The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  ‘No please, I am worth it, I promise.’ He’s begun to fade out. ‘Where are you going? Are you going to look for him?’

  No answer. Scotty’s presence is thinning from gold to silver. Away to the west a desolate police siren wails.

  ‘Please find him, don’t leave me.’

  The darkness presses down. A shrieking gull swoops over Henry. The blaze of LED light has gone out on my porch, and The Reality Channel van is driving away.

  Risk himself for me: is that what he said? Suddenly I’m frightened for him as well as for myself. ‘Dear Scotty,’ I entreat the pitiless night. ‘Albert, I should say, Mr Pickles, my friend, what is it you’re risking for me?’

  A mere glisten drifts in the air.

  ‘Because I do care, Scotty lad. I don’t want to harm you.’

  There is no one to hear me. He’s gone.

  Richard

  He looked up. Through the pub noise, had someone just spoken his name? The woman in the doorway, scanning the customers, he knew her from somewhere. Huge, amused eyes. Breasts like a Barbie doll. Legs a mile long disappearing into a microskirt.

  The students on the next table quietened. A ripple of interest went round the bar.

  ‘Richard Lawton?’ the woman said, advancing towards him. ‘It has to be.’

  Comprehension hit him as he rose to his feet. She knew him because he looked like Quentin. She was the presenter from Tomorrow’s Tycoon.

  Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted, ‘Great to see you in the flesh, Mariella.’

  He met Lily’s terrified eyes. ‘Oh no,’ Lily said, but then Mariella was beside them, folding her flamingo legs to crouch by their table on her unfeasibly high heels. There was fake-tan goo on her face. He’d disliked her on television; he hated her now. And so much for Quentin’s being a nice guy.

  Interest was growing. People were holding up phones. Shit, why hadn’t he thought of that before telling Quentin to come here? He and Lily would be on YouTube in seconds. He did his best to shield her from the lenses. She was loosening her hair to cover her face and retrieving her bag from the floor. His balance was shaky, his thoughts blurred. He shouldn’t have had the third pint.

  In his face came the false smile that had infested his living room. ‘Wonderful to meet you, Richard. I’m sorry about this.’ She nodded at the onlookers. ‘It happens wherever I go. I’m Mariella Dukakis from The Reality Channel.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper, but the whole pub had hushed and was listening. ‘I wanted a word before you meet Quentin.’ Her hand on his arm. ‘I knew at once it was you. You look so, so much like him.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. Grab Lily’s hand. Get out of here fast. Bodies and tables were blocking the way.

  ‘And the totally brilliant thing is how much Quentin and you both look like your father.’

  ‘No, you’re mistaken.’

  The TV smile slid over to Lily. ‘And you? You are?’

  ‘No one,’ Lily mumbled. ‘I was just leaving.’

  He nodded. Yes, quickly, slip away, Lily. He would hang back, give her time to get clear. He squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll ring you.’ She set off, finding a way through the crush and out of the door.

  Mariella stared after her. ‘The poor woman.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Well, it can’t be easy.’

  Don’t rise to it. Get the spotlight off Lily. ‘You’re recording this, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not yet. Not quite yet.’ She flung her arms wide, revealing no hidden camera or microphone, only a scatter of tattooed stars across her silicone cleavage.

  ‘But of course we simply have to record it.’ She re-energised her smile. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. We’re making a documentary, Where Next for Quentin? He’s such a brilliant winner – viewers can’t get enough of him.’

  She was no longer whispering. She grinned at her audience, then flourished a hand at the doorway, through which came a man with a camcorder, taking a panning shot of them all.

  ‘So we’re following him, candid camera, through his post-show experiences and, totally amazing, it turns out that Quentin’s father was Harry Whittaker. The world-famous Lord Harold Whittaker. How about that?’

  A new buzz surged through the room. The blood thumped in Richard’s ears.

  ‘Quentin was going to keep schtum about it – can you believe that? But we were there when he got the message to ring Harry’s solicitor. And then,’ she swung back to Richard, ‘today we discover about you!’ She raised dramatic hands and widened her eyes. ‘OMG, a surprise mystery half-brother.’

