by Fin C Gray
‘Did you drive in that state? Dad, you’re starting to worry me…’
‘Oh, no lectures, please,’ said Tom, picking up his glass. ‘I get enough of that from Danny. It’s constant.’
Jenny rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve left the car running with the lights on. And you’d better do something about that wine stain on the carpet. You won’t be able to get it out if it dries, and the carpet’s brand new.’
‘Be a love and go and turn the car off, will you?’ said Tom, feeling in his pockets for the keys. He threw them to her. ‘And please tell your brother to open a window and shut that racket off.’
Jenny picked up the keys and said, ‘It’s been like that all evening. It’s always the same when he smokes that stuff. And you know he’s mixing it with speed now, don’t you? When’s he moving out, Dad? Can’t come soon enough for me.’
Tom shrugged and slumped into his chair, feeling for the TV remote. Jenny sighed as the jangling music from some game show began to fight with the strumming from upstairs.
‘I’ll lock the car, then I’m going up to my room.’
Tom stared blankly at the screen, hardly aware that she was speaking. She slammed the door as she left. Tom heard that alright.
Tom awoke, still upright on the sofa, an empty bottle of wine by his side, spluttering, trying to make sense of what was before him: Daniel stood over him, his legs straddling Tom’s. He leaned in towards Tom, strumming his guitar tunelessly, his knuckles hitting Tom’s face intermittently. Tom lurched forward. The half-full wine glass beside him tipped over, splashing them both, and he banged his head on the guitar.
‘Fucking drunk, useless cunt! Fucking drunk, useless cunt! Fucking drunk, useless cunt! Fucking drunk, useless cunt! Fucking drunk, useless cunt!’
Daniel chanted over the discordant rhythm and Tom felt his son’s warm spit on his forehead, like fine spatters of blood from the raw words. The noise of the guitar was pounding in his ears, and the determined look of hatred in Daniel’s eyes filled him with a panic he could hardly comprehend.
‘Stop this!’ he shouted, trying to push his son away.
‘Fucking drunk, useless cunt!’
‘Daniel, please! What’s got into you?’
‘Fucking drunk, LYING cunt!’
Tom felt the side of the guitar bang his head, and he fell to the floor. As he tried to pull himself up, Daniel pressed his foot onto his heaving chest, chanting and strumming the whole time.
‘Daniel! What are you doing? Stop it now, or I’m calling the police.’ It was Jenny, standing in the doorway.
Daniel smashed his guitar on the floor, close to his father’s head, and spat. ‘Out of my way!’ He pushed past his sister, and Tom heard the front door slam.
Tom pulled himself up, using the arm of the chair. He stood up and faced his daughter, hardly able to look her in the eye, an unstoppable quiver in the corner of his mouth.
‘What’s got into him, Jenny?’
‘He’s been acting weird for days, Dad,’ she said. She took his arm. ‘C’mon, let’s get you to bed. It’s late.’
Tom pulled away. ‘Jenny, I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I’m helping him to buy his flat. I’ve offered to help him furnish it too. I gave him your mother’s car. I’ve done nothing but try to help him. Why does he hate me? What have I done wrong?’
‘Dad… he doesn’t… we don’t… need anything like that.’ Jenny was twisting her long dark hair between her fingers. Tom watched her eyes welling with tears. It felt as though Alison’s deep-blue eyes were staring back at him, chastising him.
‘It’s you we need. We miss you, Dad. We hardly see you any more since Mum… you need to stop drinking so much.’
Tom reached for her hand and pulled her closer.
‘Danny hasn’t been coping well. He’s been smoking weed constantly, and I told you he’s using harder stuff too…’ she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
‘Jenny, I’m sorry.’ Tom could feel his own eyes moistening and blinked hard. ‘It’s been hard for me, hard for all of us, I know.’
‘Dad, between you and Daniel, I feel like I’m out on a limb. This new house feels empty, soulless. We should have stayed where we were.’
‘I couldn’t, love. I just couldn’t. And anyway, we were committed to this place. This was your mum’s dream house—’
‘It was only a set of foundations and a floor plan when she saw it. It was never her home.’
