Duplicity

by Fin C Gray

  Rufus pads up to them, purring, pushing himself against the boy. Daniel kicks him away. The cat screeches and scuttles back to the sanctuary of Tom’s bedroom.

  ‘What was that for?’ Tom wants to kick Daniel – show him how it feels. ‘He misses you. He’s YOUR cat, after all!’

  ‘YOUR toy, more like. You’ve kept it trapped here all these years. Let it free. Who the fuck are you to say who or what belongs to anybody?’

  ‘Daniel—’

  ‘Dani! I told you!’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, you lumbered me with the damn cat when you couldn’t be bothered to look after him any longer. What did I ever do, Daniel? Why are you angry with me? It’s been the same ever since Mum died.’

  ‘I’m not angry with you.’ He turns away from Tom. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind. It’s been a rough few months.’

  ‘OK, let’s start again. Are you hungry? It’s late. Do you want a shower? Can we maybe just sit down and talk, sort things out between us, after you’ve cleaned up?’

  ‘Maybe we can talk when you’re sober…’

  ‘Danie… Danny, I don’t think I’ve… Seeing you at the door knocked me sober. Yeah, I’ve had some wine, but I’m perfectly compos mentis. To be honest, I feel more sober now than I’ve ever felt. It’s been nearly three years. I’ve pretty much been going out of my mind, wondering if you’re alive or dead.’

  ‘Fuck, Tom. I wrote to you, didn’t I? I told you I needed time. I needed space. How much clearer could I have been?’

  ‘I deserve better than that, don’t I? You have a phone. And there’s the flat, which I pay for, if you remember! You have—’

  ‘Look, forget the emotional blackmail, OK? Forget telling me all you’ve done for me and what a cunt of a son I’ve been. I just need to stay here tonight, alright? It’s no big deal. I can go now if that’s what you want. I’ve lived independently of you for long enough. One more night won’t change a thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course you can stay. Of course I don’t want you to go.’ Tom feels an inexorable sob rising in his chest. It explodes, spattering over Daniel. He searches around for a tissue, covering his face with his hands.

  Daniel turns away again. He sucks up some phlegm into his throat and spits on the floor before heading to the living room. Tom goes to the kitchen and pulls some paper towels from the holder and wipes his face. He yanks some more from the roll and returns to the hall to scoop up the mucus from the parquet floor. Through the archway, between the dining room and living room, he sees his son sitting on the sofa with his back to him. He starts to walk towards him but, instead, changes course towards the study. The heavy panelled door needs a good shove, so he pushes his weight against it.

  This is Tom’s favourite room and, as he looks around at the fine books and art, he manages half a smile. He releases the brass catch on one of the high shelves in the centre of the room, revealing the fake section of books that disguise the fold-down double bed. The bed slowly descends into the space below and the study transforms into a bedroom. As he pulls bed linen from a cupboard, he becomes aware of a strong, now familiar, foreign body odour in the room. He turns around and sees Daniel there, looking around the room with a growing sneer.

  ‘You could’ve fed an entire village in Pakistan for a year for what it must have cost you to kit this room out.’

  ‘Pakistan? What do you know about Pakistan?’

  ‘I know it’s a piss-poor country created by rich British bureaucrats like you.’

  ‘Oh spare me the lectures, please, Danny. You’ll be comfy enough here tonight then, won’t you?’ Tom starts to walk away.

  ‘I’ll be happy kipping on the sofa,’ Daniel says, ‘as long as it’s not the one you’ve pissed all over.’

  ‘There are fresh towels in the guest bathroom. Try and get some rest. We can have a better chat in the morning when you’ve had some sleep. Goodnight.’ Tom walks through the door, but Daniel pushes past him.

  ‘I need my backpack.’

  ‘I can get it for you.’

  Daniel ignores him and picks up the backpack, throwing it into the study. He goes back in and slams the door behind him. Tom can now feel the dull drag of alcohol pulling him back down as he takes small, careful steps to his bedroom. He scowls at his unmade bed, and his eyes turn towards the open door and the key in the lock. Bad memories start to break from a long-closed chamber in his past, back into his present: memories of having a guitar smashed in his face, of being trapped in his own living room by his son, of having a brick lobbed at him through his bedroom window, of being pushed downstairs. Best to lock himself in. No point taking any chances, the way Daniel is tonight.