  Someone said, ‘Wow.’

  ‘And now Quentin’s here, just outside.’

  A girl at the next table gave an obligatory shriek. All eyes went to the door.

  ‘No,’ Richard said.

  ‘You must be so excited to meet him.’

  ‘No. I refuse.’

  He might as well not have spoken. To whistles and cheers, here came Quentin.

  ‘Forget it, I’m leaving.’ Richard shouldered his way to the door.

  ‘Hey, wait,’ Quentin said, but he was out on the pavement, clocking the TV van and starting to run through the dark.

  Voices called after him, but he didn’t look back. Lily was fifty yards up ahead, walking fast. In the light of the streetlamps he could see the pale sundress, the hair loose on her shoulders, the characteristic sway of her hips. He sprinted to catch her up. She turned at the sound of his running feet and waited, smiling. Here he was. Lily’s hand was in his. ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Her face lifted to his and he kissed her.

  ‘I love you. But quickly, let’s run.’

  It was said, it was done, he had kissed her, and okay, he was tipsy, but he’d never been clearer about anything, and she didn’t seem shocked or offended. ‘You mad thing,’ she said, but she was giggling and grinning as she raced back alongside him towards the Old Steine.

  Somewhere behind them, Quentin was shouting, but Quentin could go screw himself. He had kissed Lily, was running with Lily.

  ‘That was my fault entirely,’ she panted. ‘Telling you to invite him. How stupid of me. All those people with phones.’

  She was laughing and saying he’d handled it brilliantly. Soon he would kiss her again and—

  But wait. Something had changed in his head. He stopped running. Something made him stop running. Lily stopped too. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He spun round, looking for whatever had halted him, searching for the thought that had stalled him, rocking on his heels on the pavement, unsure what to do. The thing was important, that was all that he knew. Life and death, show-stoppingly important. He couldn’t think what it could be or why it should matter. He must be more smashed than he’d realised. He peered down a side-street towards the seafront.

  Lily grabbed his hand. ‘They’re coming after us. Please Richard, I really don’t want to face them. Let’s run.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I have to...’

  It was there on the tip of his tongue, but he still didn’t know what it was. Drink had never robbed him of thought before; this felt like the marijuana trips he’d been on in his teens. He held fiercely to Lily, trying to find the end of his sentence.

  ‘You don’t have to. You don’t have to meet him,’ she said. ‘Not here, not now. Please, I don’t want to. Richard, stop it, let go of me.’

  He shifted his grip to her wrist. Was he losing his mind? He had no control of his thoughts, no power to speak or to move from the spot. He tried to start running with her again, but almost lost his balance, lurching sideways instead. The little street to the sea felt like the best way to go, although that made no sense whatsoever. It was too late to escape. Quentin was here, striding towards them. Mariella and the cameraman too.

  Sudden light dazzled him. Before he could object he was enveloped in a bear hug, and warm in his ear came Quentin’s murmur, ‘Bloody Mariella. I’ll sort her out l
ater, I promise. Thanks for changing your mind.’

  His mind hadn’t changed. He wanted nothing to do with this man. Why on earth had he stopped?

  Lily had the same question. ‘Richard, what are you doing?’ Her expression was frantic. He still had tight hold of her. Any second now, he would understand and explain to her. He would get control of himself and all would be fine. He just needed to—

  What? What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he move or speak?

  Quentin released him from the hug and offered a hand to be shaken. Richard refused it, holding tight to Lily.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ said Quentin. ‘You’d think there’d be words for a moment like this, but there just aren’t. Anyway, I don’t have them. I’m pinching myself. After all these years, a brother, out of the blue, who’d have thought, it’s just massive—’

  Richard had no words, but the nation’s heartthrob had plenty. The same easy stream of them that had poured from the television rose now around him until he was struggling to breathe. Beyond the glare of the cameraman’s light-panel, he could see dark shapes of people and the flashes of their mobile phones.

  ‘Omigod, folks,’ Mariella told the crowd and the cameras, ‘the poor guy is speechless. This is so, so emotional.’