‘We chose everything in here together. Every tile in the bathrooms, every unit and appliance in the kitchen, every rug, everything. She’s part of this place. Everything she loved is here with us now. Her pictures, her ornaments, her books.’ Tom picked up the wooden cat and held it to his chest.
‘There are five bedrooms, Dad. We rattle around here as it is. With Danny gone, it’ll just be stupid for the two of us to stay here. Even Rufus and Jasper don’t know what to do with themselves in this barn. And I’ll be going to uni in September too…’
‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Jen. I need to straighten my head.’
Tom woke up fully clothed on his bed. His tongue felt like a lump of pumice in his mouth as he tried to moisten it with the scant saliva he was able to summon up. The water glass on the bedside table was empty, and he peered through the open curtains at the rain pattering against the window. As he dragged himself to his bathroom, he noticed the stains all over the front of his shirt. Had he been bleeding? The strong whiff of stale wine gave him his answer. He hauled off his jacket and pulled the shirt over his head, throwing both on the floor. Greedy gulps from the cold tap made his mouth feel almost human again. Then he took the rest of his clothes off and got into the shower.
Feeling a little better after his shower, Tom went to the kitchen and became very aware of the silence around him. No radio blare, no TV babble, no phone chatter. Peace. There was a scribbled note on the kitchen table, held down by a half-drunk cup of coffee that was long since cold. He picked it up:
Had to dash, dad. Late for college. No sign of Danny. I tried calling his mobile, but he didn’t answer. I’ll see you tonight. Don’t drink any wine please! We need to talk properly.
Jenny x
Tom crumpled the note in his hand and tossed it into the bin, then turned the kettle on. The rain was coming down even harder now, battering the glass of the conservatory, making him feel as if it was driving its way into his skull. He made some tea and grabbed some painkillers from a bottle in the cupboard. Walking into the living room, he saw the wine stains on the carpet and the smashed guitar nearby. The Mercedes seemed to be glaring at him from the driveway, parked in a way that Tom felt was not of his doing, as the events of the previous evening began to bully their way back into his brain. What had got into Daniel?
The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was his secretary wanting to know where he was. He looked at his watch: eleven thirty a.m.
‘I’ve decided to work from home today,’ he told her. ‘Cancel any meetings for the rest of the day. Say I’ve been called away. I’ll try to come in tomorrow.’
As he put down the phone, the front door clicked, and he heard footsteps pounding upstairs. He looked up at the ceiling as he heard movement coming from Daniel’s room. Tom closed the living room door, picked up his book and pretended to read. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he couldn’t stop himself glancing upwards every few minutes. Every so often, he got up and placed his hand on the door handle, sometimes twisting the knob, debating with himself whether to go upstairs and face his son or not. Each time, he returned to the sofa instead and picked up his book, staring at the pages, never reading a word.
Eventually, the noise above him stopped, and he could feel panic rising within him again. He went into the kitchen and made a pot of tea as noisily as he could. Daniel must know that he was at home. He would have seen the car in the driveway, wouldn’t he? By the time the tea was ready, there was no sign of his son, so he took his cup into to the living room and closed the door
again. He waited.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the staircase made him start. The living room door opened slowly, and Tom looked at Daniel standing in the doorway, staring at him impassively, a large rucksack on his back.
‘Daniel, I—’
‘I’m going away for a few weeks. I think we both need some space.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Friends. It doesn’t matter. Look, I just want to know that you’ll still help with my mortgage and the legal stuff…’
‘I said I would, didn’t I?’
‘Well… after last night…’
‘That wasn’t you, Daniel. That was drugs. I know it, and you know it. You have to stop with that stuff. It’s changing you. I’ve been reading a lot about how long-term use of cannabis causes—’
‘Fuck off, Dad! Try spending time researching the damage that booze does to your brain. The hurt and injury that booze does to your family. The mess you’re making of your life and mine and Jenny’s.’