  He lurches at the key and twists it around, not sure whether the lock has engaged or not. All he wants to do now is sleep and block out the day. An open bottle of sleeping pills lie on his bedside table. With no pause for thought, he tips some into his hand. Two, three or four blue pills blur together in his palm and he pops them into his mouth, swallowing them down with a glass of stale water from the night before. Finally, he pulls off his shirt and climbs out of his damp trousers. The bed seems to ripple and swivel before him as he collapses onto the unkempt sheets, wearing only his sodden underpants. As Tom starts to fall into a deep, drugged, drunken sleep, Rufus appears from under his bed, jumping up on him and snuggling down on his warm heaving chest.

  Across the hall, Daniel pulls a colourful chequered mat from his rucksack and lays it on the floor of the study. He removes the silk, which is wrapped around his torso like a bandage. Underneath, he wears a ragged pair of denim cut-off jeans. From the pocket, he pulls out a mobile phone and searches for the compass app on it. Using that, he faces east. He winds the greater part of the unravelled silk around his head, leaving his skinny, hairless frame exposed. A gap in the waist of his shorts reveals a ceremonial dagger, sheathed in cheap leather. He looks down at it and touches it for a brief few seconds, and then he goes to the bathroom in the hall and washes himself.

  Cleansed, he returns to the study and, kneeling on the mat, he places his hands either side of his knees and drops his forehead onto the chequered surface. He closes his eyes and begins to recite the Isha prayer: ‘Allahumma inna nasta’eenuk, wa nastahdeek…’

  When he has finished, he goes to the door that leads to his father’s bedroom suite and gently pushes it. The door into his father’s grand bathroom is open and the lights are on. With narrowed eyes and a twist in his mouth, he casts a long gaze around the room, despising every polished granite surface, as if each is an intended insult to everything he holds true. A seething hatred compels him to empty his bladder into his father’s huge Jacuzzi bath.

  Now, he takes slow, cautious steps towards his father’s room, his prayer mat hanging limply in his hand. Why has he brought it with him? The door gives in to his push, and the key falls onto the carpet. Revulsion almost overcomes him as his eyes meet his father’s semi-naked body, one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, the other obliquely stretched towards the bare French windows, signposting the Thames outside and the privileged view. Again, he spits. Tom lets out a loud, drunken snore and pulls his leg back onto the bed. Daniel leans over him and hisses ‘Allahu Akbar’ into his face, dropping the prayer mat to the floor. His father does not stir.

  Daniel lies down beside his father. He doesn’t know why. It is something he feels he has to do. It reminds him of the day his mother went to Jannah. A distant thread of lost love tries to snake inside him. He resists it as body warmth leaks from one to the other. Something presses at his brain: love, memory, nostalgia? Again, he resists it. All that matters now is his promised destiny. Nothing can interfere with that. A sense of love still persists. A love for Tom? Fight it. Stop it. Do not let it break your resolve. Waqar’s love is what he craves. A writhing snake slithers from his face into his psyche. The snake on the box. Waqar’s mother’s pewter box. The box that protects the promise of love.

  As Daniel lies there, Rufus moves off Tom’s chest and clambers o
nto Daniel, tail tall and upright in a feline hello. Daniel tickles the cat under his collar and feels the vibration of his deep purr. Loved cats, wooden cats, twist and writhe inside him, becoming snake-like, taking him back to lost days – days of innocence. Beautiful days of knowing nothing but truth. Again, the synapses click shut and his better brain stops the interference from getting through, like whatever it is that blocks the radio frequencies in Pakistan.

  ‘Lucky you weren’t born a Pakistani cat,’ whispers Daniel, stroking Rufus. ‘You’d not have much to purr about if you were.’

  Rufus removes himself back onto Tom and settles down on his chest again.