  ‘And Richard, who’s this?’ Quentin switched his enthusiasm to Lily. ‘What a beautiful woman. Is it your wife? Could it be you’re my sister-in-law?’

  ‘No,’ said Lily. ‘It couldn’t.’

  In her eyes Richard saw fury. He had no excuses. He let go of her hand, and she ran.

  For what felt like forever he was held there, assaulted by white light, devoured by pitiless lenses, listening to Quentin and Mariella jabber on, unable to speak or to think or to move. His feet and mind tugged him towards the side street, but the pack would only pursue him. He stood his ground silently, until eventually it began to be over. A woman in a yellow T-shirt put herself between him and the cameraman. ‘He’s not going to talk to you. Leave him alone,’ and the mood of the mob changed. Soon they were all chipping in, ‘Lay off him. He doesn’t want to be filmed.’

  ‘Hey, folks,’ Mariella said winsomely, ‘we’re only wanting to say hi,’ but the heckling continued and she finally told the cameraman, ‘Cut.’

  The light died, and in the relief of the darkness, Quentin’s voice came again in Richard’s ear. ‘Abject apologies. You really do hate this stuff, don’t you? I’ll make sure they don’t screen it. Let’s wind it down and find somewhere private, okay?’

  Richard looked stonily at him.

  ‘You’re right, I’m just making things worse. I’ll call you and grovel. Now watch the Pied Piper.’

  A quick grin and a squeeze of his shoulder, and Quentin was striding off the way he came. Sure enough nearly everyone followed him.

  The woman in the yellow T-shirt peered into Richard’s face. ‘Do you want me to call a cab?’

  He shook his head. ‘No thanks. Please just go, everyone.’

  ‘Good on you,’ she said. ‘Don’t let them wear you down. We have a right not to be famous. And your wife really is beautiful. Come on,’ she told the few who remained. ‘Show’s over. Nothing to see.’ Back and forth like a sheepdog, she began moving them towards the pub.

  ‘Thanks,’ he called after her.

  Lily was long gone. He pulled his phone out and called her.

  ‘What do you want?’ Was it tears he could hear in her voice?

  ‘They’ve gone. It’s all right now. I’m so sorry. Where are you? I’ll catch you up.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Definitely tears. ‘I’ve had enough, and I need to go home.’ Short of breath, walking fast. ‘I can’t believe that you did that. First you say you love me—’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And then you do that. You say you don’t want the attention, but you obviously do want it, and that’s fine, up to you, but you had no business making me—’

  ‘No,’ Richard said. ‘I mean yes. He promises they won’t broadcast it.’

  ‘It’ll be out already,’ she wailed. ‘Video clips of us all over the internet. What possessed you?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was an accident.’

  What was wrong with him? Still he had no explanation. From the phone came the blare of a car horn, the exertion of Lily’s flight as she powered up the hill to the station.

  He’d been scared was the reason. He’d clung to her because he was terrified. Not of Quentin or the cameras, but of the chaos in his head. So tell her that truthfully. But he couldn’t focus on speaking because, even now, something was compelling him to duck into this side street, head for the sea.

  ‘The thing is, Lily—’

  But the phone was dead. She’d killed the call, and when he rang back he was put through to voicemail, and still he had nothing coherent to say.

  Harry

  Oh, relief and jubilation! Across the road, my son Richard is stumbling, with Scotty riding him piggyback. Two heads close together, blond and brown curls intermingled.

  I fling myself joyously about. ‘Scotty, oh Scotty, thank you!’

  Richard reaches the pavement and stops dead, staring at Henry V. His hands go to his head as Scotty dismounts.

  ‘This is just awful,’ says Scotty. ‘I can’t bear it. I should never have meddled.’

  ‘Yes, you should. Yes, you should. What’s he doing? Has he recognised Henry?’

  ‘More than recognised him. The poor soul’s in shock at the sight of him, doesn’t know which way is up. He’s a nice boy.’ Scotty peers into Richard’s eyes. ‘What a horrible abuse of my power.’

  ‘Look, tell me later,’ I say.

  ‘I may have ruined his chances with the woman he loves.’

  ‘Blue eyes. Blonde hair?’ I remember her stepping in front of the bicycle.