‘It’s hardly comparable, is it? Prolonged heavy use of marijuana can cause psychosis, bipolar disorder…’
‘It’s theory. Nothing’s proven. On the other hand, alcohol abuse and its effects are much more thoroughly researched and… it’s much more addictive and harmful to the brain and other organs than anything I use.’
‘Daniel, I don’t drink every day, and I’m certainly not addicted to it. It’s not a drug. The way you behave and the mood changes really make me think you might be bipolar…’
Daniel sighed and dropped his backpack to the floor.
‘So you’re a fucking psychiatrist now too? You fucking need to see one more than I do. Why don’t you take a look in the mirror – other than to admire yourself? You’re deluded. Ever since Mum died, you’ve been a fucking drunken wreck, and I can’t even remember the last time I saw you completely sober. You’re not even sober now. And to be honest, that’s not all—'
‘I’ve never been soberer, thank you. And my life has been unbearable since your mum died. Can you not give me a break? I’ve said nothing about the constant reek of your bongs and God knows what else throughout the house. It smells like a drug den every time I come home. And what do you mean – that’s not all?’
Daniel’s face twisted into a sneer, and Tom began to wish he’d gone to work and avoided all this.
‘Well, I know more about you than you think.’
What did Daniel know? What had his son found out? He’d always been careful, covered his tracks. If it was what he thought it was, the only person who did know – and who could justify him – was dead.
‘Daniel—’
‘Save it! You disgust me. The sooner you’re out of my life, the better.’
‘Daniel, what exactly have I done? If your mother…’
But he was gone. He’d snatched up his backpack and run for the front door. Tom ran to the open door and stood despondently, watching his son speeding off in Alison’s car. Turning away from the driveway and the sight of his dented car, he closed the door and went straight to the kitchen, where he opened a bottle of wine. May as well live up to Daniel’s expectations of him. Work wasn’t going to happen today, anyhow. He sat on one of the bar stools, drank down a glass and refilled it at once. Picking up the framed photograph of his wife from the windowsill, he touched her smiling face.
‘Alison, I wish you were here to tell him. I wish we had told him before you left us. He’ll never believe me now. I’ll be a liar and a cheat in his head forever. This isn’t fair, darling. Apart from me, you’re the only one who knows the truth. I miss you.’
Chapter Fifteen
Then
Speckles of dust danced in angled bars of sunshine. The light pushed its way through the panes of glass onto the twist of sheets at the end of the bed. Daniel squinted at them and scowled as the piles of cardboard boxes all around him came into focus. He kicked the sheets away and sat for a few minutes gazing through the window, wondering what to do next. The remains of a joint lay by the lighter he’d bought from the all night garage the night before. Weed spilled from the poorly rolled Rizla as he pressed it to his lips and spun the wheel on the lighter with his thumb. He wondered which box his bong might be in as he sucked in a long, crackling throatful of smoke.
Rubbing his eyes, he got up and shuffled through to the kitchen, scratching his naked behind, every bit as undressed as the windows in his third-storey flat. He pulled the fridge door open and took out the solitary half-full bottle of water from the otherwise empty space. Boxes littered the kitchen island, blocking his view into the small sitting room. The agent had described the flat to his father as an ‘open-plan, living/diner’. He’d even said it was ‘loft-style’. This had made Daniel laugh; what he saw was a small sitting room with a kitchen area stuck on one end as if it didn’t belong there. At least there were two bedrooms and a reasonable sized bathroom with an actual bathtub.
This fêted ‘Art Deco’ block was, in fact, a post-war, grey concrete filing cabinet, five storeys high. Brutalist architecture at its finest. Daniel had considered placing a large letter ‘D’ on his front door so he could tell people he had been filed under ‘disillusioned’, but had quickly discarded that idea when he realised that everyone would think it was his first initial.
From his window, he gazed out at the rows of cars glinting in the sunshine and, beyond those, the grey blocks mimicking his. Daniel imagined the windows on every block as handles on the filing cabinet drawers and wondered what pulling the drawers out of each might reveal. He took a sharp step backwards when he saw his father’s black Mercedes moving slowly through the rows, apparently looking for a place to park. He went back to his bedroom and closed the door. Picking up the tangle of jeans and T-shirt that lay crumpled on the floor, he dressed without checking which way round his top was. He lay down on his bed and listened.