  Daniel takes hold of his father’s limp left hand and sneers at the wedding ring on his finger before wrenching it from him. His mind is now set on his task. This worthless bastard must die. Then he walks towards the French windows and steps out onto the balcony. He makes as if to throw the ring out into the darkness, but stops himself. The ring on Daniel’s little finger, a smaller version of the one he has just yanked off his father, won’t allow him to destroy its partner. He tosses it from one hand to the other. He wants to throw it as far as he possibly can. Tom’s ring is a lie, a false symbol. Again, something prevents him. Mum gave that to his cunt of a father. She didn’t know any better, though, did she? He looks again at his own ring. Tom gave that to her. Should he throw both rings into the darkness? He can’t. Not one, or the other. The link must remain. One cannot exist without the other. Both, or neither. Each ring means something different, but his mother hammers at his brain. He throws his arm back, ready to send his father’s ring into dark solitude. He stops himself. Instead, he places it on the bedside table next to Tom.

  Tom looks peaceful as Daniel withdraws the dagger from his jeans. The sheath remains there, and the metal of the blade catches the light of the lamps outside and the blue of the London Eye. Cool air blows into the room, and the blade glints as he presses its sharp edge into the sagging folds of his father’s neck.

  Chapter Three

  Then

  ‘Tom, I love you, you know that. But really?’ Ewan said.

  Tom scowled at the man in front of him, draining the last drops from his pint. A work friend, at best. When Ewan left for his new job, that should have been it. He somehow seemed to think he was still relevant to Tom. But without work, there was no real connection between them.

  Tom looked him up and down. Why did all the ugly, pointless bastards seem to land on their feet? But Tom hated the fact that he was struggling at work without him, the man who’d been his lowly junior at Armstrong’s. Sinking more than struggling, if he was honest. He fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and rummaged between the flaps before throwing it on the table.

  ‘I’d get another round in, but I’m a bit strapped, mate,’ he said, the words catching in his throat. What had he done wrong to be beholden to this fucking waste of space?

  Ewan rolled his eyes, picked up their empty glasses and went to the bar. Wispy ginger hairs were doing their best to disguise the dome of his head, as he walked away from Tom.

  Tom felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Alison most likely. Well, she could fuck off. Almost before the buzzing had a chance to stop, the phone buzzed again, a text this time. He pulled it out:

  NEED TO TALK TO YOU. CALL ME, PLEASE.

  Tom thrust the phone back into his pocket and waited. A few moments later, Ewan returned with two fresh pints. Tom pulled his towards himself and took a long gulp.

  ‘You’re welcome!’ said Ewan.

  ‘I’m serious, Ewan. I just want out. It’s nothing but debt, misery and despair for me. You’re lucky, mate. You escaped.’

  ‘Lucky? Me? Bugger off.’ He sipped his pint. ‘OK, the new job pays a bit more than I was getting when I worked with you, but every extra penny goes towards the bloody divorce. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, mate, believe me. Ali is fantastic, and you dote on those little uns, I know you do.’

  ‘Well, Dan isn’t so little anymore; he’s nearly ten and a miserable little shit with it.’ Tom glanced at Ewan’s glass, making sure it was nearly empty, before taking another large gulp from his own. ‘I’ve got bills coming out of every orifice.’ He pressed on, although it felt wrong. Did Ewan even care? He was at least trying to look sympathetic. ‘Ali nags me from the second I wake up until the second I fall asleep. Both kids are fucking nightmares. Sometimes I just want to get a cheap camper van. I’d be off quicker than you could finish that pint, I promise you.’

  Ewan’s sympathy seemed to be dissipating, and he rolled his eyes again, but Tom ignored him and stared blankly through the grimy window.

  ‘How many times have you given me this camper van fantasy?’ he said, sighing. ‘Why the hell don’t you just do it? Stop rattling on about it and grab your dream by the balls. Then at least I can laugh when you come back, begging for what you already have.’

  ‘You know what? I’d be singing all the way to the Channel Tunnel, never to be seen again. Just imagine – me shagging my way around Europe and then everywhere else the wheels’d take me. No more worries. Freedom.’

  ‘Honestly, Tom. You’ve been saying stuff like that ever since I’ve known you. When it comes down to it, you love Ali. Fact. You’re never just going to pack up and leave.’

  ‘I’d trade the whole lot for freedom. Freedom and a wad of cash.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Ewan, barely able to stifle his laugh. ‘Believe me, getting out of a marriage doesn’t come cheap.’

  Tom shifted his weight in the chair and looked squarely at Ewan.

