T-shirt he’d had for at least two decades and the loudest laugh in the room. Steve, once a proper goth with a dyed black Mohican and lip piercings, now a rotund dad of twin girls who’d recently taken them to some teenybopper concert and realized, to his horror, that he knew all the words of the songs. Thank God for friends who came and scooped you up, who reminded you that the world could be all right, just when you’d forgotten how to laugh.
‘Cheers,’ they chorused. But then Steve, no doubt thinking he was being sensitive, felt the need to lift his pint again. ‘And to Patrick,’ he said solemnly.
‘To Patrick,’ the others chorused, drinks in the air.
Dan felt his mood collapsing like a flicked house of cards. He didn’t want Patrick at the table, not tonight. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Let’s not.’
Steve looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to talk about it. Just . . . well, he was a great bloke, wasn’t he?’
But Dan no longer knew what to think about his brother, let alone how to respond. Lydia’s hurt face rose in his mind, followed by poor Zoe’s loving ignorance, and then he was flashing back to the argument he’d had with Patrick the night of his disappearance, feeling the gut-punch all over again. The pure pain of betrayal. ‘Not always,’ he replied thickly, the alcohol skidding through him. ‘Turned out he wasn’t always that great, you know.’
The others looked confused by this response and afterwards the evening kind of fell away from Dan, without him ever being able to pick it back up. He was drinking faster and faster, as if his thirst would never be quenched. He was stumbling on his feet, crashing into the wall on the way to the Gents, so hard that he’d have bruises on his arm for almost a week afterwards. He started arguing with Mark about – he couldn’t even remember what, only that the other three all exchanged glances and then Neil said, ‘Taxi for Mr Sheppard’ and . . . He didn’t swing a punch, did he? God, he might have done.
Anyway, the next thing he knew, the pub was closing and Mark was frogmarching him home. Dan vaguely remembered trying to shove him away, but Mark had a tight grip because he had started going to the gym loads when his wife left him two years ago, and Dan was too drunk to fight back properly. And then . . . Oh no. He had the horrible feeling he started to cry right there in the street, telling Mark he was sorry, and that everything had gone wrong. Then there was a gap, a blank in his memory, and they were back at Mark’s flat, not his, and Mark was putting him in the spare room.
The next morning when he woke up, head jangling, mouth like the Sahara, he realized he must have thrown up in his sleep, because there was vomit all over the floor and down the side of the bed. He lay there, stinking and sweaty, as moments from the night before smashed into his memory like blows to the head. Rock-bottom all over again, he thought miserably. Every time he felt as if he was inching out of despair, down he tumbled once more, all the way to the depths.
His stomach churned. Bile rose. He only just managed to get out of bed and sprint to the bathroom before he was sick again. Shivering and clammy, he remembered that he was supposed to be painting the flat on Whitecliffe Road today, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or vomit once more.
‘I suppose you think this is funny,’ he growled to Patrick between retches.