Even though he was waiting for it, he started when the door buzzer sounded; the disproportionately loud vibrating drone, like a factory summons to work, seemed to make the silence that followed sharper. He waited. Again, it vibrated through his flat, and a third time. Then he heard the letterbox flap clatter open, followed by his father’s slightly muffled voice calling through, ‘Daniel, are you in there…? Daniel?’ The buzzer sounded one final time, followed by the noise of something dropping through the letterbox. Daniel waited a few minutes before getting up and quietly opening his door.
He peered into the hallway, listening. He knew his father’s tricks. An envelope was just visible on the bare floorboards behind the rows of boxes. A familiar growl from the fat Mercedes outside made him turn and walk to the window. He watched the car drive onto the road and move cautiously over the speed bumps before it turned onto the main road and disappeared. Only then did he retrieve the envelope, tearing it open and pulling out the card that was inside. On it was a picture of Jasper and Rufus staring up at the camera. At the top of the card, in yellow letters, were the words: HAPPY BIG 2-0 TO MY BRILLIANT SON. Daniel opened it and four crisp fifty-pound notes fell to the floor. He threw the card onto a pile of boxes, without reading the message written inside, and picked up the money.
The first few bars of ‘The Scientist’ crept into his consciousness from somewhere. He patted the pockets of his jeans and scanned the room. As the volume increased, he went to his bedroom and peered under the bed. His mobile phone was there, glowing through the gloom, partly visible behind an upturned shoe, next to a half-eaten slice of pizza. He stretched his arm underneath the bed and pulled it out, squinting at the number on the screen. A withheld number, so he rejected the call, suspecting it may be his father. A few seconds later, it rang again. Daniel pressed the answer key and quietly said, ‘Yes?’, his finger hovering over the end-call button.
The voice at the other end was faint, sounded foreign. ‘Hello, can I speak to Doneel. Doneel Moc… intoor?’
‘Who is this?’ said Daniel.
‘Hello, Doneel? My name is Waqar… I saw you are renting a room… I saw card in
supermarket…’
God, he’d done that even before he’d completed on the flat. It had completely gone from his mind.
‘Oh… right… Sorry. I’d forgotten all about that. I pinned that up there ages ago, and it completely slipped my—’
‘The room… is still for rent? I need soon, you see?’
Daniel thought for a moment and looked around at the mess of packing cases everywhere.
‘The place isn’t quite ready,’ he said.
‘Please, Doneel. I’m desperate. I sleep on the floor. I’m good, clean man. I need very little. I am good person. I have good job, I work hard.’
Daniel liked the deep timbre of his voice, the accent, the way each ‘r’ was rolled and every consonant pronounced clearly. The voice conjured a picture of the man in his head: tall, young and dark, with curly black hair and an infectious grin.
‘What did you say your name was? Vacker? I’ll meet you, OK? Then we can see…’
‘Yes, please. I meet you. You sell me the room? Where we can meet? Tomorrow, maybe?’
‘You know the Cranemakers pub in London Road? It’s near the town centre.’
‘No, we meet Starbucks, yes?’
‘Sure… if you prefer that,’ said Daniel, wondering what might be wrong with the pub. Things would be easier with a proper drink, and he was flush, thanks to Tom. ‘The one in Scotch Street? Shall we say Saturday, one o’clock?’
‘Yes, good. Starbucks. Saturday. One o’clock. Thank you, Doneel. I see you Saturday. Bye.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Daniel, ‘tell me your number, Vacker. And maybe what you look like… How will I recognise you?’
The line was silent. Daniel threw the phone onto the crumpled bedclothes and looked around the room. Saturday would be here in no time. When had he put that card up? Strange that there was no interest for so long, then this out of the blue. Sighing, he pulled at the loose flap of the cardboard box closest to him. Clothes. At least the first box would be easy to empty.