  ‘No, brown. Lovely woman, long brown hair and a birthmark. I’ve put her right off him. Betrayed my vocation.’

  Richard sways on the pavement, hands clamped to his skull, moaning softly and staring out to sea.

  ‘I’d love to hear later, Scotty,’ I say. ‘Really I would, but first, please – you have to finish the job.’

  He looks at me, blinking. ‘I’ve brought him here, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, leaping up and down above Henry V. ‘Here, the wrong side of the road. You still have to get us across.’

  ‘No.’ Scotty sinks to his knees, covering his ears.

  ‘But please, don’t you see? What you’ve done already, it’s a complete waste if he doesn’t carry me home.’

  Scotty lifts his eyes to me in a look of great torment. Then he slowly gets up, puts his arms tenderly around Richard’s shoulders and touches foreheads with him.

  Richard’s eyes focus. He looks down at the cat. Then he steps forward, squats on the pavement beside me, and reaches to touch Henry’s ear. ‘Is he still alive?’ Scotty asks.

  ‘I think so. I hope so,’ I say.

  ‘Be quiet. I’m not talking to you. I’m putting thoughts in his head.’

  Richard’s hand moves to Henry’s ribcage and rests there.

  ‘Yes, yes, still alive,’ Scotty says. ‘Okay, let’s get him home.’

  Richard totters to his feet and looks at the traffic. Then he pulls out his phone.

  ‘No,’ Scotty yells in his ear. ‘Home, I said, home. Not a cab. Not a vet.’

  ‘Quite right,’ I cry. ‘The cat will die, I’ll get stuck at the vet, and then—’

  Scotty rounds on me. ‘Shut up. Stop interrupting!’

  At this, Richard lets out an enraged bellow. He sits down on the pavement and throws himself from side to side, moaning and smacking his head.

  Scotty fusses around him. ‘I’m so sorry. I was talking to Harry.’

  He yelps and tugs at his hair.

  ‘Have courage.’ Scotty presses in, forehead to forehead. ‘It makes no sense at all, I completely agree with you. Keep going just a few minutes. How I wish I weren’t doing this to you, but you’re going to
pick this cat up and carry him over there to his home, and then, by all the powers that govern me, I promise I will let you go.’

  Richard lumbers up, aiming useless swats at the air.

  ‘Come on, lad,’ I urge. ‘Do as he tells you.’

  He bends for the cat, easing his palms beneath the limp body and raising it high, like an offering to the gods. I rise along with it and hover about my son’s head, wishing that I, too, could invade his thoughts to tell him how happy I am he exists, how I wish him nothing but well, how sorry I am for all the years I ignored him.

  He steps to the kerb and waits while a couple of cars go by. There are tears in his eyes. ‘What am I doing?’ he wails.

  Scotty is distraught. ‘I’ve made such a pig’s ear of this. I’d no idea how powerful I was. The poor, poor young man.’

  I try to listen and care, but I’m far too excited, for at last the way clears and Richard is carrying me home. I fly ahead of him, like a kite in a strong wind, tugging him forward, Scotty trailing behind. My house was never more beautiful. Heightened, super-real, the three white-stuccoed storeys outshine the light of the streetlamps. The elegant pillared porch calls to me, but a stronger pull comes from above. Black against the stars is the line of chimneys where, in a first act of exultant homecoming, I shall dance again, now, now, now.

  I strain on my leash as Richard crosses the parking bay and, yes, oh glory and gratitude, here I go, sailing across to a pillar. It’s a mere hop, skip and jump past the porch to the house wall, up which I shoot, yelling, ‘Scotty, darling, you’re an absolute angel.’

  A triumphant caper along the chimneys, a dive into the gulls’ nest, sending them into squawks and flaps of alarm, then, quick, down the back for a lightning tour of the garden, before squeezing in through the cracks around the cat flap.

  I am home. I am home. Jumping in delight at the Hockney, hurtling up the stairs, chasing my tail in the living room, out and up to the bedrooms, dashing from one to another, spinning and bouncing with joy. The relief! Was I ever so happy? I plummet down the stairwell, and hurrah, out through the keyhole, where—