  ‘If we could just make ends meet, things might be different. I was never cut out for this. The pipe and slippers game just isn’t my thing.’

  ‘Tom, every Christmas do Armstrong’s ever had, you and Ali were the most loved-up couple there.’ Ewan furrowed his brow, looking earnestly back at him. ‘Every time Meg and I had a night out with you both, she’d say that she wished we could be more like you two. God, she drove me mad with it. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself.’

  ‘We should never have had the kids, and that’s the truth. If it were just Ali and me, I’d be a lot happier. She wouldn’t be a full-time nagging machine, for a start.’ Tom couldn’t look his friend in the eye anymore. He studied his nearly empty glass. ‘It’s all kids and bills with her. She was never like that before they came along. I tell you now, if my numbers came up, the first thing I’d do is ship them off to boarding school and fuck off somewhere warm with or without Ali.’

  Tom felt his phone buzzing again and pulled it from his pocket. He turned the screen for Ewan to see.

  ‘See? It’s constant!’ he said. ‘Bloody hell, mate, I dream about it. I pray for it. Just a windfall from somewhere to sort out my life. There’s nothing, and I mean nothing, I wouldn’t do to get off this fucking hamster wheel.’

  ‘Believe me, mate, money isn’t gonna solve all your troubles, not even a fraction of them. Money brings as many problems as it takes away,’ said Ewan, reaching for Tom’s arm.

  Tom shook it away. ‘Yeah, you’d know.’

  ‘Mate, you seem to have an inflated idea of what I’m bringing in these days. At my new place, I’m only a few grades higher than you are at Armstrong’s. If I could have a fraction of what you have – lovely wife, kids, I wouldn’t be sat here, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So, I’m a bad father now, am I?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Tom. Grow up! Listen to yourself. The whole world doesn’t have things better than you. And yeah, moaning about your kids here in the pub, when all I wanted was to discuss a few things that might have interested you, maybe you aren’t such a brilliant human being.’

  Tom stood up and drained the little left in his glass. Fuck him!

  ‘Two poxy pints after work. Hardly painting the town red, am I? Why the fuck did you want to meet for a drink tonight, anyway? Catch up, or simply gloat?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

  ‘See you around, Ewan,’ Tom sa
id, pulling on his coat.

  Outside, the pavements glistened under the streetlights. Tom’s phone buzzed in his pocket as he walked to his car. His belly tightened with each new vibration as he forced it further down in his pocket and felt for the off switch. A car alarm in the distance seemed to be keeping time with the buzzing in his pocket. He gazed up at the sky and shouted, ‘Not my car, please!’

  But, as his car came into view, he saw the driver’s door ajar, and the window smashed in. When he looked inside, his briefcase was gone. Where the sound system used to be, the dashboard was a gaping rictus, wires drooling from the mouth. Tom banged his fist on the roof of the car. Fuck! His phone buzzed again. He yanked it from his pocket, ready to hurl it into the drab night. But wait. What was this? Ewan’s name on the screen. He rejected the call. All the other missed calls, twenty or so, were from Alison, of course. There was also a raft of texts from her, the most recent said:

  PLEASE COME HOME.

  As he was about to delete it, a ding of another voicemail. ‘Why won’t these bastards leave me alone?’

  Ewan. Probably just more abuse that he didn’t want to hear. There were five voicemails from Ali too, as well as random missed calls from work. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Everyone was out to get him.

  Pulling down his coat sleeve, he brushed the broken glass off the driver’s seat and sat down heavily. Was there even any point in reporting this? The insurance wouldn’t pay out unless he did, and fuck knew he didn’t have any spare cash to deal with this. He looked at his phone again, chewed on his lip, tapped the screen. May as well hear what Ewan had to say. He put the phone to his ear, deleting all of Alison’s voicemails until he got to Ewan’s message.

  ‘Tom, I’m sorry things didn’t go well with us in the pub. I can see you’re stressed out. Maybe this’ll help, and this is why I arranged to meet with you before… anyway, the thing is, my firm wants you.’ There was a long pause. Was that a sigh? ‘…That’s really why I asked to meet up. The pay’s a lot better than you’re getting at Armstrong’s. There’s a car with it, and you’ll have your own mandate. Call me back, please. I need to talk to Austin tomorrow.’